Read Online The Whisper Of Wings by Cassandra Ormand - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Cassandra Ormand
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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
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
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