The Whisper Of Wings Read Online Free PDF Page A

eyes. Something about this pathetic creature drew emotions from him that he hadn't felt for a very long time. What had happened to her to make her so afraid of everything? It was a puzzle he was compelled to solve.
    At the door, his footsteps faltered for a moment, and he had to fight the urge to glance back at her. He forced himself not to, forced himself to step through the door and out into the hall.
    With the head of the household gone, the younger man came to sit on the edge of the couch. He smiled and took her hand. It was a gesture meant to soothe her, and it did. She stared up at him. He was so different from the other man. Not nearly as tall, with brown hair already receding into slight baldness, hazel eyes that were openly friendly, openly curious. He had a mouth that was given to an easy smile, so unlike the sternness of the older man's mouth. Yet, there was something similar. What could it be? She was sure she remembered, but her head ached so much she couldn't concentrate. And this time, when her eyes threatened to flutter closed, she let them.

 
    CHAPTER THREE
     
    Gerald sat on the antiquated wooden bench in the hall and watched his father pace the length of the highly polished wood floor. The older man's back seemed even more rigid than normal and his jet-black brows were furrowed, a sure sign that he was in deep thought. Gerald said nothing, just watched and wondered what was passing through that great man's mind. His father seemed more restless than usual, even a little unsettled, as if the existence which he so painstakingly kept in perfect order had been shaken. And hadn't it? Hadn't the girl that had suddenly been thrust into their midst affected all of them in some way?
    But for his father to feel it, a man who was never outwardly affected by anything...that seemed most unusual.
    When the door to the study opened, Christopher Standeven stopped pacing to turn and stare expectantly at the man emerging from his examination. Dr. Martin met his gaze and gave a brief, reassuring nod, then turned to acknowledge Gerald. Christopher glanced over and met his son's curious eyes, as if he had only just then noticed him there.
    "Will she be all right?" Gerald asked, eager to know.
    Dr. Martin nodded. "She will recover."
    "Then she wasn't badly hurt from the fall?" Christopher inquired.
    Dr. Martin returned his attention to the head of the household. "There's no sign of concussion, just an abrasion to the forehead, and some swelling. She'll heal rapidly enough. It's the other that I'm concerned about."
    "The other?"
    "She's badly dehydrated. She needs rest, food, and liquids. Plenty of liquids."
    "Easily done," Christopher pronounced, but he didn't take his gaze from the other man's. There was something else. He was sure of it. Something the man didn't want to discuss in mixed company.
    His gaze once again slid to Gerald, who was now staring at the closed door of the study with avid interest. He didn’t necessarily want to keep anything from his son, but it was clear that Dr. Martin considered the rest of his diagnosis of a rather delicate nature.
    "It's late. You'll stay and dine with us."
    It was a statement more than an invitation, delivered with the same sort of self-assurance behind every word Christopher spoke. Dr. Martin did not decline.
    "Yes, of course. I'd be delighted," Dr. Martin agreed. Mrs. LeFonde was one of the best cooks in Louisiana. He would be a fool to pass up the opportunity to partake of her cuisine.
    "Gerald, will you be so kind as to inform Mrs. LeFonde that there will be another for dinner?"
    The request was made kindly enough, but there was a slight command in his father's eyes, a command that he momentarily hesitated to execute, and only then because he was too eager to know more about the girl in the study. He didn't want to miss anything. Dammit, he was being dismissed like a child when he was every bit a man! But he didn't dare make a scene by protesting in front of the doctor. His