The Whisper Of Wings

by Cassandra Ormand

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Christopher sat in his office brooding. He had stayed awake most of the night contemplating his next action. He didn't like James's threats, and he fully intended to do something about them. It was not an easy prospect he faced now, but he must. It was time. Perhaps it was long past time.

  When Michaela chanced by the office, he got up and went out into the hall to call to her. She stopped halfway to the kitchen and turned back to face him, her eyes hopeful, eager, as if she had wanted him to notice her, to call to her.

  Portia and James had slipped away late in the night, and Michaela was glad to see them gone. She had awakened that morning with a sense of peace and well-being that she hadn't enjoyed since their arrival. And the memory of Christopher's body pressed against hers, his hands in her hair, his lips on hers remained with her, bringing her a joy she'd never known before.

  No one had spoken about the incident with James Telford, rather they avoided any mention of it, and Michaela was grateful for that. She didn't want to talk about the experience. It had been too harrowing, too embarrassing for her, and she wanted nothing more than to put it behind her. But that one, blissful moment with Christopher.... Oh, how she longed to speak about it, to repeat it.

  Christopher smiled. She looked lovely as ever. He hated to have to tell her the news. Especially after the way he'd held her in his arms last night, the way he'd left her without an explanation. Would she see it as rejection?

  "I'm afraid I must leave again. I have some pressing business that needs my immediate attention." He faltered for a moment, hating to disappoint her. "I'm not sure how long I'll be gone."

  She glanced away, uncertainty clearly written in her face. He took a step closer, reached out to take her hands in his, to reassure her. But he didn't quite trust himself to touch her, so he dropped his hands back down to his sides before they made contact.

  "I'll be fine," she murmured, putting on a bright facade for his sake, a strength she certainly didn't feel. She didn't want him to go away. Not just now. But if he must, there was nothing she could do about it. She had no hold on him. Their relationship had yet to be defined. How could she be presumptuous enough, bold enough to ask him not to leave?

  Christopher smiled, relieved that she seemed to understand. "Well, then." He took a step away, giving a slight, almost uncertain nod of his head. He felt damnably awkward around her now.

  "Journey safely," she said.

  His smile broadened. "That I will."

  He stared at her for a moment longer, on the verge of asking her, just to reassure himself, if she would be there when he returned, if she would wait for him no matter what occurred. But the words never came.

  Still feeling awkward, he went back into his office to make the arrangements. It would be hell leaving her behind. This time they would be separated by miles of ocean. But his trip was necessary. And when he returned....

  When he returned, he would tell her all those things that he hadn't yet.

  In the days that followed Christopher's departure, Michaela spent most of her time with Gerald. He was thrilled with his classes at the university. She was delighted to share in his enthusiasm, and listened avidly to his every word. His eyes sparkled whenever he spoke about architecture, and she thought he'd never looked more like his father than when he was talking about what he loved. She was happy for him, happy that he had found his niche in life.

  But even Gerald couldn't keep her from missing Christopher. He'd been gone for almost a week without making any calls home. Whatever had taken him away must have been vital, so pressing that he couldn't even drag himself away to reassure his family that he was safe. She tried to keep herself occupied so as not to think about it, but in those moments when her hands and her mind were idle, she worried incessantly. Was he safe? When would he return? When Gerald was home, it wasn't so bad, but when he was off attending classes, she was often given to worrying. The house seemed empty without either man there, especially Christopher.

  In his absence, she had decided that upon his return she would tell him the truth about everything, whatever the consequences. She refused to deceive him any longer. She loved him too much. The decision was like having a weight lifted from her chest. She felt alive, and freer than she ever had before. Until the call came and took it all away from her again.

  When she heard the phone ringing in the foyer, she rushed to answer, hoping it was Christopher calling to say he would be home soon. But when she recognized the harsh voice on the other end of the line, her newfound sense of contentment was shattered.

  "Michaela?" the voice queried.

  For a moment, Michaela was frozen in place, her heart pounding painfully against her ribcage. She'd never expected anything like this, couldn't even imagine how her mother had known where to find her. And when the import of it finally hit her, a tight band seemed to clinch across her chest so that she had difficulty breathing. My God, he knew! He'd known all along. Why hadn't he said anything?

  With a cry of dismay, she slammed the receiver back into its cradle and raced out of the room. Confused and afraid, blinded by tears, she ran out of the house and stumbled across the immaculate lawn. She didn't know what she was doing, where she was going. She only knew that she must get away. If he thought to send her back.... Oh, God, she could never go back there. Never.

  Christopher came home to an oddly silent house. Loosening his tie, he went to his office and laid his briefcase on his desk. He glanced around in consternation. He'd been eager to get back, should have been relieved now, but he wasn't. It was too quiet in the house. Something felt wrong.

  He left his office and went down the hall to the kitchen. Mrs. Avery was there, up to her elbows in flour. She glanced up when he came in, obviously surprised.

  "Why, Mr. Standeven, I didn't hear you come in. I had no idea. You didn't ring to tell us."

  "I wanted to surprise Michaela." He frowned. "Is she out riding?"

  "I don't know. I thought I saw her flit down the hall just an hour ago."

  He stared back at her, his mind churning with all the possibilities.

  "She was writing earlier. I assumed she still was. She can go for hours without...." Mrs. Avery trailed off when she realized he was no longer listening.

  Christopher turned away, intent on going to Michaela's room. He was still surprised that she hadn't seen the Duesenberg from her window and met him in the hall when he came in. He had expected as much, had wanted her to, had dreamed that she would. The fact that she hadn't made him uneasy, and he couldn't seem to stifle the fear that she might have left him.

  Mrs. Avery stopped him before he made it to the door. "There was a phone call. It seemed rather urgent."

  He turned back, his scowl deepening. He didn't like the sound of Mrs. Avery's news. All his business was accounted for. There should have been no urgent phone calls for him. Unless....

  "Who was it?"

  "A Mrs. Dunne. She sounded very angry and wanted to speak to you right away."

  Christopher felt something awful constrict inside his chest. Now he knew something was wrong. "When did you say you last saw Michaela?"

  "Just an hour ago." Mrs. Avery frowned. She'd sensed Christopher's anxiety, and absorbed a little of it for herself. "Is something wrong?"

  "Where is Gerald?"

  "At the university. He should be—"

  "Call all the servants together at once. I'm going to Michaela's room."

  He left Mrs. Avery standing there looking stunned, her sentence unfinished, and took the stairs two at a time. He literally ran down the hall and almost forced Michaela's door off its hinges, he was so anxious to find her. God, please let her be there.

  A quick sweep of the room, and all his hopes were dashed. He went to the desk and searched its contents. Everything was still there, oddly in order. But there was no Michaela. He panicked. She was gone. Blast it all, she was gone. He felt it in every cell of his body.

  His adrenaline was pumping so hard, so fast
that his hands were shaking by the time he found the servants all huddled in the hall below. Mrs. Avery stared at him in despair, her hands wringing together in agitation. He ignored her for the moment to address Leo, ever hopeful that the man had seen Michaela. But the stable master assured him that Michaela hadn't been riding all afternoon.

  "Get Gerald back here now," he ordered, then turned back to the servants. "I want a full account of every minute of this day. I want to know everything that has taken place. Mrs. Avery, tell me every detail of the conversation you had with Mrs. Dunne. Every detail."

  By the time she had finished telling him everything, his face was set in grim lines. There had been two phone calls. Both were only minutes apart, but Mrs. Avery had answered only one of them. He was certain now that Michaela had answered the first, and she'd reacted just as anyone might have expected. She had run.

  "Search every nook and cranny," he ordered, beside himself with worry now. My God, he couldn't live if she was gone. He simply couldn't live.

  As the entire staff jumped to do his bidding, Christopher hurried to the stables and saddled his stallion. Leo saddled another mount, and together they set out to comb the woods.

  The day was nearly gone by the time he finally found her. She was in the forest, curled up against the root of a hug oak tree. He pulled the horse to a halt several yards away and motioned for Leo to go back to the house.

  "Tell the others that she has been found," he instructed.

  While Leo moved away, Christopher dismounted his horse and tethered it nearby, still staring at the forlorn figure that lay against the tree. She looked helpless and fragile. He was so relieved to find her. He only hoped that she was all right. She didn't look well.

  As he approached, he realized that she was asleep. Her hair fell across her face in a tangled wave, half hiding her face, but it was easy to see that she'd been weeping. All the evidence was still there.

  He went to his knees beside her and gently shook her awake. She opened tear-reddened eyes and looked up at him, uncomprehending at first. Then, as if it were only natural, she went into his arms, reaching up and twisting her own arms around his neck, clinging to him as if she had hoped for him to find her.

  Michaela didn't even think about it. She just reveled in the safety he offered. He was here. He had come for her.

  Christopher pulled her closer, his cheek resting against the top of her head, his eyes squeezed shut against the onslaught of emotion raging through him. He had found her! She was safe! Thank God, she was all right. If he'd lost her for good.... He didn't even want to think about that. It was too painful a prospect.

  "We searched for hours," he murmured against her hair, his hands digging into the soft flesh of her back. He couldn't get close enough, almost needed to pull her inside himself to feel whole again. "I feared the worst."

  His words jolted Michaela back into reality, and she started to weep uncontrollably. "Why did you come? Why couldn't you leave me here to die in peace?"

  "The answer is simple. I can't live without you," he told her, still holding her tight. "I realized that the moment I discovered you were gone. I thought I would die right then and there. I had visions of spending the rest of my life looking for you and never finding you."

  Michaela was sobbing so hard, so caught up in her own misery, that his words didn't quite register. "I'm so ashamed," she wailed against his chest.

  "It's all right, my darling. There is nothing to be ashamed of, nothing to fear any longer."

  "Why didn't you tell me you knew? Why did you let me go on deceiving you?"

  "I didn't want you to hate me for prying into your personal affairs," he admitted. "For that I am sorry. But for the outcome, I am grateful. I couldn't help myself. I needed to know so much more about you than you had offered. And it turned out for the best that I did pry. You're safe now."

  "It was never my intention to deceive you," she mumbled, sniffling as she clung to him. "I was just so terrified of being sent back. I couldn't marry Geoffrey. I just couldn't. I was so alone, so afraid. You were my only hope, my shelter. My wings. You did so much more for me than you'll ever know."

  She drew back to look up at him. He was smiling down at her.

  "When my mother called...I thought I'd lost all that. I thought you would hate me for lying to you," she managed through her tears.

  "I could never hate you," he assured her, stroking a few tendrils of tear-dampened hair away from her face.

  Her tears began to subside as she gazed up at him, and he saw a spark of renewed hope glistening in her eyes.

  "Honestly? You really understand why I did it?"

  He nodded. "I understand perfectly. And I don't blame you. Your mother isn't the nicest of creatures."

  "I think my father made her that way," she murmured, still gazing up at him with something like awe. She believed him when he said that he didn't hate her, didn't blame her. She trusted him. She really trusted him with everything now, implicitly. "I didn't know what to do, where to go. This place...you...it's all I have now."

  He cupped her cheek with his palm and murmured, "You need never be anywhere else."

  "Do you mean that?" she whispered, her voice tremulous with need. Lord, if she could truly believe that.

  "With everything that I am," he assured her, his eyes intent as they held hers.

  "I can work...to pay my way. I...." She broke off when he shook his head, became a little affronted when he even had the audacity to laugh a little.

  Sensing that he had offended her, he was quick to explain his amusement. "I don't want you to work for me. You'll have no need of that."

  She stared at him, confused.

  "Tell me now, Michaela. Trust me now," he whispered, the very tone of his voice compelling, coaxing it from her. "I want to know everything. From your lips."

  She sighed and tried to collect her thoughts, her tears almost gone now. He pulled her close to him again, and she rested her head on his chest as she began. She would tell him. To please him. Because she wanted so desperately to please him.

  "It was awful. Father wanted sons. Strong, able sons. Not flighty daughters. My older sister married a prominent cotton grower the moment she was out of school. It sealed a partnership with my father. He had all but lost his own business, and the marriage gave him back a little of what he'd lost. He thought I would do the same for him when I came of age. But I wanted to write. It was my dream, and I could think of nothing else."

  Her beginning was shaky, but as she spoke, her voice gained strength. He pulled her closer, and she nestled against his chest, happy just to be near him, to be in his arms. She didn't question how they'd come to be so familiar, didn't question how he'd come to be holding her like that. Nothing mattered but the moment. Everything was going to be all right now. She could sense it.

  "When I passed my twenty-first birthday and I still hadn't found a suitable man to marry, my father became angry, even abusive. He called me horrible names, swore at me, criticized me, locked me in the house like a prisoner. I didn't care. As long as I could write, I was happy. But when he took that away from me too, my spirit was defeated. He made me feel so unworthy."

  "I know," Christopher soothed. "But you know now that you are worthy, don't you, Michaela? You must know."

  "You make me feel worthy. You've restored that for me."

  "He won't ever hurt you again," Christopher promised.

  "He's gone now," she whispered. "I'm not sure how I feel about that. I suppose a part of me is relieved. And the other part is sad. Sad because I didn't really have a father, sad that he never really knew me."

  She closed her eyes when he began to stroke her hair, enjoying the sense of peace he gave her, the sense of relief it gave her to speak about it to someone who understood, to someone who cared.

  "At twenty-six, he considered me an old maid," she mused. "In my father's estimation, I had few good childbearing years left to me. He was thrilled when Geoffrey Yelvington decided to court me. I was secr
etly appalled. I couldn't believe these two men were scheming amongst themselves, planning my fate. They didn't even ask me."

  Christopher listened as he stroked her hair. He was pleased that she was confiding in him. She finally trusted him.

  "Geoffrey was as horrible as my father, domineering, controlling. He wanted a servant for a wife, someone he could rule. I wanted to be respected, and I wanted the man I married to respect my dreams to write. But just like my father, Geoffrey didn't approve. He would never have let me continue writing. They didn't care about what I wanted, what I needed to make me a whole person. They only cared about themselves, their own plans. It was as if I didn't even really exist."

  Christopher made a little sound of displeasure in his throat. He cared about her needs, her wants. "I care," he admitted, before he'd even realized what he was saying. Odd, how it came so easily, so naturally. And all those weeks of agonizing about it, weeks of trying to hide it. The discipline, and the misery. All of it gone with two little words.

  Michaela felt herself blush with pleasure, immediately warming to the idea that he cared, but she just as quickly suppressed her pleasure. She would be foolish to read too much into his admission. He was just being kind. Of course, he cared. After all, he had come looking for her, had given her shelter all these weeks. But she couldn't dare hope that he loved her as she loved him. Romantically. Deeply.

  "But you are different," she told him. "You're...special somehow. God touched you with something he didn't offer my father, or Geoffrey. It's why I love you so much."

  Christopher felt something tighten in his chest. Had he heard right? Had she said that she loved him? Bloody hell, he couldn't wipe the smile off his face. He wanted to press her to him, confide his feelings to her, never let go. He was so caught up in her innocent admission that he had to force himself to focus on what she was saying next. She'd gone on as if she'd been telling him all her life that she loved him, as if there was nothing unusual about it. It was simply a matter of fact.

  "Both men thought my desire to write was unusual. Father believed that only masculine women write, women who don't ever marry, women who don't know their rightful place in society. He believed the largest problem a woman is ever capable of handling is what to wear for dinner. Women could never hope to have the aptitude for societal significances. Men were made by God to run the businesses and governments of the world. Women were made to bear sons and to be used as bargaining chips wherever possible."