Cinders to Satin

by Fern Michaels

  Callie stared about the parlor and couldn’t believe the havoc she had created. She would not apologize. He had driven her to this. “Six months, you said.” Her eyes were hollow, her voice lifeless.

  “That doesn’t hold anymore. Now that you’ve ruined my reputation, I have to give some thought to myself. Marriage is the only answer. I’ll arrange all the details. A week from Sunday, we’ll have Father Muldoon marry us here in this house. There’s no other solution, so don’t try to come up with reasons why you can’t or don’t want to or whatever. This is the way it is.”

  “Marry you! You must be insane! I’ll be in your debt forever if I agree to marry you.”

  “It seems like a fair price for ruining my reputation. I have to start all over again, build up good will, charm the ladies, make friends of their husbands, do a little backscratching. I wouldn’t have to do all that if it hadn’t been for you. Take it or leave it.” Byrch waited, hardly daring to breathe. What was she going to say? Surely she didn’t truly mean she hated him. Even if she did hate him, he would still have her. Maybe she was right, and he was insane. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that she didn’t get away from him again.

  “Perhaps I am insane, sweeting,” he said sadly, “but I really don’t see any help for it. Your reputation and mine are already compromised, and I’m afraid my political chances are ruined. But if you were my wife, people would quickly forget. You say you hate me, Callie,” he said persuasively, “but I never thought you’d want to hurt me this way.”

  Callie glared at him through tear-filled eyes. This was wrong, all wrong, Byrch realized. He’d just asked the woman he loved to marry him and was prepared to use force to get her to accept. Love was supposed to be gentle, kind, not a contest of wills and rejection. But when he thought about life without her, he was ready to take any risks, fight for her if he must, but he could never lose her.

  “I . . . I never meant to hurt you, Byrch. This has all been your own doing. I really don’t see how you can expect us to marry. Haven’t we hurt each other enough?”

  Assuming an arrogant air, afraid he would find himself begging at her feet, Byrch answered, “Apparently not, sweeting. But then no one ever said marriages were made in heaven, and ours certainly will not be. It’s simply a matter of convenience. I will have saved my reputation, and you will have saved your position at the paper. Something we both want, isn’t it?”

  “Yes . . . I mean, no!” Her head ached, and she was having difficulty following this conversation. “I mean, of course my reputation is valuable to me . . .” Her thoughts were being choked off by her emotions. The man she loved had just said she must marry him and she should be happy. But it was that very happiness that she feared. What right had she, an impoverished Irish girl, to marry one of the most influential men in New York?

  “Good, it’s settled then,” Byrch said, not quite daring to breathe a sigh of relief.

  “No! It’s not settled,” she protested. “You’ve compromised me, used me! And all that has to come to an end. I’ve got to respect myself again. You can have your marriage, but I won’t be your wife. You’ve pushed me too far, Byrch. Also, I will continue at the paper. Your word!”

  “What do you mean I’ll have the marriage, but you won’t be my wife?” Ice was flowing through his veins as he anticipated her answer.

  “Exactly that. I will not share your bed.”

  “You aren’t in any position to make demands.”

  “I am now. Either we agree right now, this minute, or I leave this house. You can’t keep me here against my will. I’ll forget about my debt to you. I’ll leave here, I mean it.”

  It was a new tone, a new determination. Byrch recognized the threat and consequences if he didn’t agree. If he had to do it, he would. He couldn’t let her go.

  “Agreed. There will be no strings, no commitments by either of us.”

  “Put it in writing, and I might believe you,” Callie snapped as she turned on her heel to leave the room.

  “Son of a bitch!” Byrch fumed. He kicked at the overturned chair. “Edward!” he bellowed, “get in here and clean up this goddamn mess. But first fetch me a drink. Now!”

  “This is a goddamn glass, Edward,” Byrch complained as he downed the plum brandy in one swallow.

  Righting the upturned chair, Edward turned to his employer. “You asked for a drink. Am I to understand you wish the entire bottle?”

  “Yes, damn it, I wish the entire bottle. Your friend’s work is going to keep you busy for a while.”

  It was going to be one of those nights, Edward could feel it in his bones. From time to time, out of the corner of his eye, Edward checked the level in the bottle of brandy. He decided it was time to make coffee. The room was put to rights, all the broke glass and debris swept up and in the trash. He did have to admire the lady’s style. He never thought she had it in her to get so angry. Evidently Mr. Kenyon had also misjudged her. Even a dog would lash out if backed against a wall, he told himself.

  When Edward set the coffee tray down, Byrch peered at it owlishly. “You don’t think I’m drinking that, do you?”

  “Actually, sir, I thought I might join you. The coffee is for me. Of course, if you’d like some, I’d be more than glad to pour you a cup. You do like my coffee. As a matter of fact, you always said my freshly ground coffee was the best in the state of New York.”

  “Shut up, Edward, and drink your coffee.”

  “Very good, sir,” Edward said, clamping his lips together.

  “I’ve had nothing but aggravation and heartache since she arrived here. I guess you know that. I did everything, and still it wasn’t enough. I would bleed for her if I could. What does she do? How does she repay me? I’ll tell you how,” Byrch said, leaning forward in his chair. “She gets a job at the paper. My paper. People are actually saying—why, my God, they are starting to say she writes as well as I do! Can you believe that, Edward? Everything is C. James. C. James this, C. James that. I’m sick of it. I wonder what they would think if they knew C. James just wrecked my parlor. We should put that in the paper tomorrow and teach her a lesson. By God, did you see her attack me?” Byrch shuddered as he recalled the scene.

  “I knew her when she was this high,” Byrch went on, holding out his hand at some invisible line. “She was a child then. I helped her. I’m always helping her. Every time she gets in trouble, I help her and this is the thanks I get.” More brandy found its way to his mouth.

  “Sir, it’s getting late, and you have to be at the paper early. You told me earlier to wake you at six.”

  Byrch’s head rolled backward, and a silly smirk settled on his face. “Tell me, Edward, old friend, just how late is late? If late is early in the morning, I won’t have to go to. bed, and you won’t have to worry about waking me up.” His tone turned crafty. “Are you trying to tell me something?”

  “Why no, sir, I was just reminding you of the time.”

  “Edward, you are the goddamnedest, most perfect person I ever met. My cousin Bridget would kill for you. Imagine that? What did I do wrong, Edward?”

  “Miss Callie is going through a trying time, Mr. Kenyon. Patience, I believe, is the answer.”

  Byrch snorted as he peered drunkenly at the black man across from him. “I’m drunk, and I don’t believe you. How can you be sober and say such a thing? Patience has been my middle name. What did it get me?”

  “What was it you expected, sir?”

  “Expected?” The question seemed to confuse him. Edward watched as his employer tried to focus his gaze. “I expected . . . some appreciation. Some goddamn appreciation. I did a lot for her. You can’t deny that, Edward. A hell of a lot. She doesn’t respect me. And,” he yelped, jabbing a limp finger at Edward, “she ruined my reputation. What do you have to say to that?”

  “I’m sure she appreciates you, sir. Have your shirts ever been ironed so well? Who do you think made this house into a nice home? Not me. All I do is make it smell like furniture polish. W
ho hangs up the towels in the bathroom? Miss Callie, that’s who.”

  Byrch’s eyes widened. “Does she really hang up the towels?”

  “Yes, sir. And you have her to thank for the lovely garden with all the fresh vegetables and the beautiful flowers. I would certainly consider that appreciation. Are you certain you don’t want to retire for the night and continue this discussion in the morning? It’s past midnight.”

  “Get me a piece of paper and a pencil. Miss C. James wants me to write something for her. . . what time did you say it was?”

  “Past midnight. We can all use the sleep.”

  “The paper first, Edward. I can’t go to sleep till I write the damn letter. She wants a letter. I ask her to marry me, and she wants a letter.”

  Byrch applied pencil to paper and scratched furiously. “There, it’s finished. See that, what do you think?”

  Edward stared at the blank piece of paper that held only Byrch’s signature. “It’s your name, sir. I thought you said you were writing a letter.”

  “I can’t remember what she wanted on the damn letter, so I signed my name, and she can fill in the rest.”

  “That’s very clever of you, sir. I’m sure Miss Callie will think of something.”

  ‘She always thinks of something. I’m going to give it to her now. I’ve done my best. My very best. I would get more attention and respect from a cat. Why don’t we have a cat, Edward?”

  “Why . . . why . . . I suppose it’s because you never asked for one.”

  “Tomorrow I want you to get me a cat, a yellow one. One that’s soft and cuddly. A man has to have something to warm his bed!”

  Byrch climbed the stairs holding the paper aloft. She wanted a letter, well, by God, she was going to get a letter. Right now. And he was going to watch her write it so he could know what it was he had signed.

  He tried the doorknob and found it locked. A locked door! Maybe she was doing something only women do, and he wasn’t supposed to know about. He’d be courteous and knock. When he received no reply, he kicked at the door. “Callie, open this door.”

  “Go away. I don’t want to talk to you. You’re going to wake Edward.”

  “Edward is still awake. Open the door.”

  “It’s too late. We’ll talk in the morning.”

  “I have the letter you wanted me to write. Right here in my hand.”

  “Slip it under the door,” Callie said frigidly.

  “I will not. Open that door, or I’ll kick it down. This is my house, and I don’t like locked doors. Who are you afraid of?”

  “You.”

  “Me?”

  “Go away.”

  “I live here. This is my house. I don’t have to go away. You said you wanted your letter. Well, here it is.”

  Byrch backed up several steps and lashed out with his foot. When it made contact with the door, he swore viciously. He tried a second time. Just at the moment of impact, Callie opened the door, and Byrch toppled into the room at a dead run, landing smack in the middle of the bed. Callie stood by the door, seething. He was right—it was his house, and it was his bed too. But they’d agreed to a new arrangement this evening.

  “Come here. I want you. I want you now.” He was completely sober; suddenly he realized Callie sensed the change in him and felt frightened.

  “I think you should go back to your room,” she said. “We made an arrangement this evening. I said I would marry you, and there would be no strings. You sleep in your room, and I sleep in mine.”

  “I’m afraid that doesn’t hold at the moment. You see, this is now. Our marriage won’t take place for over a week. Until that time we have a bargain. True or false?” He hated the way her shoulders slumped in the dim light from the corridor. Why couldn’t she love him? Why was she fighting him? How had he ever agreed to a no-strings marriage? Before this was all over, he would make her love him or die in the attempt. Maybe that was his answer. He would die, and then she would grieve. But could he even be certain of that?

  “Get out of my room,” Callie told him with deadly calm. “I’ve had quite enough of you for one day.”

  Byrch sprawled on the bed, a smile breaking on his lips. She looked so comical, standing there in her nightdress, the backlight from the hall penetrating the thin material to outline each sweet curve of her body in complete contradiction to the glare in her eyes and the command of her voice.

  “What are you laughing at?” she demanded.

  “If you could just see yourself all puffed up like a little bantam hen, clucking away that the sky is falling!” He laughed again, infuriatingly.

  “Get out of my bed, you great oaf!” Callie challenged him, her hands knotted into fists, ready to strike if she must. This was simply too much. First his cruelty, and now his derision.

  Byrch avoided her by rolling to the far side of the bed, tumbling out over the edge. His foot caught the edge of the bedstand, setting the softly glowing oil lamp to rocking wildly, erratic shadows flying about the room.

  Callie gasped. The lamp! Before she could warn him, she saw it tip. She rushed to the far side of the bed, already pulling covers to staunch the expected flames. It was too soon after the fire in Shantytown, and her fears were still vivid and tangible. She didn’t even realize that Byrch was sitting on the floor, the lamp safe in his hands.

  It was a full moment after he’d replaced the lamp that he realized her terror of fire. She was standing before him, eyes wild with horror. Byrch took her into his arms to ease her shudders. Callie leaned against him, knowing only that nothing must happen to this man who meant so much to her.

  Callie felt so small, so vulnerable in Byrch’s arms; his feelings of protectiveness rose. He lifted her chin, bringing his mouth to hers, drawing from her a kiss that was hesitant and poignant, doubting that she would welcome it but beyond denying himself. The answering pressure of her mouth spurred him to further boldness.

  Byrch took her to the bed, lying down beside her, taking her into his arms once again. He was aware of the slimness of her waist beneath his hands and of the twin mounds of her breasts against his chest. Was it possible she was unaware of the effect she had on him? “Sweeting,” he murmured against her mouth, reluctant to break the contact between them, “I want to love you. I only want to love you.”

  Callie heard his words and felt their impact. How she wished he meant that he loved her instead of just wanting to make love. But her need for him sang in her blood, and she was helpless to deny herself the strength of his arms and the feel of his body on hers. Plowing her fingers into his wealth of dark hair, she initiated an intimate kiss, exploring the recesses of his sweet, brandied mouth, wordlessly telling him that if he would have her, then he must take her.

  “Callie,” he groaned, feeling the mounting tension in his loins, wanting to rediscover their passion, “you haven’t heard a word I’ve said.”

  “Yes, yes, I heard,” she whispered, searching the soft interior of his lips, pressing herself against him in welcome.

  Byrch’s breath caught in his throat. She was adorable, this woman-child, one moment aloof and angry, and the next earthy and impulsive, but she was always beautiful. Breaking their embrace, he rose from the bed and closed the door, locking it. “The only time I want you to lock your door,” he told her huskily, “is when I’m on the other side of it, with you.” Beneath her heated gaze, he stripped off his garments, standing proud and naked before her. Slowly her fiery gaze slid along his body, heavy-lidded and excited with passion, her mouth parting with invitation. Still watching him, she sat up and stripped off her nightdress, feeling the cool night air strike her flesh, making her hungry for his warm and intimate touch. She slid from the bed and opened her arms to him, wrapping herself against him. He heard her quick, indrawn breath as his masculinity pressed hard into the softness of her lower belly and his hands caressed the smooth roundness of her bottom.

  Callie was overwhelmed by the sensation of standing naked in his arms. Her hands caressed the p
lay of muscles in his back. Her thighs pressed against his, marveling at his height, the lean, hard strength of him. She could hear his heart thudding against her cheek.

  His mouth captured hers hungrily, desperately trying to satiate his need for her. Their hands explored each other, softly caressing, rediscovering each sweetly remembered curve and hollow.

  Byrch lifted her onto the bed, lying down beside her and leaning over to kiss her neck, tasting the delicate perfume of her earlobe, the gently curving sweep of her throat down to the valley between her breasts. His hungers found the complexities of her, the slimness of her waist, the turn of her hip, the rising fullness of her breasts. His lips lingered where he could find and give pleasure.

  Callie bent and twisted in his arms, yielding up to him and aiding him in his discoverings. Her hands found the smoothness of his back, the firm hardness of his arms, the softness of his chest hair. She tenderly nipped at the slope between shoulder and neck, burrowing downward to the hollow under his arm. She was headily aware of the quiver of delight that rippled through him.

  Byrch’s hands worshipped her, his lips adored her, carrying her into a world beyond reality to a place of passion and desire known only to lovers. His arms encircled her, drawing her tightly against him, reveling in the soft yielding of each curve against his solid length.

  She wove her hands through the dark ruffles of his hair, pulling him down to her breast, arching her back, and murmuring a whispered entreaty. He lavished kisses on her breasts, his tongue trailing little concentric circles around the crest before taking the tip full into his mouth. He heard her gasp, felt the writhing of her hips against him. She opened her legs, trapping his thigh between them, clenching rhythmically against it.

  In the yellow light from the lamp, her skin took on a sheen, pale ivory against the burnished gold of the bedcovers. She twisted her head away from him, her lips parted, the tip of her tongue visible as it pointed outward, as though tasting a rare delicacy. He knew the sudden need that throbbed through her; he was captivated by her uninhibited way of loving. He had found a woman who possessed a depth of passion to equal his own, a woman unafraid to reveal her desires and pursue her pleasures. Just to see her, to watch her, was an erotic thrill that heightened his senses and brought a new urgency to his passions.