Cinders to Satin

by Fern Michaels

  Her mouth tempted him, invited his kiss, the explorations of his tongue. She returned his kisses, opening her lips, inviting him to enter. Straining against him, her body rose and fell, desperately seeking to fill their mutual need.

  Byrch turned over on his back, bringing her with him, his thickly muscled thigh still locked between hers. She lifted herself, tipping her head backward, offering him the hollow at the base of her throat and the fullness of her breasts. She brushed against the column of his neck, the ridge of his shoulders, arching upward again to increase the pressure of his thigh against her center. Her nipples grazed the fine furring on his chest and roused an exquisite tension in her lower belly.

  His skin seemed to come alive beneath her touch and her lips, and she was ever more aware and needful of his throbbing expectancy, hard and hungry between them. Her eyes met his as he gazed up at her; she saw his lips tighten in a grimace of constraint as he fought to bridle his passion. Following her instincts, seeking only to satisfy their mounting passions, she straddled him, using her hand to bring him into her, gasping and sighing as his length filled her and created a new and different hunger that lay deep within. Supporting herself on her knees, she rode him, moving against him, bringing him together with her to the height of their desires. Her eyes were locked on his face, and he gazed up at her with wonder. He could see that this was a new experience for her by the astonishment in her eyes and the intake of her breath. His hands held her hips, directing her in her motions, lifting his haunches to help her find the friction between them that she craved. Her hair tumbled over her face, thick and unruly, and there was a feline litheness to her body, slender and strong, supple and graceful. She rotated against him, drawing the hunger and tenseness from his loins. Her body was offered to his hands, and she brought her hungry mouth to his. Together they found what they had sought, each sharing with the other, knowing that only in each other would they find everything they would ever need.

  A gentle summer rain beat against the windows, seeming to isolate the lovers from the world outside as they lay in each other’s arms, breaths warm and humid against each other’s face. Byrch smoothed the tumble of dark hair back from Callie’s face, burying his lips into the back of her neck. He heard her sigh of contentment, felt her relax in his embrace. He would sleep here with her tonight. He wanted to sleep here every night, but he knew he would not ask. If this was all he could have of her, it would have to be enough.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  A message was hand-delivered to the house on St. Luke’s Place, asking Callie out to dinner. Byrch must have felt extra prompting was necessary because he added that it was Edward’s night off.

  Callie held the note, biting her lips. This was the first communication she’d had with Byrch in two days, ever since the night he’d barged into her room. As though by mutual consent, they’d avoided one another at breakfast, and she’d eaten solitary dinners because of his evening social engagements. Despite the fact they’d somehow ended in each other’s arms, their truce was nevertheless very real and constrained.

  She hated this distance and guardedness between them and resolved that tonight she would make the evening pleasant. Byrch seemed to be holding true to his word and wasn’t interfering with her work at the Clarion. In her heart, she knew she had no right to ask for more. If they could be civil to one another, even be friends and respect one another’s work, it would be enough. Callie breathed a long sigh. She mustn’t admit, even to herself, that she wanted more, much more.

  Promptly at seven, Callie heard his footstep on the front stairs. She went to the door and opened it before he could insert his key in the lock. He seemed surprised to find her opening the door for him, and he stepped into the small vestibule, filling it with his bulk. Then he scowled. “Is that the way you always open the door? Just swing it open to any riffraff who climbs the front steps?”

  “You’re the first riffraff to arrive,” Callie retorted. “Actually I saw you through the window.” She tried a white lie, not wanting to admit to him that she recognized his footsteps and would know them from any others. “I’m not new to the city, and living in Shantytown certainly increased my instinct for caution.”

  “I don’t like it when you’re alone in the house. I worry.” Then his face broke into a wreath of smiles. “I see you’ve accepted my dinner invitation.” His eyes traveled the length of her, admiring the sapphire-blue dress that made her skin almost luminescent and deepened the color of her eyes. His arms ached to reach out and hold her, to crush her against him, but he was certain she wouldn’t allow it. Trying to ignore the delicious scent of her cologne, he offered her a glass of sherry to drink while she waited for him to change.

  “I’d rather wait until we can enjoy it together,” she told him. “Just hurry, I’m starved!”

  When Byrch reappeared in the parlor he smelled of the spicy cologne Callie liked. He was dressed smartly in a dark blue coat and trousers with a lighter shade for his satin waistcoat. He held his impeccably brushed gray beaver hat. She felt as though her heart would melt when he presented her with a nosegay of violets he’d carried home secreted inside a folded copy of the Clarion.

  In the carriage, Callie sat beside Byrch, keeping up her end of the conversation, but always conscious of the way his knee jounced against hers. “Where are we going?” she asked, trying to focus her attention on the evening instead of the feelings stirring within her.

  “I thought we’d go to Downing’s on Broad Street. Have you ever eaten oysters?”

  Callie wrinkled her nose. “No, but Jasper Powers was quite fond of them, and Lena used to shuck them in the kitchen and serve them on the half-shell. I used to watch him swallow them down in one gulp.”

  “Well, don’t worry, sweeting, there are many ways to enjoy them without eating them raw. Just how adventurous are you?”

  Callie stuck her chin in the air in that adorable way he loved. “I’m an adventurous sort, Mr. Kenyon.”

  “Yes, I know,” Byrch said mockingly. “And since you’ve admitted you’re a modern woman, I’m pleased to take you to your first oyster house.” At Callie’s questioning look, he laughed. “Don’t worry, Downing’s is not a waterfront cellar notorious for its criminal element. It’s a respectable establishment that draws a regular patronage from the nearby banks and customs house.”

  During the ride to Broad Street, Byrch regaled Callie with stories about street arabs and newsboys. “There’s a whole element of society you know little about, Callie, and since you’ve decided to form a close association with our newsboys and dealers, you should know some of their habits. There’s a place over on Spruce Street, not too far from the Herald’s offices, called Butter-cake Dick’s. That’s where most of our boys go.” Byrch told her about the all-night coffeeshop and the army of sharp-faced adolescents who gathered there every night, hoarse from newshawking, to consume a “butter-cake,” a peculiar sort of biscuit with a lump of butter in its center, and a cup of coffee, bitter and black, for only three cents. He described how the newsboys’ demigods, ex-newsboys who had somehow scrounged and saved enough to become newsdealers, often graced the premises, commandeering the scratched, beaten tables, puffing on cheap cigars, and turning the air blue with oaths and tales of lust and riches. The newsdealers in turn idolized the Olympian b’hoys, those red-flanneled volunteer firemen who came in stinking and reeking from a fire and bragging about their derring-do.

  Downing’s on Broad Street was as respectable as Byrch had promised and was the very model of comfort and prosperity. Callie was impressed with the mirrored arcades, damask curtains, fine carpets, and shimmering chandeliers. Mr. Downing, a tall, white-haired Negro, welcomed ladies in the company of their husbands or escorts, and tempted their appetites with elaborate dishes of scalloped oysters, oyster pie, fish with oyster sauce, and an unusual specialty of poached turkey stuffed with oysters. A flautist and a fiddler played popular tunes and sea chanties and created a background for the good food and quiet conversation
. Waiters wearing snowy white aprons served at the tables while Downing officiated as host.

  The food was exquisitely prepared and served on Luxembourg china with bone-handled flatware and sparkling crystal glasses. Byrch tempted Callie to sample the ale, which was the perfect beverage with deep-fried oysters. Together they enjoyed the poached turkey, served in paper thin slices placed over mounds of stuffing. Over coffee, Callie introduced her idea about home delivery of the Clarion-Observer.

  “Think of it, Byrch!” Her eyes glowed with enthusiasm. “People will be able to have the Clarion over breakfast.”

  “Callie, I hate to dash your hopes, but the Clarion is an early paper. People already have it before breakfast.”

  “Only the people you know, Byrch. The ones rich enough to have a servant who goes out to the corner each morning to buy it for them. I’m talking about working people, housewives who watch the ads looking for sales. They’d be able to plan their days, and they won’t be missing a bargain because they had to wait for their husbands to bring the paper home at suppertime. It’ll be a boon for your advertisers, Byrch. Women will be able to plan ahead—”

  “Whoa! I concede, you’ve got a point.” Byrch stared into his coffeecup while Callie waited to hear his thoughts. Finally he lifted his head, smiling directly into her eyes, and she felt her heart skip a beat. “It could work very well. The Clarion is certainly out early enough to allow for home delivery. The newsdealers deliver stacks of papers to various corners, and they could just as well deliver to the homes of our boys. Another thought occurred to me. We notice a dip in our sales during the winter months because the newsboys are in school. Home delivery might help that.”

  “It can work, Byrch. The boys agreed to give it a try, and you can advertise home delivery right in the Clarion. It will take some time to organize routes, but it can be done.”

  “We’ve talked about it down at the paper, but it didn’t seem feasible. The main argument was that people might not pay for their papers.”

  Callie frowned. “Yes, I’ve thought of that, and I hate to think of the boys taking the loss. But people are basically honest, and besides, we’ll be getting off to a slow start. If there’s a risk, it will be a small one.”

  “You’ve convinced me, Callie. The more readers, the more advertisers, the more the Clarion will grow. But there’s a hitch. Someone will have to organize the routes, monitor the boys, do a bit of troubleshooting if needed. Someone close to the boys. I’m assuming you’re that someone, is that right?” At Callie’s nod of agreement, Byrch continued. “Will you be able to handle all of that? Your column and the boys and their money?”

  “I’d like to try, Byrch. I believe the boys will accept me.”

  “The newsboys are very important to the paper. I wish we could pay them more than we do. They’re the backbone of the industry; they get the product out to the public. Jimmy Riley told me about the Jacobs family. The Clarion paid the bills and sent the family a sum of money to help out a bit. I wish it could have been more. The day is coming, I’m certain, when we’ll be able to have benefits like insurance for everyone connected with the paper.”

  “You mean the Typographical Union?”

  “Exactly. That’s why the idea of a labor union is met so negatively. It will only be the first among many.”

  “Next thing you know, there’ll be a union for women. Some day we might even get to vote!” she laughed.

  “Now you are being silly. But I suspect that day will dawn. Especially with firebrands like Callie James MacDuff marking the path.”

  It was past midnight when Byrch and Callie left Downing’s. They lingered long over snifters of brandy while they enjoyed the entertainment the establishment offered. On the ride back to the house Callie wasn’t surprised that he didn’t suggest another ride along the river. Tomorrow was a business day.

  Byrch dismissed George and the carriage for the night, adding that he intended to walk to the paper in the morning and wouldn’t need the carriage until the following afternoon. They let themselves into the house quietly so as not to disturb Edward. After dousing the lights in the parlor, they climbed the stairs side by side. The touch of his hand on her elbow was light, and yet there was a possessiveness about it.

  Would it always be this way between them? she wondered. She lived in his house, had slept in his bed, wept in his arms, and she knew she’d been closer and more intimate with him than she’d ever been with anyone else. His touch should be familiar, expected, yet he had this effect on her, searing her flesh with a touch, awakening her passions with his nearness, igniting her senses with a caress.

  On the third floor, just outside her bedroom, Byrch stopped outside the door, twirling his hat in his hands. “It was a wonderful evening, Callie. We should do it more often.”

  “Yes.” She managed to speak past the lump in her throat, hovering in the doorway, standing so close to him she could see the shadows his thicket of lashes cast in those exciting tiger eyes.

  “Well, I suppose you should be getting to bed, it’s quite late.”

  Callie nodded, unable to speak, wanting to throw herself into his arms. His breath felt warm and tender against her cheek. Had she moved closer or had he?

  “Would you like me to light your lamp?” he asked, seeming to have difficulty keeping his tone light and even.

  Callie moved from the doorway into her room, admitting him entrance. She watched him cross the room to the bedtable to light the lamp. Unbidden, even unaware, she moved across the room and into his embrace, offering her mouth for his kiss. She was mesmerized by the deliberate slowness of his hands as he undressed her and by the intimacy of his voice as he expressed her loveliness. Callie felt as though she would melt and become a part of him as his fingers found the laces of her corset and the ripe fullness of her breasts beneath her thin camisole.

  Taking her cue from him, she worked on the buttons of his shirt, untied his cravat, and followed the path with her lips, tasting the freshness of his skin and inhaling his clean, masculine scent. He explored her shoulders and the long sweep of her back, his lips savoring the curve of her neck and the valley between her breasts. Callie felt herself yielding up to him, unaware of the existence of a world beyond the span of his arms and the touch of his lips.

  One by one her garments fell to the floor, leaving her naked and lovely, accessible to his hands, his eyes, and his mouth.

  His touch was gentle on her skin. He moved his mouth over her own, drawing sweetly, penetrating her lips with the soft, teasing touches of his tongue. He lifted her easily and placed her on her bed.

  In the dim light of the lamp, Callie’s eyes followed each movement of his hands as he disrobed. She saw the play of muscles beneath the flesh of his back, saw the flatness of his belly and the power of his thighs. But it was on his manhood, somehow so hard and so vulnerable at the same time, that her gaze was focused. She opened her arms to him, drawing him into her soft embrace, filling a need only he could create in her.

  Byrch was impatient for her, needing her, feeling as though he could never satiate her desire for her. He wanted to plunge into her, feel her draw him deeply into the center, and yet he wanted to explore and seek, awaken her to his love. Callie was a woman who answered a gentle touch, a slow and steady progression of her own desires.

  The lamplight illuminated her against the stark whiteness of the sheets, lending her a golden hue that glistened on the curve of her cheek and the planes and valleys of her body. Soft, dark curls bloomed on the mound of her sex, and he knew an unquenchable need to feel the smoothness of her inner thighs beneath his lips and to explore those regions that were so vulnerable to his touch.

  Callie’s hands traced the breadth of his shoulders, the slimness of his hips. Her fingers tangled in the furring of his chest, and she arched her body at his obvious desire for her. His caresses were gentle yet stirring; his kisses soft yet demanding. His hands slipped to her haunches, lifting her, holding her. Throwing back her head, she leaned into t
his new and sensual caress, raking her fingers through his thick, wavy hair, bending, lifting her legs to open herself to his greedy mouth. Her world spun around her, and nothing seemed to exist except his thirsty lips and her vulnerable flesh.

  He held her tenderly, staving off his own satisfaction, while she climbed down from the clouds to smile up at him. He smoothed back the tumble of hair from her forehead, whispering, “You’re beautiful, so beautiful.” And he made her feel beautiful, and she wanted to fill this yearning within her to take him deeply inside her. She fit her curves against the hard planes of his body, shivering with anticipation when his thighs slipped smoothly between her own and he lowered himself onto her, sensing her urgency that he take her quickly, fill her with himself.

  She enveloped him with her warmth, holding him prisoner within her. The long, slow strokes of his hips became more urgent, hot and flaring, quickening into driving thrusts as she matched his rhythm, arching herself to meet him. She breathed his name as she found her own release, locking her legs around him, urging him to his finish.

  Long into the night they held each other, their closeness and caresses speaking eloquently of the love that neither could admit with words in the full light of day.

  Callie awakened the next morning, her head still filled with dreams of Byrch. She rolled over, her hands reaching to find him. But he was already gone. She could hear the water running in the bath down the hall. Sighing, Callie snuggled under the sheets. She felt a rush of emotion thinking of last night, and she knew she had to stifle it. Last night was just part of their arrangement. She couldn’t let it mean more than it was or cloud it with her emotions. Byrch was being nicer, not so mocking and cynical. He seemed to be trying as hard as she was to be polite and not to let things get out of hand.