The Whisper Of Wings (5 page)

He sighed and reached for the stack of papers on his desk. It was settled then. As soon as she was well enough, as soon as he knew more about her....

And there lay the answer. He was intrigued after all. As soon as he knew more about her.

He sighed and put the papers aside. Maybe this mystery warranted more of his attention. As soon as she was well enough, he would find out what her story was. If nothing else, perhaps he could help her find whoever it was she had been looking for when she'd wandered to his door.

His gaze wandered to the ceiling, as if he could see right through to the guest rooms beyond. Bloody hell, he was just as intrigued as his son.

CHAPTER FOUR

A solid week passed, in which time Christopher managed to busy himself enough to stay away from his houseguest, though he wasn't exactly able to keep her off his mind for very long. She had become an enigma to him, a complete mystery to be unraveled, and he couldn't wait until she was well enough to join them at the dinner table. Perhaps then he could learn more about her, more about how she had come to be standing on his front porch looking so frightened, and how she had come to be in the streets to begin with. All very diplomatically, of course. After all, he didn't want to frighten her further.

As it turned out, Mrs. Avery managed to coax her downstairs for lunch. In a too-large dress borrowed from one of the maids, she inched her way into the dining room, staring intently at the floor at her feet. Feet, he noticed, that were still bare, though much cleaner now. Each step was hesitant, every glance guarded, alert and wary. She was still afraid. It showed in the way she wouldn't quite meet his eyes, in the way she seemed reluctant to be sharing space in the same room with them, as if she didn't quite count herself worthy. And he found himself wanting to reach out to her in some way, to sweep away that fear, to make her feel more welcome, more comfortable among them.

Until now, Mrs. Avery had managed to keep everyone away from her for the week, while she alone administered the nourishment the girl so desperately needed in order to get well. Even Gerald, though he had constantly lurked near the closed door, had been forbidden entry.

"I fear the company would upset her just now," Mrs. Avery had explained. "She needs time to mend, and she still seems a bit disoriented. Even a little afraid."

Of course, they had all adhered to her wishes. Mrs. Avery was right. The young woman needed time to heal, to get over her fright without the entire household standing about eagerly gauging her progress. The less stimulus, the better. Although, it might have been better if they had introduced themselves at an earlier time, one by one, rather than this sudden meeting. But there was nothing for it now, for here they all stood, ogling her like a new chick just sprung from its egg and making her feel quite the more uncomfortable, he was sure.

Gerald was the first to step forward with a warm greeting, taking her hand in his and giving it a gentle squeeze. "Welcome. I'm Gerald."

She met his eyes for a scant moment, then shyly averted her gaze. He seemed so warm and friendly that she found herself instantly liking him, grateful for the welcome he represented. But she still wasn't quite sure of herself, of her as yet unquestioned presence in this household, and so she released his hand rather quickly, perhaps a little too quickly. She hoped she hadn't offended him by pulling away so fast.

She was relieved when he gave her a reassuring smile. Apparently, he understood her dilemma, and the anxiety that came with it. Still, she wasn't able to muster a smile of her own. If only she could be more certain, a little stronger, but she couldn't. She had become a shadow of her former self, nervous, withdrawn, and shy. These days, she practically jumped at the sound of her own voice.

Almost in confirmation of this new side to herself, she shrank a little when the taller of the two men stepped forward and offered his hand. She hesitated to take it, intimidated into speechlessness by his mere presence and the power that seemed to swell from him like a wave that literally engulfed the entire room and her with it. He stared down at her so intently that his eyes seemed to bore right into her every thought, and she was almost too afraid to take his hand in greeting. But she must. It would be rude not to, even more so considering that she was quite literally an intruder in their home. At the very least, she must be brave enough to acknowledge him.

Her gaze dropped to the hand he still held out for her. She was struck by how beautiful it was, the fingers long and tapered. He had strong hands. Yet, she sensed the tenderness in them, as well. Tender and powerful at the same time, as well as amazingly steady. She wished her hands were half as steady, but they weren't. They trembled as if she were facing a firing squad, and it was only with an enormous amount of sheer will that she managed to raise her hand and place it in his.

She was overwhelmed by the answering rush of warmth that flooded through her, generating from her mid-section until her entire body was awash with it. It was the most mysterious sensation she'd ever experienced, a feeling that made her hands tremble all the more, tremble so much that she was afraid he might feel it. When she managed to gather the courage to meet his eyes, she saw that his gaze had softened considerably. He was even smiling. She knew then that she needn't worry that her hand trembled, or about anything for that matter. He meant to make her welcome here, with all of them.

"Christopher Standeven," he said, his voice rich with that pleasing British accent she'd noticed before. "So glad you are able to join us."

She didn't know what to say to him, to any of them. Despite the awkward circumstances, they were treating her like an invited guest. She had expected them to ply her with questions, but they didn't. She was grateful because she was in no condition to handle an inquiry just yet.

Her gaze fluttered to the floor again, her entire body quaking at all the attention she was receiving, especially from one so commanding. She felt small in his presence, insignificant, even more so when she thought about how she'd come to be there. How could he be so magnanimous, so unruffled? He acted as though it were the most natural thing in the world to take a young woman, a stranger, in off the streets. How could she ever thank him, all of them? It would be so awkward.

When she didn't respond, Christopher allowed her hand to slip from his. He hadn't really anticipated an answer from her. In view of her amnesia, he couldn't very well expect her to be at ease with conversation, especially considering that they were all strangers to her. She must feel terribly out of place, poor girl.

The moment he relinquished her hand, she felt an odd sense of abandonment and isolation. His clasp had been firm, yet gentle, so warm and inviting that for a scant moment she had felt a deep sense of security. It was the only real assurance she'd felt in a very long time, and she was loath to let it slip away so soon.

She peeked at him through her lowered lashes. He didn't seem to notice her awkward silence, her obvious angst, or perhaps he simply didn't want to make light of it, for he was already urging them all in the direction of the table.

"Shall we be seated? Mrs. LeFonde went to great pains to prepare the meal, and she doesn't take kindly to a lack of interest."

It was Mr. Standeven who held her chair until she was seated, his proximity enough to jangle her already frazzled nerves, Mr. Standeven who signaled that they should all begin the meal. He was so clearly the head of the household, so dynamic she could scarcely be in his company. He was indeed a man worthy of awe.

She glanced down at the meal before her. Mrs. LeFonde had prepared a soup not unlike those she'd been given throughout the week, though this one was much heartier, with big chunks of vegetables and beef that overwhelmed the thick broth. A bread plate sat beside the bowl, a small pat of butter on a tiny plate next to it, and she shyly glanced toward the center of the table where slices of various breads sat arrayed on a small tray. It was an unusual meal for such a wealthy family to have. More like something one would find on a farmer's table. Not that it wasn't perfectly suitable. Just so odd. She had expected fine French cuisine, or the best of Creole. Anything but an ordinary thick stew, a meal designed for the quick nutrition it could deliver rather than presentation or taste.

Mrs. Avery must have noticed her curiosity because she suddenly offered, "Mr. Standeven thought you might be more comfortable if we all shared the same meal."

She didn't dare look at Mr. Standeven, though she was almost certain she sensed a sudden stiffness in his demeanor, as if he didn't approve of Mrs. Avery's guileless divulgence.

She lowered her gaze to her plate again. She didn't quite know how to respond. She knew the housekeeper was only trying to make her feel more comfortable, but she only felt all the more awkward knowing that the head of the household had made such a concession on her behalf.

"It's quite good," Gerald proclaimed in an effort to ease the tension. "Mrs. LeFonde has really outdone herself. We should have this more often."

She forced herself to glance up at him and was rewarded with a dazzling smile. He seemed so pleased that she would even acknowledge him that she was glad she had.

"I can't wait for you to try her gumbo. It's excellent. The best New Orleans has to offer, or anywhere else, I'd wager." Still smiling, he gave her a reassuring nod and indicated her bowl with the barest of glances.

Odd. His remark seemed to imply that she would be staying on for some time, as if they had all accepted that fact, taken it for granted really.

"Mm. It's very good," Mrs. Avery chimed in, noisily slurping a spoonful of soup.

A quick shift of her peripheral vision and she could see that even the head of the household had already begun the meal. Encouraged, she picked up her spoon but was unable to bring a mouthful to her lips. She could feel Mr. Standeven's presence beside her, like a touch. She was too aware of him sitting there at the head of the table, just a chair away, too aware of the way he held his back so rigid, his shoulders so square. She was even aware of the way he ate in a slow, almost methodical way that she found oddly soothing.

Christopher watched her from the corner of his eye. Poor girl. She still seemed a bit shell-shocked, so lost and in need. Again, he felt that unfamiliar surge inside him. He wanted to be the one who administered to that need, wanted to be the one to help her. He couldn't quite fathom why. He only knew it was there, powerful, unquestionable, something he couldn't ignore.

She seemed shy in their presence, uncertain. Clearly, she didn't know what to expect. Not that he blamed her. Anyone would feel uncomfortable in the same situation. Odd, though. He didn't like to think of her being uncomfortable in his presence. Perhaps he could bring her out a bit. Maybe she simply needed to know that she was considered a guest in his house rather than an accident.

With his customary care, he dabbed at the corners of his mouth with his napkin, then allowed it to drop back into his lap, more a preliminary pause to collect his thoughts, to choose his words carefully, than to eradicate any debris that might be on his chin.

"We're delighted to see you looking so well. For a time, you had us all in a bit of a stir."

She seemed to tense at the mere sound of his voice, immediately dropping her gaze to the bowl of soup in front of her, the end of the spoon lying inert somewhere at the bottom. She paled considerably, and he noticed the fingers holding the spoon's handle had a slight tremor to them.

"I'm sorry. I d-didn't mean—"

"Oh, no, no. You mustn't tax yourself so. I only meant that we were quite worried about you."

He saw her lashes flutter and thought she might actually work up the courage to look at him. But apparently her uncertainty won out, for she kept her eyes trained on her soup.

"I.... Thank you for...." She fumbled to a halt and caught her bottom lip in her teeth, as though she simply didn't know how to put her thoughts into words.

Christopher watched her in silence. He could imagine how awkward she must feel, not knowing what to think, what to expect.

"I don't know how to thank you," she finally managed. "I dare say, I don't know how I'll repay you for your kindness."

"That is a subject you mustn't concern yourself with. I've not asked for repayment."

He could see the pulse in her throat, throbbing hard, too fast. She was distraught. If only he could find a way to put her mind at rest, but he'd long since lost the finesse to do so. It had been years since he'd had to reassure anyone, or at least anyone like her.

"I've stayed overly long. I feel that I should leave," she answered, her voice a mere whisper.

"Nonsense. You must stay," Gerald was quick to say.

She glanced up and met the younger man's sincere gaze, leaving Christopher to wonder what it was about his own person that kept her from looking at him so easily.

"Everyone agrees. Isn't that so, Father?"

So, the formidable man at the head of the table was his father. She'd wondered what their relationship was. He certainly didn't look old enough to be Gerald's father. He was far too vital, too handsome, despite his disciplined demeanor.

"The voice of reason has spoken. I'm afraid your fate has been decided for you," Christopher replied.

She thought she detected a hint of amusement in his voice, enough to make her dare to sneak another glance at him. She turned away in embarrassment when she realized he was looking directly at her. But the glance had been long enough to experience all over again that same penetrating look from those same outstanding blue eyes that had bored into hers just moments before she had fainted on his driveway. Her body instantly responded with a sudden rush of blood to her cheeks, and she wanted desperately to be swallowed by the floor at her feet. What must these people think of her? Certainly not what she feared. They were being so kind to her. To her, a perfect stranger.

"Besides which, I sincerely doubt Mrs. Avery would let go of you. She has become quite attached," he added.