The Whisper Of Wings (21 page)

"Michaela, I've known for some time now that my son will never take over the diamond mines when I'm too feeble to take care of them anymore—"

"A man can have more sons. There's still time," she answered.

She lifted her chin to meet his gaze. He was watching her now with something like animal intrigue, an unfathomable sort of smoldering gaze that made a quiver of excitement race down her spine.

"Indeed," he murmured, his eyes burning into hers.

It was a curious remark for him to make, neither a question nor a statement. Instead, it was something of both. She had no idea what he meant by it. She only knew that she'd never held his gaze longer, so earnestly, and she'd never seen such an expression on his face before. Half curiosity, half.... Desire?

She turned her head away. She was being foolish again. Of course, it wasn't desire. At least, not for her. It was for the knowledge that she held, knowledge of his only son. Whether it was the look on his face, or her own taut nerves, she wasn't sure, but she found herself disclosing the secret despite her resolve not to. "He has a dream. He wants to be an architect."

Christopher felt like he'd been punched in the chest. "An architect? Why didn't he tell me?"

"He was afraid you would think it was beneath him."

He shook his head, as if bewildered, and turned back to stare at the landscape again. She studied his profile, wondering what he was thinking. A muscle worked along his jaw, tightening and clenching, as if he was in some sort of agony of indecision. She was certain this all came as a surprise to him, but he had to know sometime, for Gerald's sake. She'd done it for Gerald. She sent up a silent prayer that Gerald would forgive her if this turned out as badly as she now feared it would.

Christopher turned his gaze on her, startling her into the realization that she had once again been openly staring at him. When his eyes caught hers, a change came over him. And whatever he'd been about to say concerning his son was apparently forgotten. His eyes burned with an intensity that made a lump form in her throat. "Why have you shied away from me all these weeks? You seem to get on so well with all the others, yet you cower in my presence. You hardly even speak to me."

Michaela was stunned by the question. Such a sudden shift in subjects. She'd never imagined his thoughts would turn to her. She'd never known he was even interested in her, or the way she felt about him. The way she avoided him seemed to bother him. If only she could tell him the truth, tell him that she could scarcely stand in his presence without trembling from a desire she'd never known before. But she couldn't. She didn't dare.

"I...don't know how to behave in front of you. You've taken me in, purchased my clothing, provided me with meals and a roof over my head, and I've done nothing for you."

"Do you think you must?"

"I don't know. You're a millionaire, perhaps even more. And what am I?"

"Be yourself, Michaela. You must."

She shook her head. "Perhaps this
is
me, this timid, miserable creature that you see."

"I don't think so," he replied, his eyes even more intense now. "I think there is a part of you that you keep hidden, an unquenchable fire that thirsts for life, for living. You squelch it because you think that's what you have to do. Someone made you squelch it, stole your zest for life. Who, Michaela? Who stripped you of your nature?"

She shook her head again, tears stinging her eyes. He was so right, so unbelievably right. But how could she tell him without admitting everything, admitting that she'd been lying to him about the amnesia?

"You've asked nothing of me," was all she could murmur, her eyes averted.

"Oh, but I have. I've required your trust," he answered.

She glanced up, her gaze softening, and her voice with it. "I've given you that."

He nodded slowly. "Yes, you have now, haven't you?"

She couldn't answer, couldn't speak past the lump in her throat. She was trembling again, trembling from the sheer ecstasy of being in his presence, of resting under his thoughtful gaze. Trembling from the bittersweet need of wanting him to touch her, yet only being touched by his eyes, his voice.

She glanced down at her hand. The spot where he'd placed his lips so many days ago was tingling with the memory. She touched her skin where his lips had been, feeling silly for the sentimental gesture but unable to help it.

"Who has made you believe that you must give to receive?"

She didn't answer, just continued to stare down at her hand. She didn't dare tell him that everyone in her life up until she'd come to be with the Standevens had taught her that principle of life, and so many other lies she didn't want to believe.

"It isn't true. In time, you will learn. I will teach you. Mrs. Avery will teach you. And Gerald."

She bit her lip to hold back the tears. No one had ever been so considerate of her needs. It was almost painful to hear now, so painful that it had to be strangers who cared rather than her family, her own flesh and blood.

"You don't need to run anymore, Michaela. Your flight is over. It could end here, with your new family."

She didn't answer. She couldn't speak past the threat of tears. She didn't want to loose them, didn't want him to see how he had affected her.

"I'd do anything to make Gerald happy," he added. "I'd give my life if need be. That's how family is. You could have that, too. Here. With us."

His confession was touching. She was surprised that he had confided this in her, but touched all the same, touched by the emotion in his voice, emotion she'd never heard in his voice before.

She raised her gaze to look at him. He was watching her again, his eyes full of some sentiment she couldn't fathom, would perhaps never be able to understand. As much as she wanted to, she didn't dare ask him about it. She didn't have the courage, and she feared rejection.

"I'm sorry Mrs. Hollingsworth was not alive to be there for you when you needed her," he said.

She looked away, the tears once again threatening to overcome her. She felt him take her hand but couldn't look up at him, could only wrap her fingers around his and close her eyes against the pain the memory brought her, and the sweetness of the comfort he was offering her.

"She was the aunt of an old school friend. I spent many summers at their home." Michaela bowed her head to hide the grief in her eyes. "She became like family to me, and now...now I don't even have that. I miss her terribly."

The admission came freely, of its own volition. Strangely, she didn't worry about the consequences, and he seemed no more concerned about questioning her further. He seemed content, pleased just to have this tiny piece of memory she'd given him.

"If there is anything I can do to ease your suffering...."

He left the sentence hanging unfinished between them. He didn't need to finish. He'd already proven that he would help her through anything. She was beginning to understand what a truly wonderful man Christopher Standeven was. She only wished she could cling to him forever, never let go. But that was impossible, and she had to keep that one fact in perspective. She mustn't ever forget that she would eventually have to leave them behind, to face her deceit and take the consequences.

They fell into silence then, just sitting there with their fingers entwined, staring out over the valley. But the day was getting on, and they soon gathered up the picnic articles and left the little hillside overlooking Christopher's hopes for his son.

They drove home in silence. Drowsy from her gluttony, Michaela stared out the window and contemplated all that had transpired between them. It had been an enlightening day, perhaps for both of them. But as beautiful as the mansion was, she was almost sorry to see it greeting them in the distance, sorry that her time alone with Christopher was about to end. She wanted so much more, so much that she couldn't possibly admit to. Not even to herself.

In the foyer, Christopher turned and took her hand in his. "Thank you for telling me about Gerald." He sighed. "I only wish he would have told me himself. I've never wanted anything for him but what he desired. Somehow, I must have gotten off on the wrong track and made him think that he could no longer confide in me."

She felt a momentary panic. "I...I'm afraid I may have spoken out of turn. What Gerald told me was said in confidence, and I don't wish to breach that trust."

"Don't concern yourself with it. I will be very discreet, but somehow I will find a way to let my son know that I will support whatever he chooses to do."

He gave her a reassuring smile, then bent forward to press a light kiss to her forehead. Michaela floated up the stairs in a daze. She moved as if in a dream for the rest of the day, lying in her bed revisiting every second of her picnic with Christopher, and replaying every sweet second of that kiss. Though she knew it had only been meant as a friendly gesture, she couldn't get it out of her mind.

Dinner was a slightly more boisterous affair. Both men were in high spirits, and Michaela found herself glowing under their attention. But she blanched when Gerald suddenly thanked her for telling his father about his architectural dreams. Her eyes flew to Christopher's, half fearful, half accusing.

"I pried it out of him," Gerald insisted. "He was behaving so oddly I had to know what was in that thick head of his. I'll be checking into an architectural school as soon as possible."

He leaned forward to take her hand and give it a gentle squeeze. "Michaela, thank you so much. You've made me a very happy man."

Warmed by this sudden camaraderie among them, Michaela embraced the meal with decidedly more enthusiasm than she'd ever had before. It had been a good day for her, the best she'd had in a very long time. Perhaps tonight she would sleep well. Perhaps she would even escape the clutches of the nightmare that plagued her.

Long after dinner had ended, Christopher stood before the fireplace in his room and stared down into the empty grate. The time spent with Michaela had made him restless, and he found himself pacing his room like a caged animal. She was there, on the other side of that wall, just a few feet from him. It would be so easy to go to her, take her, show her what love could mean, could bring to a man and a woman. But he couldn't. He mustn't.

He was uncertain of everything now. He had questions, too many questions to assimilate all at once. And all he could do was pace in agony. Michaela had fallen into his life, changed the way he thought, made him realize that he was no longer numb from the death of the only woman he'd ever loved. She'd made him realize that he could feel again, could want again. And it was her he wanted. Bloody hell, he wanted the woman he was now certain his son was in love with. It was agony like he'd never imagined, a living hell of indecision and raw emotion.

His thoughts suddenly interrupted, he raised his head and listened intently. He could swear he'd heard a noise, perhaps on the stairs. Intrigued beyond his capacity to stifle it, he eased his door open and stepped out into the hall just in time to see Michaela gliding down the stairs in a peignoir set. She looked enchanting, like a pale goddess whispering along on the winds of the night, so lovely that he couldn't resist following to see where she was going.

He followed her down the stairs, and watched her white form flit down the hall below him. Hanging back just far enough to escape notice, he descended the remaining steps and stood hidden in the shadowy foyer. He paused there to contemplate his actions. What if she was off to a rendezvous with his son? The idea made his shoulders bunch in displeasure. But a sound from the kitchen, a girlish giggle, made him forget about his misgivings, and he found himself easing on silent feet to the door, too curious now to stop.

Michaela sat at the worktable, Sadie directly across from her, their faces lit by the glow of a single candle that glimmered on the sideboard. Between them sat a tub of ice cream into which they both dipped spoons. A sheaf of papers sat nearby. The book Michaela had been writing.

Sadie was encouraging her, telling her that she should try to have her story published. Michaela's good mood was somewhat diminished by the idea. She obviously didn't have the confidence.

Watching the two of them together, talking and giggling like old comrades, Christopher realized that he couldn't do what he had been contemplating for days, couldn't dismiss Sadie for intruding on Michaela's privacy, not now that Michaela viewed her as a friend. The decision had been taken out of his hands. He couldn't even bring himself to reprimand the girl. Michaela needed a friend, and she needed the self-confidence those friends helped her build.

He stood there for a long time, delighting in Michaela's animated face as she talked about her book, watching as she dipped the spoon into the ice cream and raised it to her petal pink mouth again and again. He envied that utensil. The spoon was designed to fit a functional need, to eat. But in Michaela's hands it became sensual, almost distressingly so.

Reluctant to leave but knowing he should, he finally turned away. Taking care not to be seen or heard, he disappeared back into the night like the reprehensible peep he had become, a slow smile spreading across his face. She hadn't been going to rendezvous with his son after all. She'd only been indulging in something that horrible witch of a mother had probably never allowed her to do.