Christopher Standeven stood watching through the half open door. She looked so vulnerable sitting there, so lost. Perhaps it was the vulnerability that intrigued him so, that made his own protective instincts rise so willingly to the fore.
Who was she? He yearned to know. Never in all his life had he been more curious about another human being. Never had he stooped to the vulgarity of eavesdropping.
Eavesdropping?
When he realized the magnitude of what he was doing, his jaw tightened and he resolved to make an end of it before it got out of control. Despite the fact that she was his guest, he had no right to spy on her or to pry into her affairs. His only business with her was to provide shelter and anything else he could offer in order to help her regain her memory. That was all. In future, he would do well to remember that.
He waited until she took her first bite of stew before he quietly turned and made his way back down the hall, his curiosity forcibly quashed for the moment.
CHAPTER FIVE
Somehow, she found the bravado to make her way downstairs, to venture toward the study to retrieve a book from one of the many which sat along the oak shelves lining the walls. Mrs. Avery had encouraged her to do anything she pleased in the house, to relax and enjoy, not to be fettered by her ordeal. The older woman had insisted that she was welcome. But in the doorway, she paused, her heart beginning to throb intensely at the sight of Christopher Standeven standing in the middle of the room. He was half turned away from her, his head bowed over the sheaf of papers he held in his hands. She would have turned and left immediately, but something held her there. Something compelled her to take this opportunity to look at him, really look at him for the first time. He was so arresting, so dignified in his bearing.
He was tall, with broad shoulders and slender hips. He wore gray trousers and a white button-up shirt left open at the throat, the sleeves turned up to just below the elbows. Somehow, his attire made him look even taller, even more imposing, and more handsome. He had such striking features, with his jet-black hair, his high forehead, and his crisp blue eyes. And skin that looked smooth, touchable.
For the first time she noticed the silver strands of hair at his temples, strands that only added to his mystique. When he wasn't aware that he was being observed, he didn't seem quite as threatening, though he was nonetheless commanding. He was very intent on the paperwork he held in his hands. Something he was reading apparently displeased him.
He must have sensed her presence because he suddenly turned his head and looked directly at her. When his eyes met hers, she felt a familiar flutter of anxiety in her chest.
Christopher stared at the girl for a moment. He hadn't expected to see her roaming about the house. She was so timid that it was a bit of a surprise to find her standing just inside the doorway of the study. Not that she wasn't welcome to go about wherever she chose. She simply seemed to prefer staying away from him. She flitted about the house like a silent ghost, her bare feet a whisper against the highly polished hardwood floors, speaking only when spoken to, though she had already established a rapport with his son. She had come to trust Gerald, as she did Mrs. Avery, but she was still uncertain about Christopher. What was it about him that made her withdraw so? Was he really so imposing as all that? No doubt he had an intimidating effect on his business associates, a fact he preferred, but this was altogether different. He didn't want her to be frightened of him in any way.
His eyes swept the length of her. Despite the simple attire, a truly stunning young woman stood before him. Her hair fell to just below her collarbone, parted on the side, with a slight wave to it. It was a rich, vibrant brown, almost copper in certain lights. Her eyes were the deepest green he'd ever seen, wide and dewy. Eyes that still had a spark of innocence in them despite what she had been through. They intrigued him, begged him to protect her, and whenever she dared to turn them on him, he would have moved heaven and earth to do just that. Protect her. Fiercely, if need be.
He guessed her to be about 5'7", and had she not been out on the streets starving, she would have a curvaceous figure, the sort of figure that started wars. He silently vowed to feed her more, to replace those curves she had lost through deprivation.
She felt a quiver pass through her as Mr. Standeven's gaze took in every detail of her person, and automatically took a faltering step backwards.
"Don't go," he said, then felt a muscle twitch in his jaw, appalled that he had vocalized the sentiment. Had that really been his voice? It sounded so extrinsic, thin and even a little vulnerable, as if it had come from someone else, someone more willing to let go of inhibitions and allow emotion to speak for him.
She felt compelled to obey despite her timidity. He had such a refined, aristocratic accent, as refined as his bearing. He was an intriguing man, a man accustomed to being obeyed, a man whose thoughts were his and his alone. Such control as she'd never had.
"There was something you came here for?" Christopher was relieved to discover that he had recovered the normal timbre of his voice, the restraint.
"A book." Her voice was barely above a whisper, as though she was as afraid of speaking in his presence as she was of being near him.
"Then you are feeling better."
"Yes. I'm feeling much better, thanks to...you and your family," she said, then fell into embarrassed silence.
Only a bare nod of his head acknowledged her gratitude, while his eyes never left her face. She stood there for a time, held captive by his gaze, uncertain, riveted to the spot, too shy to even turn and leave. It seemed that he was reading her very soul with those eyes, as if he knew everything about her. Her every thought, her every fear. It was an unsettling feeling.
"Michaela." The name burst from her as if he had pulled it out of her with nothing more than his intense stare.
"Pardon?" His facial expression didn't change, but the confusion, the curiosity in his voice was undeniable.
"My name is Michaela."
He almost smiled, but not quite. "Ah, you remember. That is a good sign. Do you remember your surname, as well?"
Again, Christopher saw that panic he had become so familiar with, sapping the light from her eyes, the color from her cheeks. He placed the sheaf of papers on a nearby table and stepped forward to take her hands in both of his.
Upon contact, Michaela felt a surge of warmth flood her body, a sense of total and complete safety. His hands were large and warm, the fingers long, finely tapered, yet strong. Her pulse quickened in response. Something about his touch, something altogether wonderful made her senses take flight. Perhaps it was the very nature of his being, the fact that he was so fascinating. Whatever the case, she'd never felt anything like what she was feeling now. It was powerful, much too powerful to ever hope to fathom.
"You needn't rush yourself. It's enough that we know what to call you now. Does Mrs. Avery know?"
Michaela shook her head.
"Then you must find her and tell her at once. She will be so pleased. She likes you, you know."
Michaela felt her lips twitch upwards in a semblance of a smile. It was nice to know someone liked her.
Somehow, she found the courage to make her feet move again, to turn her back on him and walk toward the door. Just the act of walking seemed an intimidating process under his watchful eye. It felt awkward to her, as if she was just learning to do so. She could literally feel his gaze on her as she quietly padded across the floor, and she became painfully aware of her bare feet, of how ridiculous she must look in the over-sized dress. He was so prepossessing, so dignified, while she looked like a farmhand.
Why was she so intimidated by him? Why must she quake at his glance, tremble at his touch? What gave him such power over her senses? No one had ever made her feel the way he did. She felt useless and small in his presence, but at the same time alive and beautiful. It was an odd mix of feelings.
Only her father had ever had such a strong emotional impact on her. He had been daunting as well, but not especially in a go
od way. He'd had the power to make her dissolve into tears in seconds. Whenever he became angry, he shouted abuses, resorted to pounding his fist against the table, even threatened at times. Christopher Standeven didn't have to do any of those things. One was awed simply by his disciplined demeanor, by his sheer, unspoken will. But there was a kindness about him that her father had been missing.
An involuntary tremor passed down her spine. She didn't want to think of her father just now. The memories were far too painful. It was best to forget them, to forget everything about her past, to forget her entire family if it would make a difference.
She was almost at the door when he stopped her.
"Michaela."
His voice was soft, an irresistibly sensual brush of sound that reached out and touched her like the barest of caresses. She had no choice but to stop. Her body seemed to do so of its own volition, as if deep down she had wanted him to call her back.
"There is something I'd like to ask you."
She turned back, half-fearful again. There was no animosity in his gaze, only curiosity. But it was the curiosity that frightened her. He had questions. Questions she couldn't possibly answer for him, else he send her back. And she couldn't bear it if she had to go back.
He stepped closer, close enough to make her tremble. "When you came to us, you mentioned a Mrs. Smythe. Might I inquire as to who she is?"
She sucked in a breath, rooted to the spot. Dare she tell him? Dare she explain? Would it incriminate her? How much was too much?
She shook her head, a little confused. In truth, she didn't remember asking for Mrs. Smythe, and she told him so.
"Hmm. Curious. You seemed quite clear about it. In fact, that was the only point you seemed clear on. I thought sure you would remember her, although the doctor seems to think your amnesia came well before your fall in the driveway."
His eyes were piercing, as if he could see all that lay hidden behind her curtain of lies. Whether it was guilt or the fear that he could read her thoughts that pulled the admission from her was uncertain. She only knew that she felt compelled to give him at least this one answer.
"Y-yes. I remember her. She was the housekeeper here. When I arrived and saw Mrs. Avery, I...didn't know what to think, what to expect. It confused me that Mrs. Smythe didn't answer the door. She always answered the door."
"So, you remember her well."
It was a statement of fact, one she couldn't deny.
"Yes," she managed. Now surely she had incriminated herself. How could she possibly remember Mrs. Smythe if she couldn't remember anything else?
"She's a relative of yours?"
She shook her head. Her throat felt constricted. He was slowly but surely dragging the answers from her, and she had to fight the urge to turn and flee. How far would he get? How much would she admit to him? And how angry would he be when he discovered her secret?
"Michaela?" His voice was a whisper, almost a caress. She shivered a little at the sensation it gave her when he spoke her name aloud. She dare not look at him. She didn't want him to see the truth reflected in her eyes.
By his very presence alone, he silently urged her to answer. She couldn't pretend not to have heard him, nor could she refuse to answer. Could she?
She swallowed the lump in her throat and plunged in despite her fear. After all, she had come this far without a reprisal. "I was looking for Mrs. Hollingsworth."
An odd look crossed his face, one she couldn't fathom, and she felt a sudden stab of intense panic. Perhaps she had gone too far, told him too much. Did he know? Could he tell she didn't really have amnesia? Was he angry now, angry with her for deceiving him? Would he put her back out on the streets?
With an exquisite wrench of some elusive emotion spreading inside her chest, she became startlingly aware of how painful it would be to have his wrath directed at her. She didn't want this magnificent man to be angry with her, to have cause to despise her. But the truth was her burden to carry alone, and she didn't feel comfortable telling him just now. Perhaps not ever. She was too afraid of the consequences, of what these nice people would think of her afterwards, and she didn't want to disturb the fragile fantasy that had begun to construct itself in her mind, the fantasy that for once in her life she was truly accepted. They seemed to like her, and she couldn't bear it if that were to change.
He recaptured her attention when he half turned away from her. He lifted a hand to massage the back of his neck, as if there were sudden tension there. Michaela held her breath and waited. There was no anger in his demeanor. It seemed more like he was puzzling over something, like he found himself in a very awkward position, a dilemma he wasn't entirely sure he could resolve.
"My dear, I'm afraid you won't find Mrs. Hollingsworth here."
He said it so quietly, with such absolute certainty, that she was temporarily shocked into speechlessness. But then the import of his statement began to sink in, and her mind began to buzz with a confusing whirl of possible explanations for his pronouncement.
"Then...I have gone completely mad. Everything seems so familiar. The driveway, the yard, the hall. Everything. Even the dining room table. It's all the same."
She was babbling, her voice rising in panic. She knew it, yet she couldn't seem to stop herself. The doctor was right. She did have amnesia. Or perhaps she really was insane. Was it all just part of her madness, the crazy flight from her home, the man in the alley, the days in the streets? Was none of it real? Had it never even happened? Had her mind conjured a past for her so that she might be better equipped to deal with the trauma of her life, of living?
"Please." His voice insinuated itself into her thoughts. She looked up at him, only just then realizing that he had his hands on her shoulders. "You mustn't get so upset. You're not insane. It is the same house. It's simply that...Mrs. Hollingsworth has passed on."
"What?" she whispered, her voice tremulous with emotion. "No. It can't be. She can't be dead."
"I assure you, she is," he insisted.
She stared at him, horrified, hot tears already beginning to stream down her face. She shook her head, half to clear it, half to negate the unbearable truth. Her knees were suddenly weak, and she felt herself slipping away before she could do anything about it.
Christopher caught her before she slumped to the floor, hoisting her into his arms and carrying her to the couch. He had been certain the news would be a shock to her, but he had known no other way to deliver it than simply stating it as the fact it was.
She hadn't really fainted, had just gone completely limp from the emotional blow. She was able to sit up when he placed her on the couch, though she no longer seemed aware that she was even doing so. In fact, she didn't seem aware of much of anything at all. She was more upset than he had expected, almost catatonic as she stared into space, tear after unchecked tear trickling down her cheeks.
At a complete loss, he rang for Mrs. Avery, hoping that perhaps she could help. Being the closest to the girl, perhaps she could offer some solace, something he was unable to give. Not for lack of want but rather for lack of knowing how to go about it. He was far too ignorant when it came to these matters of human emotion, terribly uncertain as to how one should deal with them.
When Mrs. Avery didn't appear quickly enough to suit him, he stuck his head out into the hall and shouted for her. He never shouted for the servants—he was far too British for that—and the unusual conduct on his part must have frightened her, for she instantly came out of the kitchen, drying her hands with the edge of her apron. Christopher was damn relieved to see her.
"What is it, Mr. Standeven? Has something happened?" she called as she hurried down the hall toward him, her face etched with concern.
"Do hurry, woman," he urged, with a bit more of a bite to his tone than he intended. "It's our guest. I'm afraid the news of Mrs. Hollingsworth's death proved a bit much for her."
Mrs. Avery pushed past him into the room, anxious to get to her precious charge. "Oh, dear," she murmured when he
r eyes took in the pathetic creature who still sat numbly on the couch staring into space.
"Yes, well. I suppose I should have been a little more subtle about it," Christopher muttered, more to himself than anyone else.
Mrs. Avery ignored him, just went straight to the couch and sat down next to the girl. She put both arms around her, pressed her tightly against her side, and began rocking her gently. "There, there, dear. Poor, poor dear."
The comfort the matronly woman offered brought a well of fresh tears pouring down Michaela's face, and she began to sob as Mrs. Avery drew her head down to her shoulder.
"I have no one now. No one to turn to," she whispered through her tears.
She negated the plea in her voice by pulling away from Mrs. Avery and straightening her spine as if she were preparing to go into battle. "I should go now. I won't be a bother any longer."
"I think we've already established that you will stay," Christopher intervened. He couldn't very well let her go off in such a state.
"But...without Mrs. Hollingsworth, I...." She turned her eyes up to meet his, and he felt something sharp shoot through his chest, something indefinable. The torture in her eyes, the uncertainty, the fear...it was almost tangible. "I have no reason to live."
"But of course you do," Mrs. Avery insisted, taking her limp hand in both her strong ones. "Don't be silly."
"She would have helped me," Michaela said, turning her tear-filled eyes on the elder woman again.
Moved to distraction by the pain she saw in the young woman's face, Agnes strongly declared, "I will help you just the same." She turned to look at Mr. Standeven. "We all will."
The Whisper Of Wings Page 6
