The Whisper Of Wings (28 page)

Thankfully, there were no further complications, and the time passed in relative affability. Portia avoided looking at Michaela for the remainder of the meal, a respite for which Michaela was grateful.

Michaela found herself turning to Christopher more and more, for his reassurance, approval, and that warmth he always made her feel.

After the meal had ended, the group rose to retire to the drawing room for an after-dinner brandy.

"I haven't seen fireworks like that since the fourth of July," Gerald murmured as he held her chair for her.

She smiled up at him.

"You mustn't mind Portia. She's been after Father for the past several years now. It bothers her, your being here. But
I
still love you all the same."

"Thank you, Gerald. You're such a dear."

Christopher came alongside and offered her his arm. He didn't need to say anything. His bearing alone suggested that he didn't expect her to refuse his escort. Gerald gave her hand a little squeeze and walked on to join Timothy. Happy that he had offered to escort her rather than any of the other three women present, Michaela proudly put her hand in the crook of Christopher's arm. Despite Portia's hateful presence, this evening was turning out to be something almost magical. She could face anything as long as Christopher was near. Anything at all.

In the hall, while they were a few paces behind the others, she took the opportunity to whisper, "I must thank you for the gown. It's beautiful. More than I've ever dared hoped for. You didn't have to."

"Certainly I did," he whispered back.

She felt a sudden surge of love for him, and averted her eyes, afraid he might see. She knew he was looking at her, his gaze searching her face as always.

"Michaela, is something wrong? I thought we were friends now."

She glanced up and tried to smile.

"I hope you're not feeling awkward about the gift. I thought it appropriate under the circumstances."

She latched on to the perfect excuse for her shyness. "I just can't help but feel a bit out of sorts...."

"It's all right...." He'd been bending down toward her, but he straightened when Portia came up to his other side.

"You're not going to stay angry with me all evening, are you Christopher?" she simpered.

"That will depend on you, Portia," he answered, then drew Michaela into the drawing room ahead of the other woman.

Michaela was pleased when Christopher took a seat beside her. Gerald was dear enough to keep up a steady conversation, even engaging Portia's friends in his witticisms. Free of Portia's disapproving scrutiny for the moment, Michaela began to relax.

Christopher kept an eye on Michaela. She sat beside him, her back straight, her chin high, like a beautiful, proud princess. She wasn't going to let Portia defeat her. She'd changed so much since her arrival. He was proud of her.

Not caring who saw it, he reached out and folded her hand in his. It was his way of showing her that he wanted her to feel safe, like she belonged more than any of them. He knew how she must feel, surrounded by strangers who were not being nice to her. It was difficult. But she was managing with great dignity.

Michaela was surprised by Christopher's gesture, but she didn't draw her hand away. Sitting there beside him, her hand cradled in his, she was filled with an overwhelming sense of belonging. She realized then that she couldn't possibly deny that she loved him. Never again would she try to squelch her true feelings. She wasn't foolish enough to think he could ever love her in return, but this feeling, this joy was here, now. It was all hers for the moment.

Portia seethed as she watched them, her hate and disdain undisguised. Michaela made it a point to ignore her. She wanted this to be a good memory for her, the way Christopher had defended her, the way he held her hand now, his commanding presence beside her, like a safe haven. This was her moment, and nothing could snatch it from her.

When the evening had ended and all had retired to their separate rooms, Christopher couldn't resist pausing outside Michaela's door. He stared at the thick panels that separated them, then knocked before he could change his mind and disappear down the hall like a coward. But when Michaela answered the door with her hair down around her shoulders, her face freshly scrubbed and clean of makeup, wearing an ivory lace nightgown, he had to wonder at the rashness of his visit. Looking at her standing there in the pale light of the antique lamp behind her, appearing so delectable, so irresistible, he knew that coming here had been a mistake.

He was drawn in like a magnet, pulled into the inner sanctum of what should have been her private chamber, and he heard the click of the door, though softly shut behind him, like the sound of thunder cracking across the sky. He ignored it. All he could see, all he could think of, was her. God, she was beautiful. So innocent.

She stood in the center of the room, close enough that he could reach out and touch her if he but had the desire. And he did. Lord, how he desired to touch her. He willed himself not to, but she didn't make it easy. She was staring up at him, her soft lips parted just slightly, her green eyes misty with some unfathomable emotion, her hair looking like fire in the lamplight. Her body was haloed in the glow from the lamp behind her, her silhouette a torment of temptation beneath the thin gown. She didn't know what she was doing to him, to his senses, to his body.

"I came to apologize for Portia's behavior at dinner tonight."

Bloody hell, was that his voice? It sounded so feeble, so damn weak and uncertain. Not like him at all. Where was that strong man, that commanding presence that so many feared now? Drowning in her eyes?

Blast it all, why was he here? He had almost forgotten. To insure her that she was welcome in his home, more welcome than Portia and her cats? Yes, that was it.

"You needn't have," she whispered.

The moment her soft voice reached his ears, he lost control. Her breasts were heaving with her every breath. She seemed nervous, just as eager as he was. There was something unspoken happening between them. Unspoken, yet real all the same. They both felt it. They both knew. Unable to keep himself from it, he reached out and brushed his fingertips over one bare shoulder.

Michaela quivered, and her knees went weak. His fingers felt like fire on her skin, burning her all the way to the soul. A cry of something like agony, something like ecstasy, fell unbidden from her lips, and her eyes trembled closed of their own volition. She had wanted this moment for so long, had wanted him to touch her. She desired it with an intensity that left her weak.

The moment his fingers touched her skin, Christopher felt something powerful move over him, and for a split second, his eyes closed against the bittersweet sensation that leapt into his loins. He opened his eyes again and stared at her in something like desperation as he moved his fingertips to her cheek. So soft. Her skin was so soft, her lips so sweet.

He moved closer and reached up to brush his fingers across her parted lips. Her head fell back, baring the long, white column of her throat. He couldn't help himself. He bent his head and slowly, barely brushed his lips across hers. She gasped, her warm, sweet breath fanning out over his face and making his blood quicken with desire. He heard an answering groan escape from his own throat. He wanted to deepen the kiss, to make his indelible mark on her, to claim her as his, but he couldn't. It was wrong.

Suddenly, his hands were on her shoulders and he was pushing her away. Somewhere along the way he had stopped protecting his son's interests in Michaela and had selfishly begun to think of his own. It was a realization that left him riddled with guilt.

Mortified by his rejection, afraid that he hadn't liked the kiss, Michaela stepped back and half turned away from him. She peeked at him through her lashes. He just stood there, looking dazed, his eyes hooded and dark as he stared at the floor, his arms slack by his sides. He had the look of a man who needed to be sated, and she wondered if she too had that look. She was trembling from head to toe, and she wanted nothing more than to be in his arms, to have his lips all over her body, to have him claim her in that way only a man could, but he didn't reach for her. He just stood there, immobile.

"I thought...only to apologize for...." He lifted his eyes to look at her.

Christopher felt his throat constrict. She stood gazing back at him, her eyes luminous, her body almost too delectable to bear looking at.

"I'm beginning to reconsider my partnership with Mason," he went on, as if speaking could save him from drowning in his need. "I can't have Portia disrespecting you anymore."

Michaela didn't speak. She didn't know what to say. Besides, she couldn't have spoken if she'd wanted to. Her voice was trapped inside her, somewhere deep down inside, and it couldn't seem to find its way out.

"I'll take my leave now. I shouldn't have...." He shrugged and turned away, but at the door, he paused, his dark head bent as if he were beaten down, defeated. "I'm sorry, Michaela. For what I did. I didn't mean to take such a liberty. I hope you will forgive me. It won't happen again. I promise you that."

He had to force himself to leave her. The image of her standing there beside her bed looking so stricken would be burned into his mind forever. He could have taken her—she was willing—could have made her his for all eternity. Damn his desire! If Gerald found out, he would come to despise him. And what of Michaela? Would she hate him, as well?

Michaela stood in the middle of the room, staring at the closed door. She wasn't sorry that he'd kissed her. She was only saddened that
he
seemed sorry to have done so, saddened that he'd promised never to touch her again when she wanted quite the opposite. His words had raked through her like a dagger, hurting her, tearing her in two. She raised a trembling hand to touch her lips, a single tear escaping down one cheek. She collapsed onto the bed and curled herself into a tight little ball, her body still on fire with the need she had for him. No, she wasn't sorry he'd kissed her. And she didn't want him to be sorry, either.

Christopher spent the next few days in an agony of torture, wanting to be near Michaela, yet knowing he shouldn't be. At first, he had thought to send himself off on some fabricated business trip, but he hadn't been able to bring himself to do it. He couldn't leave her. He wanted to be near her,
had
to be near her. Despite his secret promise to his son, he couldn't stay away from her.

Michaela felt awkward in Christopher's presence. Afraid he might see her wanton need, she tried to avoid his eyes, but he forced her to want to be near him, with his charm and his protective presence. Something had happened between them during that kiss, something neither one of them was willing to address yet, something both of them tried to ignore. But it was impossible. No one could ignore something so powerful, so moving. The kiss they'd shared had been magical, almost spiritual, had come from some celestial place that mere mortal man only ever hoped to catch a glimpse of.

They spent the days riding together, all of them. Portia insisted on being with him every second. The dark-haired beauty burned with jealousy. Gerald gloated, enjoying every second of Portia's discomfort. Christopher was so attentive to Michaela that he seemed oblivious to Portia's antics. As for Michaela, nothing else existed except for Christopher. Nothing could touch that place he'd brought her to. She had never been more aware of just how wonderful, how remarkable a man he was, and how much she loved him.

"He'll never marry her," Portia quipped to Gerald during one of their excursions.

"You don't know my father," Gerald barbed back, taking great pleasure in Portia's displeasure.

"He's old enough to be her father."

"Love has no boundaries," he returned, giving her a beatific smile to lend a little spice to the remark. God, how he wanted the bitch to suffer for hurting his precious Michaela.

Back at the mansion, Christopher intercepted a phone call from Michaela's mother. After picking up the handset and discovering who was ringing, he was grateful that he'd beaten Michaela to it. If she had been the one to answer, God only knew how it would have affected her.

"I want to speak to my daughter," Mrs. Dunne insisted.

Angered by her demand, Christopher had trouble keeping his voice down as he answered. "You have no business with Michaela anymore. It's not in your daughter's best interests to speak to you. I thought I made that clear."

"I'm her mother."

"You never cared before. Why start now?"

Even through the phone he clearly heard her gasp of shock and outrage. He'd struck a nerve.

"Don't call here again," he warned, then slammed the receiver back into place.

Agitated, he went to the window and stared out, his jaw clenched in anger. Damn the woman! She would ruin everything with her persistence. He had no doubt she would call again. She was probably after more money. She was a greedy woman, and greed could be a very powerful motivation.

If only it was Michaela's welfare she had at heart. Things would be different. But he knew she didn't care. Not really. Even if it meant keeping her mother away from her for a time, he would do what was best for Michaela. Perhaps when Michaela was stronger, he would let Mrs. Dunne speak to her. Until then, the woman would just have to keep her distance, whether she liked it or not.