Cinders to Satin. Fern Michaels
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.”
“Well, at least I know you’re not lying to me. No one in this world would admit to family and friends in Ireland during these hard times if it weren’t so.” And then she smiled, and Byrch Kenyon thought the fair sun of summer had lit the dark streets.
“If you won’t tell me your name, at least tell me something about yourself,” he said, hefting the basket onto his hip as though it were no heavier than a lady’s handkerchief.
“Callie.”
“Callie what?”
“That’s all you’ll get from me, Mr. Kenyon. Why don’t you tell me about yourself instead? Then I can tell my mother all about you.”
“So, you have a mother. Back there in the alley I thought you were responsible for your brothers and sisters all alone:”
“I didn’t mean to make you think that, but you never asked about my mother. Hey! Watch where you walk! You’ve spattered mud on my dress!”
They were under a gaslight near the corner, and Byrch turned to look down at her. “You’re a lovely child, Callie. Do you know that?”
She shrugged. “So I’ve been told. But listen here, you try any funny stuff; and you’ll feel the toe of my boot crack your shins!”
Byrch smiled and made a courtly, mocking bow. She was a tough little scrapper, but he was beginning to suspect it was all a show. Probably she really was afraid he’d try something with her. As though his tastes ran to children! As though this little mite would stand a chance against him!
“Are you going to tell me what you do in America? We’ve only a little ways to go now.” Callie deliberately softened her tone. Perhaps she shouldn’t have said anything about him trying something. She was sensitive enough to know she’d hurt his feelings and upbraided his gallantry.
“I run a newspaper in New York City,” Byrch told her, “and I’m trying to make my mark in politics