Cinders to Satin

by Fern Michaels

  “It’s late, Mr. Kenyon,” Edward said. “I’ve taken the liberty of running a bath for you. The water should be exactly right now.” Edward was quick to notice Sister Angelica’s admiring glance toward the kitchen sink. Byrch Kenyon’s house was one of the few in New York equipped with a copper, tin-lined water tower on the roof. Pipes led down to the kitchen and the dressing room off the master bedroom. It worked quite well except in cold weather when the pipes had a tendency to freeze.

  “Thank you, Edward. I’ve arranged everything with Father Muldoon for eleven o’clock in the morning. I can tell you, I’m not looking forward to it.” His eyes went to the tiny bundle near Edward, and he felt a pang of misery for Callie. How could someone ever recover from losing a child? Yet people did—or they seemed to, he amended.

  Byrch climbed the stairs to the third floor, feeling as old as Moses. He opened the guest-room door a crack and peeked in at Callie. She seemed to be resting peacefully, thanks to the sleeping powder. Her dark hair fanned out on the pillow, and she looked small and vulnerable in the high tester bed.

  Byrch sank down gratefully into the bath water, sipping at the brandy he’d poured from the decanter in his bedroom. He leaned back, letting the liquid blaze down through his chest. God, he was tired. Exhausted. He longed for his bed, but he had already decided to sit sentinel in the wing-backed chair in Callie’s room in case she needed someone during the night. Callie’s bedroom. Ever since she’d stayed here what seemed an eternity ago, he had thought of the spare bedroom as hers. His mind was a jumble of thoughts, of unanswered questions. He knew that Rory was Rossiter’s son from that verbal attack Callie had launched in Shantytown. What had happened? The reporter in him wanted details, facts, reasons. The man in him wanted Callie James MacDuff.

  Dressed in clean trousers and his robe, Byrch sank down into the soft cushions in the chair beside the cold hearth. He drained the last of the brandy from his glass and rested his head back with a weary sigh. The lamp was shining dimly, casting shadows near the bed where Callie slept. He watched her, his heart tugging when her shoulders quivered in a silent sob. The medicine could make her sleep, but it couldn’t. erase the nightmare.

  It was the soft chiming of the clock in the downstairs hall that awakened him. He opened his eyes with a start, seeing Callie standing beside him, looking down at him with haunted eyes. He remained motionless, afraid to startle her should she be sleepwalking. Her soft hair drifted like a dark storm cloud about her shoulders. “Byrch,” she murmured his name, the edges of the sound torn and shredded with grief, her eyes dry, empty hollows.

  He reached out his arms, and she came into them, curling onto his lap, soft and warm from sleep. She rested her head against his shoulder. He was struck by her fragility, just as he had been once before when he had held her this way, silently offering his companionship and compassion in the face of her misery.

  They sat for a long time, Callie quietly drawing strength from Byrch. She had awakened, feeling more alone than ever before in her life. Her arms ached for her son; her heart broke for her husband. She was burying both in the morning. How was she to bear the pain? Don’t think about Rory, she told herself. Don’t think about him as he was and don’t dream about what he would have been. But it was impossible. Not to think, not to remember, would be like denying Rory’s existence. She must face losing him, and she must remember him, always. She owed it to her son and to Hugh. There was no other way to live except one day at a time, one minute after the other.

  Callie curled close to Byrch. She took comfort from him, needing the closeness of another human being. She felt disconnected, half-dead, like a flower whose roots had withered while the bloom was still on the stem. Callie wrapped her arms around Byrch’s neck, inhaling the fragrance of his soap, burying her face into the warmth of his shoulder. “Byrch,” she whispered, a small sob catching in her throat, “I’ve been a daughter, a mother, and a wife. But never a woman. Never! Do you understand? I’m alive, but I don’t feel anything. I need to feel. I need to be a woman. If I don’t, I may not survive. I have to be strong, like you. I want you to make me strong; I want you to make me a woman.”

  His lips stroked her brow, but his embrace was unchanged, and neither did he answer. Tipping her head back, she looked up into his face, seeing almost for the first time that there was a new rugged leanness to his jaw, that the lines in his face had deepened. He had aged during these past four years, she realized, and the strength of his character was there in the set of his mouth and the intensity of his tiger eyes. She realized that tonight was not the first time she’d thought about Byrch Kenyon, the man. When had the girl in her given way to the woman? The decade between their ages that had been a gulf when she was sixteen was negligible now at twenty.

  Byrch looked down at her, feeling a quickening of his heart. She was telling him she wanted him to make love to her, to arouse her to life, to make her a woman. All his protective instincts rebelled against the idea. She was grief-stricken, too vulnerable, unable to make a responsible decision. Her eyes were dark and shadowy in the dim light, her mouth was soft and inviting. Reflexively his hand curved around her throat, his thumb tracing intricate patterns along her jaw. “Callie, you don’t know what you’re asking. You’re not thinking straight, and I won’t take advantage of you.”

  “You don’t want me then?” She lowered her eyes, hiding the shadows, hiding her need.

  His words were a broken lament. “Not want you? My God!” he exclaimed softly, chest heaving beneath her cheek. “I don’t think I can remember a day when I didn’t want you! In that alley in. Dublin, at the Park with your brothers and sisters, on your eighteenth birthday. The devil take my soul, Callie, but I’ve always wanted you!”

  The intensity of his emotion startled her, frightened her a little, but her own need seemed so great, so urgent, that she nestled back against him. “Then take me, Byrch. Have me. I need you to have me.” There was a throaty quality to her voice that he’d never heard before. She began tracing a sweet trail of kisses along his jaw, dipping downward into the space between collar and neck.

  Byrch heard himself moan, feeling his resolve melt beneath her touch. How long he’d wanted her, how long he had tried to think of her as only a child. “Callie. Callie,” he intoned hoarsely before bringing his mouth to hers.

  Her moist lips opened to him, he tasted their sweetness, drawing from them a gentle kiss that deepened with passion. When he released her, his cat-green eyes searched hers, looking for a response.

  Somewhere in Callie an ember was growing to a spark. For one instant she had not thought of Rory or Hugh or anything, only Byrch and the way his mouth had melted onto hers. Thick, dark lashes closed; she heard her own breath come in ragged little gasps as she boldly brought her mouth once again to his, offering herself, deliberately seducing him, begging him to take her and to light the darkness in her soul, to make her forget.

  Byrch felt her disengage herself from his embrace. She left his arms and stood before him, holding him in her gaze. Slowly she unbuttoned the nightshirt, allowing it to fall from her body, standing naked and proud before him. Gracefully she lowered herself to her knees, crouching between his thighs, looking up into his face.

  “If you could find it in your heart to make love to me, I’d be so grateful.”

  Byrch leaned forward, so close he could feel her breath upon his face. His hand found the gentle curve of her throat, his fingers brushed her hair back from her face. “Callie,” he groaned, “don’t ever, ever be grateful!” He lifted her to her knees, holding her close, feeling her softness against him. When his mouth claimed hers, it was a kiss given by a man to a woman—long, deep, yearning.

  When he withdrew, she was watching him, her mouth trembling slightly. Tenderly he kissed one eye closed and then the other, tasting the salt of a tear. He nuzzled her cheek and the tip of her nose. She opened her eyes and smiled before reaching up to offer her mouth again.

  Byrch picked Callie up in his arms, carryin
g her to the bed and placing her down among the pillows. He sat beside her, leaning over her adoringly. His fingers traced the smooth line of her cheeks down to the ridge of her jaw. He picked up a lock of her hair, rubbing it across his lips. He hadn’t realized until now how often he had dreamed of being with her this way, allowing him to touch her, to love her.

  Callie’s hands drove through the thick, dark hair at his nape. She lifted her head to press her lips against the hollow of his throat, inhaling his clean, masculine scent. She felt the stubble of his beard, rough against her face, was aware of his arms holding her, tightening around her. Impatient with the confines of his robe, she pulled it apart, exposing his chest to her caress and kiss.

  Byrch’s hands trembled as he smoothed the silken skin of her shoulders and breasts. No other woman had affected him this way, and he knew that he had been waiting only for her—only for Callie. And Callie was a woman now.

  Standing, he shrugged off his robe and garments, feeling her eyes upon him, watching him in fascination, little flames licking his flesh wherever her gaze touched him. She lay on her back, one knee bent, hiding her womanhood from his view. Her breasts were ivory globes, full and firm, delineating the slimness of her waist and the soft roundness of her belly. With no trace of the coquette, she lay perfectly still, exposed to his view, allowing his tiger eyes to warm her flesh. She seemed to be sculpted from marble, but he knew she would be warm and yielding under his touch.

  In the soft light from the lamp, Callie watched his movements. She saw the wide, broad shoulders, his deep chest, the narrowness of his haunches and the strength of his thighs. A soft, dark furring of chest hair swirled over his chest, narrowing to a thin line over his belly to bloom again in a rougher coat near his manhood. His buttocks were firm, high, accentuating the slope of his neck and the curve of his torso.

  Byrch lay down beside her, feeding on the sight of her, knowing she was waiting for him to make her feel, to make her know she was alive, that she hadn’t died. To make her a woman, she had said, unaware that she was more woman, more alive then anyone he’d ever known. Thoughts were ricocheting around in his head. Callie had been a wife, had been a mother, and yet she claimed she knew nothing of being a woman. Did that mean she had never been aroused, never had found fulfillment with a man? The idea excited him, seemed to make her more his own, yet instinct told him to keep his passions in check, to awaken her slowly, ever watchful for any sign of her retreat.

  Callie lay breathless beside him, so still, so alert to his every move. She was like a small bird held motionless by the hypnotic stare of the hunter. She felt as though she’d been waiting a lifetime for something she could not name, something that had never shown itself to her, but which only Byrch could reveal. He seemed to see within her, touching that part of her that was her soul.

  Byrch kissed her again, receiving her parted lips, tentatively exploring their soft undersides with the tip of his tongue. He continued his excursion along the delicately molded ridge of her jaw to her ear, his warm breath sending shivers of delight through her, echoing somewhere in that part of her that had never been touched. His tender, sensitive hands explored her face, the elegance of her neck, the sweeping smoothness of her shoulder, marking a path that was followed by his lips and tongue and light, teasing bites. Following the contours of her arm, he lifted her hand to his mouth, placing an exquisitely passionate kiss on her palm that aroused excited chills.

  Callie closed her eyes, yielding to the rhythmic surges that seemed to be exploding within her. His warm lips claimed the hollow at the base of her throat and explored the valley between her breasts. He fed on the smooth texture of her skin, on the soft firmness of her breasts, feeling the change beneath his lips as he approached the pouting crest. A surge of heat throbbed in his loins when he heard the intake of her breath, the slight, gasping surprise as he took it into his mouth.

  Callie lay still beneath his touch. The bridled torment of holding his passion in control only seemed to excite him the more. Instinct reminded him to go slowly, to awaken her as though from a dream and become a part of that dream.

  Callie’s breath began to quicken, her pulses fluttered. Rossiter had never ignited these emotions within her; her body had never ached and yearned to become a part of his. With Rossiter, she had allowed him to satiate himself with her body, never becoming a part of that satisfaction. Because she had loved him, she wanted to fill a need for him. With Rossiter, it was something she gave; with Byrch, it would be something she would share. And she knew that afterwards, there would be no feeling of aloneness.

  Callie’s sudden response caught Byrch by surprise. She lifted herself into his arms, wrapping herself close to him, fitting the curves of her body against his, pressing close against the hard presence of his manhood. Her hands gripped his back, smoothing and feeling the musculature beneath his skin. She described patterns against his mouth, following the line of his lips with the tip of her tongue, penetrating within to seek and to find. Fingers raking through his hair, she pushed his head toward her breast, arching her back to help him in his discovery. When his lips closed over the crest, her breath came in a ragged gasp, inciting him to suckle, tempting him to find the other with his hand and to mimic the movements of his lips and tongue with his fingers.

  Byrch was caught in her passions, matching them with his own. His responses were guided by hers; her needs were echoed in his. He wanted her all at once, could not have enough of her. He wanted to experience her capacity for giving and loving. She pushed herself up to him, shuddering. Her eyes were filled by him; her world had narrowed to this time and place. All that existed was her need answering his, his desire flaming hers.

  He caressed her belly, her hip, her leg, and she felt herself opening to him. He cupped his hand over her woman’s mound of dark curls, and she experienced a rush of damp warmth and felt the sudden jolt of his manhood pressed tight against her thigh.

  The sudden tenseness in his groin caught. Byrch by surprise, and willpower alone increased the struggle to contain himself. The battle was almost lost when he felt another rush of wetness against his hand. She was so lovely, so much a woman. His sensuality was heightened by the instinct that although she was not an inexperienced virgin, this was her first awareness of her sexuality. He was the first to step into that territory, the first to help her explore the realm of her womanhood. He claimed her mouth for his own, searching the moist recesses, feeling the smoothness of her palate and the softness beneath her tongue, and was drawn into the incredible appetite of her kiss-swollen lips as they answered his hungers.

  She rotated her hips against the pressure of his hand with urgent, searching movements. Her sex opened to him, welcoming his touch between the velvety folds. A sensation of pressure filled her loins, stretching along the inner muscles of her thighs, bringing her focus to her center beneath the strokings of his fingers. She felt as though she were folding inward on herself, that she had diminished in awareness to only that urgency between her thighs and Byrch’s knowing touch.

  She became aware that he had lifted away from her, that he was watching her arch rhythmically against the caresses of his hand. She looked up into his eyes, seeing the reflection of her own passions there, unashamed to meet his hot, searing gaze, allowing it to travel down the length of her body to where he claimed her.

  Brych drew in his breath, astounded by her answering pulsations to his caresses. She was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. It seemed he was discovering something about himself also. He was aware of his own driving need to give, to be tender, never to threaten the trust she had placed in him. Every thought was of her, every motion brought pleasure from the pleasure he brought her. He heard her breathe his name; he saw her lift herself to look down to where he had captured her sex, encouraging him to continue his caress. His loins were afire, his manhood eager, ready to claim her, and he fought for control. He wanted to plunge himself into the depths of her, feel her body surround him, sheathing him in the warm wetn
ess, drawing him into her. Just as he feared he had reached the limit of his sensibilities, she threw back her head, losing herself to the tide and the ebb of sensation coursing through her. Suddenly she arched upward and cried out as she climaxed beneath his touch.

  Byrch covered her with his body, pressing his weight against her, excited to a fever by the clench of her thighs on his hand, as though she never wanted to be without his touch. Gently he smoothed back the tumble of dark hair from her face, watching the play of emotions cross her features. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, “so incredibly beautiful.” He loved the way she opened herself to him, the expression in her eyes—a mingling of surprise and joy. He knew it had never been this way for her before, just as he knew he had never been with a woman he had wanted more.

  “Come to me, Byrch, come to me,” she murmured, urging him with her hands, sliding herself beneath him. There was naked desire in her eyes, a want for further fulfillment. He slid between her thighs as she arched up to receive him. Her arms were around him, slipping down to his haunches, pressing him forward to enter her. He was drawn into her depths, surrounded by her pulsating warmth, enfolded within her. He drew back, coming forward again, stroking and driving, feeling her legs lift to wrap around his hips, pulling him into her. He moved within her, reveling in the supreme pleasure of having her accept his full, proud manhood into her hungry warmth. She rose against him, holding him fast, aware of a sweeping tide surging within her, filling her. The sound of her name fell on her ears as he found his release and brought her to her own.