The Whisper Of Wings (15 page)

She took another tentative step, her footfall sounding overly loud against the polished floor, echoing through her head like the sound of an executioner's cryptic drum signaling the final approach of judgment. She paused just outside the door to the library, her heart hammering so loudly in her chest that she couldn't hear what the voices inside were saying. She was beside herself with worry now, her hands trembling so that she couldn't keep them still. Her mind was telling her to run, but her feet wouldn't move. She seemed rooted to the spot now, immobilized by dread and fear.

She took a deep breath, her eyes fluttering closed of their own volition, then another breath, opened her eyes again, and took one last step, the final step that brought her just inside the door of the library. It was something she had to do. For her own good she had to work through the fear. Maybe this family gathering wasn't about her. Perhaps it was nothing she need worry about.

One glance around the room and her resolve disappeared. The other voices she'd heard belonged to three policemen. She automatically feared the worst. The look on Gerald's face and the way Mrs. Avery rushed to her side to draw a protective arm around her confirmed that the police were there because of her. For one horrifying second, she thought everyone knew, that her family had somehow managed to locate her and the police were there to take her back.

She sought Christopher's eyes. It was Christopher's face she desperately needed to see. Would there be anger in the line of his jaw, rage at being betrayed? Or only revulsion?

The happiness she'd felt only seconds ago gave way to despair. She'd just begun to live, truly live for the first time in her life. She'd just started to gain confidence in herself, and now this horror.

Panic seized her from all sides, and she wanted to bolt and run. She should have never stepped into the room. She could have taken the coward's way out, slipped out of their lives without ever having to face them, without them even knowing she was gone until it was too late. She should have run when she'd had the opportunity. Indeed, were it not for Mrs. Avery's arm wrapped so solidly around her shoulders, she would have done just that. But her chance had been snatched from her by her own dreadful curiosity, and now she was trapped, forced to face them all. How could she explain? How could she possibly make them understand? Those reasons that had caused her to flee her home in the first place all seemed so ridiculous now. Christopher would never understand. Never.

This couldn't be happening. She couldn't go back home, no matter what anyone else thought. She wouldn't. She'd rather die than go back there.

And then he was there, a full head taller than every other man in the room, standing so straight and tall, so proud, so completely unruffled by the presence of the policemen. Her eyes locked onto him like a drowning woman clinging to a life-saving buoy. He crossed the room to stand before her, his eyes raking over every inch of her stricken face. She wanted to sag to the floor with relief, for there was no revulsion there, no anger, no accusation, only his characteristically undisturbed facade, his usual dignified impassivity.

"Detective Johnstone, this is our Michaela. As you can see, she is quite well and cared for," Christopher informed the man.

The detective only stared at her. He didn't seem so sure. Michaela had to fight the urge to shrink away. She glanced away from him, hoping he didn't see the telling fear in her eyes.

"There, there, dear," she heard Mrs. Avery whisper.

Christopher stepped closer, his eyes never leaving her face, his voice carefully modulated so as not to alarm her. She looked terrified beyond reason. He only hoped he could somehow impart to her that she had nothing to fear.

"Michaela, it would appear that the good Dr. Martin has some cause to believe you are not here of your own accord. You remember Dr. Martin, don't you?"

She started to nod, but something in the way he was looking at her bade her speak instead. "Y-yes. I remember Dr. Martin very well."

"Is Dr. Martin correct?" the detective asked.

She never took her eyes from Christopher's. She needed him, needed to draw strength from him.

"Of course not," Christopher interjected. "She's been a guest in my home. A very pleasant one, I might add."

"Let the girl answer," Detective Johnstone insisted.

"No," she managed in a surprisingly even voice. "It is as Mr. Standeven says. I'm here out of his hospitality."

Christopher smiled and took her hand. "You see, Detective. I'm afraid Dr. Martin has wasted your time. He's quite mistaken. Miss Michaela is obviously in full control of all her faculties, able to make her own decisions without pressure."

He lifted her hand and kissed the back of it. Under any other circumstances she might have swooned at the contact—his lips were so soft and warm—but given the seriousness of her dilemma, she managed to keep it in perspective. Only a slight flush might have given her away. But she was only aware of him now, so she didn't know if anyone else noticed her reaction.

"She has been our much-desired guest for some time now," Christopher continued. "Indeed, we all hope that she will continue to be for as long as she wishes."

Michaela was grateful for his steady, controlled manner, grateful that he was taking charge of this situation as readily as he took charge of everything else. Were it not for his support, she would have surely crumbled and capitulated to the police.

"You do still want to be our guest, don't you?" Christopher murmured, her hand still captured in his.

"Oh, yes," she breathed. "Very much so. I'm having a wonderful time. I've never been so happy in all my life."

Christopher's eyes narrowed just slightly. She felt compelled to drop her gaze. He was far too perceptive, far more so than his son. He had caught the sincerity in her voice, perhaps realized the import of it.

The detective didn't seem at all interested in how happy she was to be there. He only seemed interested in cold, hard facts. "Can you tell me your last name, Miss Michaela. Just for the record."

Michaela's heart lurched, and her mouth went dry. It was her worst nightmare. To answer would be a detriment to her in many ways. Not only would she be giving herself away as a betraying scoundrel to the Standevens—a thought she could scarcely bear—she would also be giving Detective Johnstone all the information he needed to take her into custody, to force her back where her mother believed she belonged.

Apparently sensing her distress, Gerald stepped forward in her behalf. "You see, Detective. There is nothing at all to be alarmed about. I'm sure the doctor only meant well, but...." He glanced at his father for input.

Christopher Standeven was quick to help him. "I'm sure the police department will be just as embarrassed as are we all."

The detective cleared his throat and nervously adjusted his tie. Under Mr. Standeven's relentless stare and weighty statement, he didn't seem anxious to repeat his question.

"There are rumors of a young woman who has been missing for some time now. The doctor was only being cautious," Detective Johnstone defended.

"I assure you that Miss Michaela's family knows precisely where she is," Christopher impressed upon him. The statement was a play on words. He felt like they were her family, and he didn't give a fig who else might claim the title. "Not that it matters. After all, she is well over the age of accountability. But if you have any doubts, I can ring them for you. I'm afraid it would be a bit of an inconvenience, but—"

"No, that won't be necessary. I'm sure everything is in order," the detective was hasty to say. He was obviously not immune to the power Christopher Standeven had. One phone call to his superior and he would be back on the night beat. Christopher made no attempts to hide the fact that he was unhappy about this visit, and the detective seemed eager to end it now.

"Detective, I do hope this matter will not come up again." Christopher's voice fairly crackled with warning. "I'm afraid Dr. Martin has unnecessarily offended my good standing. It isn't something I take lightly."

"Consider the file closed, Mr. Standeven. Please forgive the interruption," Johnstone said, already reaching for his hat.

Christopher gave him a curt nod. "My man will show you out."

Michaela stood silently within the circle of Mrs. Avery's arms, the hand Christopher Standeven had been holding now cold and empty. He had withdrawn his own some time ago, leaving her with that all-too-familiar sense that he was withdrawing his protection and generosity, as well.

Christopher watched the detective and his men leave, then turned his eyes on Michaela. Throughout the exchange, he'd had the distinct impression she'd been deliberately hiding something. It wasn't the first time he'd wondered about her.

She still looked nervous, as though someone had swept the rug out from under her feet. But no matter how intent his curiosity, he wouldn't press her. There must be a reason for her unwillingness to talk, perhaps a very good one. At any rate, he would never give her up to the police, not when she'd been so obviously frightened of the prospect. She was here under his protection, and she would remain so until she chose not to be.

Michaela didn't see the nod he gave to Mrs. Avery. She was far too busy fretting about her plight, trying to justify everything she'd been through. She didn't want anyone to look at her, to notice her, to see that she was in turmoil, to guess what that turmoil was about. She just stood there with her hands clasped together so tightly that her fingers ached and her knuckles were white, her head bowed to avoid the curious stares, the questioning eyes. She glanced up when Mrs. Avery moved away from her, felt her pulse surge when she realized the housekeeper had silently left the room. She wanted to follow, wanted to race after her and cling to her, tell her everything, beg her forgiveness. But she knew Mr. Standeven was waiting, silently, ominously, and she knew she must answer to him in some way.

"Well, that was certainly...interesting," he said, his voice as carefully controlled as ever.

She lifted her eyes, her chin trembling a little with the effort it took to meet his intent gaze.

"I'm sorry you had to go through that, Michaela," he continued. "I feel certain it won't happen again. Detective Johnstone does not strike me as a stupid man. I believe he knows he made a mistake, don't you?"

She couldn't answer, could only stare at him, her heart in her eyes. Why couldn't she trust herself to confide in him, to tell him everything? Surely, he would understand. After all, he hadn't given her over to the police. That must mean something.

She shook her head just slightly, a tear clinging to her lashes. "You could have...."

Something about his expression changed, shifted. His eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, and his mouth tightened a fraction. It was the only indication that what she'd just said had any impact on him whatsoever, the only indication that he understood what the unfinished phrase meant.

"I wouldn't hear of it," he answered. He took a step away, then paused and looked back. "Michaela, I feel certain that you will remember everything, when you are ready. In the meantime, you are a welcome addition to my home."

His eyes swept her face once more, perhaps too critically this time, and then he was gone, leaving her wondering if there was any import to his final words, perhaps an underlying urge to hasten her memory before he lost patience with her. For now, at least for a time, she had been given a reprieve.

She glanced nervously at Gerald. He stepped forward, smiling as he took her hand and turned her toward the door.

"Come on. I asked Cook to save lunch for you."

"Please. I...really wish you wouldn't have troubled yourself with it. I don't need...."

"Now, don't try and tell me you don't need to eat. We all need nourishment. Besides, it's no bother."

Resigned to his pampering, she allowed him to lead her out of the room. After the incident with the police, she was even more uncomfortable with the generosity of the Standeven household.
He
knew. Christopher Standeven was far too intelligent not to. And he was waiting. She was certain of it. Waiting for her to come to him and tell him everything.

Christopher went to the window of his study and stared out, frowning as he contemplated the events. When the police had mentioned the woman who'd been reported missing, he'd felt a brief moment of doubt. He'd learned of such a woman from the private investigator he'd hired in New Orleans, and he suspected Michaela was the missing person. However, he wasn't about to force the issue on her, start asking all sorts of questions. Eager to protect Michaela in any way he could, he'd been speaking to a psychologist from the university, and the man had patently insisted that making demands on her was the wrong approach. Patience was the key. No one could force the memories on her.

Perhaps it was time to bring the psychologist in to meet her. Up until now, Christopher hadn't been up to the task. He was too worried that it would prove traumatic for her. Besides which, he'd been hopeful that the mere safety of the setting he had provided for her would bring her memory back. Now he was beginning to wonder if he should reconsider. When the detective had inquired after her surname, she hadn't been able to hide her anxiety. Christopher was beginning to believe that she knew her past and her name but was afraid to tell it.