The Whisper Of Wings (17 page)

"Well, now." He glanced at the storage cabinet still standing open behind her. "I'll be sure and put the paper on a lower shelf so you can reach it more easily."

Michaela wanted to ask him why he was so intent on helping her, but she couldn't bring herself to be so forward.

"No one has ever been so kind to me," she whispered. The moment the words were out, she wished she could take them back. She hadn't meant for that to slip out, hadn't meant to be gazing up at him like he was some sort of beautiful god and she was his awestruck servant, even if that was precisely how she felt.

She dropped her gaze. The look on his face was too intense to hold for more than a short time. At her softly spoken admission, his expression had clouded, as if the very idea that anyone had been
un
kind to her made him angry.

"As long as you don't think I'm a nuisance."

"No," he said, sounding brusque.

She nodded, still unable to meet his eyes, choosing to stare at her feet instead. They seemed the safest place to rest her gaze.

Christopher stared at the top of her bent head. It was a bit sad really, that a woman who had so much to offer in the way of intelligence and caring hadn't been shown enough appreciation and kindness herself. It made him want to shower her with attention, to give her everything her heart desired. If only to show her that she was worthy, to show her that not everyone in the world was out to hurt her. For surely that's what she felt, that everyone she'd ever cared for had hurt her.

Except perhaps, dare he think, himself? He'd only been kind to her. Yet, in a moment, it could turn on him, on her. On all of them. They would all have to be careful. Human emotions were not something to be taken lightly. Too much was at stake. He had to be strong to avoid running the risk of hurting everyone he cared for. He didn't want to hurt anyone, least of all his son, his own blood. He still wasn't certain how deep Gerald's feelings went, but it was a surety that his son adored Michaela, as she adored him in return.

"I suppose I should go," she murmured.

Christopher didn't answer, just continued to stare down at her. God, he wanted to drag her into his arms and hold her, absorb her pain, take it away from her, will it to never return. But he couldn't. He could only stand there watching her, forcibly distancing himself from her.

"Thank you. Again," she said, then turned on her heel and started for the door. She didn't even look at him again. She seemed too preoccupied with getting away from him.

"Michaela," he called, making her pause halfway to the door.

She turned, her gaze seeking his, and the look in her eyes was almost too much to bear. He could read it all there in her expression. Everything she felt. Confusion, gratitude, anxiety, uncertainty, and something else. Something like.... Was that merely respect, or was it....

He jolted himself out of the ridiculous meandering of his thoughts and, feeling rather inept and bumbling, lifted his hand toward her. Her eyes followed the motion and caught on the pencil he held out for her.

"You did require this?"

"Yes." She stepped forward and took it from him, felt the heat spread through her the moment their fingers touched. His skin was so warm, so giving. It made her want to wrap her arms around him, beg him to hold her, to take away all her pain, never to let her go. He had become a fortress for her, the only person in the entire world who had ever been interested in her well-being, the only person who had ever cared whether she liked bread with her soup. The only person to give her a chance before she'd even proved herself worthy. He had become her wings. She never wanted to leave this house, never wanted to leave his side. This was her haven, her escape from all that was bad in the world. She knew that as long as she was under his roof she was protected.

Just that simple act of offering her a pencil to go with the paper, the knowledge that he even understood she had come for that as well, was enough to make her heart swell. It seemed so symbolic of his acceptance of her, whatever she was, whoever she was.

"Thank you," she said.

For the first time since she'd laid eyes on him, his mouth softened, the frown between his brows eased, and there was actually an expression other than highly disciplined determination in his eyes, just as unreadable but strangely more open. She was seeing a glimpse of the real Christopher Standeven. The Christopher Standeven he kept hidden from everyone except his son.

His eyes never leaving hers, he teased, "Unless, of course, you would like a pen instead."

She almost laughed. He seemed downright boyish now, as though he too felt a bit uncertain.

She shook her head. Reluctant to leave him but knowing that she must, she started to turn away. She didn't want to go. She would much rather stay with him, gazing into those eyes, listening to him talk.

"Michaela."

She halted and stood there waiting, her eyes turned back to his.

"When you recover your memory, you will come to me?"

It was the first time she'd ever heard him
ask
for anything, the first time she'd heard the hint of something like a plea in his voice, or as close to a plea as a man like Christopher Standeven would allow himself. It made her heart clench with something both bitter and sweet, something sad yet wonderful. She didn't even attempt to try and understand the conflicted emotions. It was best left unexplored, for the sake of all.

"Do you remember anything? Anything at all?" he pressed. "I thought perhaps when the police were here you might have remembered something."

She turned nervous eyes away from him.

"Michaela, it's important to your health. I've been speaking with a—" He stopped short of telling her about the psychologist. He didn't want to alienate her. "You must try to remember."

She shook her head. "It was awful. I can't speak of it. It haunts my days and...my nights." She briefly closed her eyes against the pain. "Please. Somehow find it in your heart to forgive me, but I can't speak of it. I just can't," she whispered.

"I don't mean to press you. Perhaps it's more important to me than it is to you," he said.

His admission came as a surprise. Was he confessing an interest in her other than just benevolence?

"When you feel that you can talk about it...." He left the sentence hanging between them. He didn't need to finish it. She already knew what he wanted of her.

She nodded, bit back a tear, and turned away.

His voice followed her to the door. "You don't have to ask, Michaela. You don't ever have to ask for anything that I can provide for you."

Tears burned her eyes. She had waited so long for someone to care about her. She couldn't help but yearn for more. She managed a shaky "thank you" and then hurried out the door and off down the hall, clutching the paper to her bosom like a shield. The encounter had been so intense that she'd almost forgotten why she wanted the paper to begin with, and all she could think about was getting to her room and giving in to the tears without the threat of prying eyes.

Christopher stared at the empty doorway for a long time. Something had happened here, something paramount. Something he'd never experience before. There was no mistaking it, no mistaking its import. He only wondered if he dared explore it.

He was damn curious about the paper. It seemed like such an insignificant little thing, yet somehow it seemed monumental to her.

He shook his head and turned away. Perhaps he would never really find the key that would release Michaela's heart from the fetters that bound it.

Dinner was subdued that evening. Michaela joined them a few minutes late. She was usually so punctual, but tonight she seemed preoccupied. There was even an air of happiness about her, and Christopher found himself largely ignoring his meal to watch her.

Gerald was full of information about his trip to the college. Michaela plied him with questions, from the layout of the campus to the enrollment process. She always seemed eager to hear about almost any subject, anything that dealt with far away places or education. Christopher had never met a woman who was so fascinated with talking about such varied topics. Gerald had even once engaged her in a conversation about the internal combustion engine. And she listened intently whenever Christopher spoke of politics, the conversation almost all women dreaded, not just to please him but because she was truly interested and wanted to understand and learn. She absorbed information as though she was starving to learn about anything that she didn't already know.

Very curious indeed. While most women were contemplating the state of their fingernails, Michaela was busy analyzing anything and everything. She was most decidedly a contradiction.

Christopher slogged through the meal. He couldn't wait for it to end. He was feeling edgy, a bit restless. All the unanswered questions about Michaela were beginning to affect him. He had become quite disturbed and perplexed by the fact that she was not actively trying to regain her memory. Rather, she seemed perfectly happy simply
being
for the moment. Not that he wanted to press her. He just wasn't sure how to deal with his own entanglement anymore.

The close proximity of their bedrooms had created another problem, not altogether separate from the waking ones. He thought of her constantly when he lay awake in his big, empty bed, sleeping so close, yet so far. As hard as he tried, he couldn't get her out of his thoughts.

And something Michaela had said to him continued to disturb him.

"They haunt my nights."

Just last evening he had heard a soft cry in the night, a cry of alarm, the sort that one suffered upon awakening from a particularly distasteful dream. Certain it had come from Michaela's room, he'd gone out into the hall to investigate. At her door, he heard her softly weeping inside, but as much as he wanted to, he hadn't been able to bring himself to go inside and comfort her. Damn the British rigidity. He'd been afraid to go inside, afraid of holding her in his arms, afraid that for once in his life he would lose control of his emotions. He wasn't even certain that she would invite his intrusion, his comfort.

He'd grown soft in middle age, so damnably unlike himself.

One thing was glaringly apparent. Michaela was in pain, and it was his responsibility to ease that pain. Now that he was aware of it, ignoring her distress was unforgivable. He'd been remiss in not seeing to her absolute welfare. He should have called a psychologist in long ago, even back in New Orleans. It was for her ultimate good. However much he'd dawdled over the decision, it was clear now that she needed treatment for the trauma she had suffered at the hands of that heathen who had raped her.

The moment dinner was finished, he left Michaela with Gerald and went to his office, automatically reaching for the phone and dialing the university. He knew he was taking a risk, sensed that it would put an irreparable rift between himself and Michaela, but he had to do all he could to make his young charge well again.

Michaela felt shunned by Christopher's abrupt departure. Still, she forced herself to return her attention to Gerald, to the conversation she'd heard so little of. She'd been far too aware of Mr. Standeven brooding over his meal, sitting so close. The agony of her attraction for him had kept her from even looking at him all evening.

She felt ridiculous for even thinking about it. She should stop being such a ninny about Christopher Standeven. Her feelings were growing far too complicated and precarious to allow them free reign. She must get hold of herself. She simply must.

But that kiss the other day when he'd touched his warm lips to the back of her hand. She could still feel it burning into her skin, all the way to her heart and soul. She had remembered the particular feel of it when she'd been in his study this afternoon, when he'd been standing so close. She longed for him to repeat it. Such a misguided notion.

The back of her hand began to tingle where his lips had been, and, try as she might, she couldn't force the thought from her mind. The memory seemed always to be with her now, plaguing her with a restlessness that couldn't be tamed, an emptiness that was painfully unfulfilled, a heart that ached for something she didn't know how to provide, something she couldn't possibly appease. That single kiss had done something to her, something both wonderful and painful. Something she should forget. After all, nothing could ever come of her desires. She was a fool to even contemplate the possibility. It would only lead to heartache. And more confusion.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Christopher stood outside the closed doors of the library, his ears finely attuned to any stirring sound that might come from within. Michaela had been sequestered with the psychologist for the better part of an hour, and still he'd heard no sound. Just silence. The wondering was killing him. He wasn't at all assured that Dr. Woodard was the right man for the job. Christopher had done his utmost to secure a psychologist of the highest integrity, and Dr. Woodard was held in unmitigated high esteem by the university, but he wasn't certain the man would understand how very fragile Michaela was. Would he understand that he needed to be delicate with her, gentle? He seemed like such a no-nonsense individual, and Christopher didn't like the idea of the doctor handling Michaela with anything less than the respect and consideration she deserved. She didn't need to be persuaded. She simply needed to be coaxed.

Footsteps in the hall behind him alerted him to someone approaching. Feeling like a young pup caught with a prize laying hen, he pulled away from the door and crossed the hall, pretending that he was only just now coming out of the sitting room. But he was too late. Apparently, he had been so intent on listening at the door of the library that he'd been a little belated in hearing the telltale footsteps of his housekeeper. Mrs. Avery paused to stare at him, a knowing expression on her face. He cleared his throat and smoothed his rolled up shirtsleeves, meeting her gaze with a bit of chagrin, something he hadn't felt in ages, if ever. She gave him a beatific smile, as if she knew something he didn't, and walked on down the hall. He stared after her, wondering what that smile meant.

The moment she was out of sight, he was back at the door, leaning against the wall nearby, his arms folded across his chest, hoping he appeared more casual than he felt. He hated himself for it—he'd become such a snoop—yet he couldn't seem to keep himself from eavesdropping wherever Michaela was concerned. Especially when it was directly connected to her well-being.

He checked his watch. The doctor was taking a long time. Perhaps he should knock and inquire after their creature comforts. But that would be intrusive. Michaela might at that very moment be confiding everything to Dr. Woodard, and Christopher didn't want to hamper her progress with an interruption.

A moment later, he heard the rattle of the doorknob. He straightened, no longer caring what anyone might think of his presence there, and yanked the door open before the person on the other side could do so. He was surprised when it was Michaela's startled face that greeted him first, surprised that it was she who had apparently initiated a departure from the psychologist. Something deep inside him shriveled at the sight of the accusation in her eyes. She stared up at him for what seemed like an eternity, her chin trembling with unconcealed emotion. And in that interminable moment, when her unforgiving eyes portrayed her feelings of betrayal, he thought he heard the minutest sound from somewhere deep inside his soul—something like the tiny sound of porcelain breaking—and he was almost positive it was his heart. Before he could say anything, she pushed past him and hurried down the hall, her eyes filling with tears as she raced for the stairs. He watched her go, utterly powerless to stop her. He knew she wouldn't obey even if he tried to call her back. She was far too stricken for that. And in view of the outcome of her first therapy session, he wasn't eager to force her to stay when she so obviously wanted to get away from the situation.

He was so caught up in castigating himself for pushing her too far too fast that he was barely aware that Dr. Woodard had come to stand beside him until the man spoke.

"I'm afraid it didn't go well, Mr. Standeven."

Christopher turned to contemplate the man, his own gaze half accusing, though he knew he shouldn't blame the man. It was his own fault. He shouldn't have been so eager, should have waited until Michaela was ready.

"If you like, we can try again later," Dr. Woodard offered. "Sometimes it takes time for a patient to warm to therapy."

Christopher shook his head. He could kick himself for being so impatient. That rift he'd been so afraid of putting between himself and Michaela was there now, wider than ever, perhaps irreversible. "That won't be necessary."

Christopher studied the man, trying to gauge the doctor's feelings about the situation. He seemed none the worse for wear. He was probably accustomed to these little failures. "Perhaps you'd like to step into my office and explain exactly what did happen."

Dr. Woodard shrugged. "Nothing to explain really. She wouldn't say much, only that she didn't wish to discuss anything with me."

Christopher's frown deepened.

"She was not at all comfortable in my presence," Dr. Woodard mused. "That's not unusual. However...." He paused and raised contemplative eyes to Christopher's. "I surmise that she is not suffering from clinical amnesia."

Christopher was not surprised. He had suspected that for some time now, but the knowledge that he had been right all along didn't lessen his own remorse at forcing the issue. It didn't change the way he felt toward her, certainly didn't change his desire to help her, and it didn't lessen Michaela's suffering.

"How so?" Christopher queried.

"Well, she doesn't display any of the signs, other than the fact that she can't talk about her past. But I feel that is more of a choice than an affliction. It's rare for anyone suffering amnesia to remember their first name and nothing else, nothing at all."

Christopher Standeven's mouth tightened, and Dr. Woodard was met with the scowl that caused so many to shrivel in deference to the sheer willpower exuded by the man.

"I suspected as much," Christopher muttered.

"I would like to continue working with her. I'm sure there is a very good reason why she doesn't want to talk about whatever happened to her. Didn't you mention that she'd been...."

Christopher shook his head. "I don't feel that she is quite ready for this."

Dr. Woodard shrugged. "It will take time. She's been terribly traumatized, to the exact point I can't say for certain. It will be entirely up to her, when and if she decides to talk about it. Until then...."

"She will be in my care, Dr. Woodard." Christopher made certain that his tone insured the doctor that there was no doubt as to that fact.

Woodard nodded. "And I'm sure that care is exemplary."

Christopher started to walk the man toward the front door. "I fear that we have pushed her further away from the healing process."

"Don't be so sure of that. If she knows you want to help her, she may come around all the sooner. On the other hand, you could be right. Only time will tell. Time and patience."

Somehow, that didn't make Christopher feel any better about what he'd done. If she were to suffer from this encounter, he blamed only himself.

"The offer stands," Dr. Woodard suggested. "I can come back at any time."

Christopher shook his head again, adamant. "I'm afraid I'm not interested in putting Michaela through this again. Not unless she requests it."

Halfway up the stairs, Michaela paused on the landing and flattened herself against the wall, her eyes on the hallway below. She could hear the muffled voices of the two men, but she couldn't make out what they were saying. It had been such a trying morning, and she didn't quite know what to do now. Should she lock herself in her room, or flee the mansion altogether? What fate awaited her now? The thought frightened her. There would be questions following on the heels of her departure from the psychologist. Surely, now Mr. Standeven realized that she was a liar, and he would be intent on ousting the imposter from his house.

She took a few deep, shuddering breaths. Earlier that morning, she'd been horrified to discover that their breakfast guest was a psychologist Mr. Standeven had brought in to help her with her amnesia. It was only with strong coercion that she agreed to go into the library at all. The doctor had assumed she would feel more comfortable speaking in private, when in truth she didn't want to speak to him at all. It was the most difficult thing she'd ever done, walking into that room with him, hearing the sound of the door closing behind her. It was like walking into a prison. Or worse, a trap. She was terrified that he would pull the truth from her, by whatever means was available to the science of psychology, and then the beautiful life she'd stumbled into would crumble around her. But she couldn't refuse to go with him, not when any objection would only arouse suspicion.

The doctor had assured her that he meant her no harm, but his confession did nothing to ease her mind. She only agreed to sit down at his persistent, gentle insistence. Despite the fact that she wanted to pace the room, run for the door, snatch it open, and flee the house, she knew she mustn't. It would only make her look guilty. And it was by sheer force of will that she made herself stay in the room with him. She had nowhere to go, anyway.

Michaela pressed herself up against the arm of the davenport, as far away from the psychologist as she dared get without seeming rude. Or worse, paranoid. She worried the fringe of the tassels on the lamp that sat on the table beside her. She seemed to need it to focus on. The psychologist made her nervous. She was frightened that he would find her out and tell the Standevens, frightened of being sent back. She knew he could see her fear. She only hoped that by some divine intervention he would mistake it for the fear that had repressed her memory.

Why hadn't Gerald stopped them? Why hadn't he seen the panic on her face and come to her rescue? Instead, he'd just sat there, his face a mask of disapproval as he glared at his father over the morning meal.

And Mrs. Avery...she had tried so hard to be reassuring. Why hadn't she seen that it was the last thing Michaela needed at the moment?

Of course, she couldn't really blame them. It had been Christopher Standeven's idea. But why? Did he suspect? Had he ceased to trust her? Did he not want her in his home anymore?

Still pressed against the wall on the landing, she bit back a half-sob. She didn't want to blame him. She was certain he had only meant to help her. Or, at least, that's what Mrs. Avery had tried to tell her. Perhaps it was true. She wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt, anyway.

When she heard the sound of footsteps and the men's voices drawing nearer, she pushed herself away from the wall and hurried up the last flight of stairs, racing down the upper hallway on silent feet. When she got to the door of her bedroom, she flung it open and rushed inside. She was just turning to shut it behind her when a gasping sound from the interior of her room made her spin on her heel.

Michaela stared in astonishment as Sadie rose from the desk near the window, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. Michaela's gaze flew to the sheaf of paper the girl still held in her hand. Sadie's eyes slowly followed hers, and as if in response to her guilt, her fingers convulsively jerked open, leaving the papers to flutter to the floor.
Her
papers! Her writing! The girl had been snooping, had read her work. How could this day get any worse? She felt like her life was falling apart again, just when it had started to come together for her. It was too much all at once.

Christopher was anxious to be rid of the psychologist, eager to find Michaela and apologize, and it was with unabashed haste that he showed the man to the door. As soon as the doctor was gone, Christopher turned to the stairs, taking them two at a time. He wanted to make sure Michaela understood that he'd meant her no harm. She had to know that she was still welcome here in his house, safe and secure with his family. No one was going to pressure her again, or toss her out on her lovely ear. If he explained himself now, perhaps he could somehow win back a modicum of that trust he so craved from her.

Michaela was appalled by Sadie's intrusion. She'd been so certain no one would breach her privacy. It was a blow that left her reeling, and all she could do was stand there and stare in astonishment, the maid staring back in surprised contrition.

Somehow, at last, she found the impetus to move. She rushed across the room and dropped to her knees to collect the papers, haphazardly creasing them in her haste. The words on the page, words she'd written in her own neat longhand, blurred through the tears that were forming in her eyes, tears of bitter sadness. Would everyone in this household betray her this day?

"What were you doing?" she demanded of the girl, too mortified to control her anger. "These are
my
things. You had no right to read this."

She stood up and clutched the papers to her chest as if to protect what little remained of her privacy.

Christopher paused just outside Michaela's half open door, perplexed by the anger he heard in her voice. Her words puzzled him, and he inclined his head to listen more closely. He'd never known her to raise her voice, never known her to be so bold.

Inside the room, Sadie seemed remorseful. "I am so sorry, mademoiselle. I did not mean to pry. The papers were just lying there, and I had to move them to dust."

Michaela felt a surge of hope, and her voice was much calmer when she managed, "Then you didn't read...."

She trailed off when Sadie lowered her eyes in shame and slowly shook her head. "I am sorry, mademoiselle. It caught my eye, and I could not help myself. Once I began, I could not stop. I was drawn in." She raised hopeful eyes. "It is really quite good."