Cinders to Satin Read online

  His hand glided down her elegant throat, paving the way for his lips. He wanted to kiss all of her, to taste her inch by inch, taking her between his lips, his teeth, nibbling and feeding his appetite for her.

  Her nightgown parted beneath his fingers; he pushed it aside, baring the hollow of her neck and the soft roundness of her shoulder. He felt her tremble beneath his touch, heard a faint moaning sound and knew that she was as close to the edge of the great abyss as he was. He meant to carry her up and over with him, falling, falling, into a place where the hungers of the body would be met.

  He was pleased to know he was affecting her with his caresses, drawing her into the swift currents of passion . . .

  Books by Fern Michaels

  The Blossom Sisters

  Balancing Act

  Tuesday’s Child

  Betrayal

  Southern Comfort

  To Taste the Wine

  Sins of the Flesh

  Sins of Omission

  Return to Sender

  Mr. and Miss Anonymous

  Up Close and Personal

  Fool Me Once

  Picture Perfect

  About Face

  The Future Scrolls

  Kentucky Sunrise

  Kentucky Heat

  Kentucky Rich

  Plain Jane

  Charming Lily

  What You Wish For

  The Guest List

  Listen to Your Heart

  Celebration

  Yesterday

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  Annie’s Rainbow

  Sara’s Song

  Vegas Sunrise

  Vegas Heat

  Vegas Rich

  Whitefire

  Wish List

  Dear Emily

  Christmas at Timberwoods

  The Godmothers Series:

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  Breaking News

  Deadline

  Late Edition

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  The Sisterhood Novels:

  Gotcha!

  Home Free

  Déjà Vu

  Cross Roads

  Game Over

  Deadly Deals

  Vanishing Act

  Razor Sharp

  Under the Radar

  Final Justice

  Collateral Damage

  Fast Track

  Hokus Pokus

  Hide and Seek

  Free Fall

  Lethal Justice

  Sweet Revenge

  The Jury

  Vendetta

  Payback

  Weekend Warriors

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  Anthologies:

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  I’ll Be Home for Christmas

  Making Spirits Bright

  Holiday Magic

  Snow Angels

  Silver Bells

  Comfort and Joy

  Sugar and Spice

  Let it Snow

  A Gift of Joy

  Five Golden Rings

  Deck the Halls

  Jingle All the Way

  FERN MICHAELS

  Cinders to Satin

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  Table of Contents

  Books by Fern Michaels

  Title Page

  Book One

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Book Two

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Book Three

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  BLINDSIDED

  Copyright Page

  Book One

  Chapter One

  It was a peculiar dark that fell over Dublin that night during the long hours before dawn. Damp mists, like the wraiths of souls tormented, hung low over the narrow, cobbled streets, their specter fingers stretching into doorways and rising to dissipate vaporously near the flame of the gas lights. There was a chill in the air, but it wasn’t the kind of raw cold that was usual for early March. Tonight there was a promise of the coming spring.

  A small figure dodged in and out of the shadows, running as though the night were reaching out to clutch at her. She carried an ungainly grocer’s basket close to her thin body, struggling against the weight of it as she searched for a particular alley, praying to find it quickly so she could scurry into its obliterating darkness.

  Callie James held her breath, not daring to make a sound, choking back the need to take in great gulps of air as she crouched behind an abandoned cart whose iron-rimmed wheels had long ago been removed.

  The space between the cart and the back wall of a local pub was narrow and more cramped than she had anticipated, yet she dared not make a move to reposition herself. She listened intently and could hear them, her pursuers, running along the cobbled street, calling in muted shouts to one another, questioning for signs of the “filthy little robber.”

  The voices came closer, almost to the entrance of the alley, and Callie’s heart beat a wild tattoo. If they came up the alley, she would be trapped, something she had not considered when choosing her hidey-hole. Fear gripped her. She felt her hair standing on end, and her eyes squeezed shut against her fate.

  Even as she prayed, she cursed herself for her impetuosity. How had she dared to steal the grocer’s basket that had stood outside the market awaiting delivery? In these poor times here in Ireland only the rich could enjoy such luxuries as this basket held. Even through her terror Callie could smell the sweet salty perfume of the smoked ham and the ripe aroma of oranges. And the bread. Dear God, the blessed bread! Huge loaves of round, crusty dough still warm from the oven. The temptation had been too great—the hunger too painful.

  The penalty for stealing was death by hanging, a justice meted out under an English martial law whose tenuous grasp on law and order was maintained by making examples of felons. That’s what she was now, Callie realized with shame—a felon. And if caught, no amount of pleading or claiming extenuating circumstances would save her. The grocer was an Englishman, that hated breed of men who sucked life from Ireland with their laws and edicts. While the Irish starved because of the potato blight, the English dressed in their finery and ate their fill each and every day. There would be no pity for her, no forgiveness from those who had full bellies and who possessed no understanding of starvation. Others had died at the end of the rope—men, women, and children. Only in punishment could the Irish find equality in the eyes of the English.

  Boots scraped upon the cobbles, the sounds coming closer and closer. Now someone was a
ctually entering the alley! She squeezed her eyes tighter, not daring to open them to face her horror. Oh, Mother of Jesus, why had she taken the basket? Callie thought of leaving it and making a run for it. Unencumbered by its weight, she might have a chance to save herself. Moving to put her burden aside, she heard the rustle of tissue paper, betraying the fact that there were eggs within. Eggs for the little ones. Food. That was why the unguarded basket had been such a temptation. Eight in the house and only her own poor pittance of a salary from the textile mill to support them.

  Thomas James, Callie’s father, had lain in bed for nearly two years complaining of back pains, malingering and defeated, refusing to seek even the lightest employment. Her grandfather, old Mack James, was too old to work, and no one would hire him.

  Only her mother, Peggy James, had any backbone—in Callie’s opinion—but her work at the mill had been interrupted by the birth of the twins. Owing to the lack of food and an unclean birthing, Peggy was a sick woman. Bridget and Billy, the two-year-old twins, and Hallie and Georgie, now eight and nine, and still another babe on the way, Callie thought in disgust for her father’s lusty inclinations. Too sick to work but not dead enough to hinder him from putting another babe in Peggy’s belly. And him strutting about like a cock o’ the walk, with no thought as to how this new mouth was to be fed!

  The heavy tread of boots brought Callie back to her immediate terror. They approached closer still; someone was indeed in the alley. She held her breath, her hands covering her face against the dread of seeing the grocer’s plump, well-fed face when he reached through the shadows to seize her. One step and then another, the beat of a purposeful march. He finally reached the dilapidated wagon and stubbed his foot against it. With a mighty heave he tilted the cart, and Callie anticipated those heavy butcher’s hands capturing her, holding her like a trapped bird, threatening to crush out her existence.

  She heard the cart topple, and her hands flew away from her eyes in wide-eyed panic. Blinded by the sudden light of the flare he carried, she couldn’t see beyond it to the face of the man who had discovered her hiding place.

  A shout came from the street, calling into the alley. “Have you found the little barstard, sir?” It was the voice of the grocer, harsh and out of breath, yet Callie could not mistake his tone of respect when he spoke to the man with the flare.

  The sound of his voice jolted her, so near, booming down at her, and it was a moment before she could grasp his answer to the grocer. “Nothing in here, man! Just an overturned dogcart!”

  “Well, thank ye for your assistance, Mr. Kenyon. I wouldn’t want to trouble you further on my account. The little thief must’ve run the other way. I’ll get me goods back, don’t you worry, sir. No guttersnipe is going to get away with six pounds of me best wares. There ain’t another ham the likes of that one in all Dublin. It was brought in special for his Lordship, Magistrate Rawlings.”

  “Good luck to you then,” her savior’s voice replied. It was the most wonderful sound she’d ever heard.

  Now that the flare wasn’t being held directly in front of her, Callie was able to make a quick appraisal. His boots were knee high and polished to a shine. A gentleman’s boots. The light buff of his trousers clung to his long, lean legs, and the whiteness of his shirt showed in stark relief against the dark of his hair and the rich cranberry of his coat. But it was his face that held her attention: the lean jaw, the smooth wide brow. The kindness in his light-colored eyes. His finely drawn lips twisted into a wry smile, lending a suggestion of cruelty that contradicted the expression in his eyes. No, not cruelty, Callie amended. Rather a strength of character, a type of righteousness, a possession of authority. “Mr. Kenyon” the grocer had called him, she now remembered. He lifted the flare higher, drawing it away from her.

  Byrch Kenyon stood transfixed by the sight of Callie crouching against the tavern wall, defending her stolen basket. He had expected to find a dirty-faced street urchin with hard, defiant eyes. Anything but this terrorized young girl with her bright clean face and much-mended shawl. She huddled like an animal who has heard the snap of the trap shut behind her.

  The glow from the flare caught the red glints in her chestnut hair and lit her pale, unblemished skin. A pretty Irish colleen. Large, luminous eyes; a firm, softly rounded chin; cheeks a bit sunken as were all of Ireland’s children. It was her expression which struck him. Her full, child’s mouth was set in a pout, her sky-colored eyes meeting his in a wide, unblinking stare. He felt himself smiling, no, laughing at her spunk. Here she hid, a thief, and yet she was flashing her defiance, daring him to present her to the Englishman’s justice.

  “Don’t try to appeal to me with your sweet expression, colleen,” he said sarcastically. “Regardless of how you plead, I’ll not turn you into the law.”

  “If you think I’ll be thanking you, you’re sadly mistaken,” Callie sniped in her soft brogue. She wished her voice were more steady and that her body would quit its trembling.

  “Oh, I can see that,” he told her, reaching to help her to her feet. “Gratitude would be too much to expect.” Despite her shrinking away from him, he grasped her by the elbow and raised her up. He was struck by the thinness of her arm and her diminutive height. “How old are you? Twelve? Thirteen?”

  Callie bristled at this affront to her womanliness. “I’m no child thank you, sir. I’ll be sixteen in a month’s time.”

  “Oh, that old, are you? Pardon, madame. And where, may I ask, are you off to with your pilfered goods? Or do you plan to stay here and devour that entire basket here and now?”

  Callie looked at him suspiciously. “And why would you be asking? So you could turn me in along with my entire family?”

  “I merely asked because you’re not the only thief skulking around in the shadows of Dublin. You’ll be lucky to carry that basket two streets without it being stolen from you!” His hand still cupped her elbow, and he could feel the tremors running through her. “You’re shaking like a leaf in a storm.”

  “Does that surprise you, sir?” She jerked her arm out of his grasp. “I’ve just gotten away with my life!”

  “Your bravado isn’t the mark of someone who has just escaped with her life. Not the way your eyes flash and your tongue bites. You’re a feisty young miss, do you know that?” He scowled, clearly annoyed.

  “And what’s it to you?” Immediately she regretted her words. He had helped her, and here she was giving him lip. Her mouth always got her into trouble. What if she angered him into calling the grocer? Or worse, what if he dragged her to the patrolling constable? As usual, words of apology did not come easily to Callie James. To show him her regret, she smiled up at him.

  “Feisty and charming.” He laughed easily, amending his earlier statement.

  Callie could see his strong white teeth when he laughed, and she liked the way he threw back his head. He was tall, very tall, and his clothes were fine and well-tailored. He was a gentleman, no doubt about it. She understood why the grocer had spoken to him with respect.

  “Will you tell me your name and what you’re doing about the streets at this hour?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” Callie answered, bending to retrieve her basket. “How am I to know you won’t change your mind and turn me in?”

  That seemed to strike him funny. “It’s evident we’re strangers. If you knew me better, you’d have no doubt of my opinions concerning the English Law we suffer. You’ll never make it through the streets with that heavy booty, you know. You may as well leave it here and get home with you.”

  Callie drew herself up to her full five feet one inch, facing him brazenly. This was no time to back down. “I dragged it all the way here from the grocer’s, didn’t I? And at a full run, I might add. I’ll make it home, all right, or die trying. I’ve a family to consider.”

  “A little thing like yourself with a family?” he questioned.

  “Well, I do too! They’re my own brothers and sisters.”

  “Come along, then.
I’ll walk with you. Just to be certain the grocer and his boy don’t come back this way.”

  Callie hesitated and saw his logic. He was right. She wouldn’t have to let him come all the way with her, just far enough to get out of this neighborhood. And if he tried anything with her, he’d be sorry. Her shoes were stout and their soles thick. He’d feel them where they’d hurt the most if he got any funny ideas in his head. “All right, I accept your offer. Seeing as how it means so much to you.” He laughed again, and she scowled. Callie ignored him and picked up her basket, falling into step beside him.

  They’d not gone a block when she was panting with effort. The basket must have weighed thirty pounds. Breaking the silence between them, he said, “If I tell you my name, will you let me help you carry your hard-earned goods?”

  “I already know your name. It’s Kenyon. Mr. Kenyon. However,” she turned and dumped the basket unceremoniously into his arms, “I’d be obliged if you carried it a bit of the way, Mr. Kenyon.”

  “Byrch. Byrch Kenyon.” He looked for recognition of his name but none was forthcoming.

  “Any man willing to tell his name under these circumstances can’t be all bad,” Callie said. “Kenyon is a fine old Dublin handle. But Byrch! Why would anyone pin a moniker like that on a fine Christian lad? Hadn’t your mother heard of good saintly names like Patrick or Sean?”

  “And who says I’m a fine Christian lad?” This little piece of baggage had a mouth on her!

  “You’re Irish, aren’t you? Or are you?” Callie turned and eyed him quizzically. “You speak with a fair lilt of the auld sod, but there’s something else besides.”

  “I’m here in Dublin visiting friends,” he answered smoothly.

  “Here!” Callie drew up short, swaying her shoulder into his tall frame. “You’re not English, are you?” she demanded. Not for anything would she associate with an Englishman.

  “No. American. My father is Irish. I’m here in Dublin waiting passage back to Liverpool. Then I’m bound back to America.”