Christopher's Medal by S.A. Laybourn Read Free Book Online

imagine Christopher being dangerous.
    “Am I making you hungrier?”
    “Oh yes.”
    “Hmmmm, I sense that you’re not thinking about food.” There was laughter in his voice. “If it’s any consolation, neither am I.”
    She blushed. “Nonsense, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m a good girl, I am.”
    “Of course you are, my dear.”
    Grace heard his smile and wished he was there. “I’m very, very good.”
    “I won’t argue with that.”
    “You’re not so bad yourself.” It was hard not to want him. The memory of his touch made her curl up into the cushions in search of warmth and comfort. She was afraid to ask if there would be a next time. Experience had taught her not to ask too many questions in that direction.
    “Thank you. I think we’d better change the subject or I may have to take a cold shower. What are you doing this weekend?”
    “Dad’s going racing so I’m working. I don’t mind. It keeps me out of trouble.” It was too late, she was already in trouble—falling fast for a man who was well out of her league and worse, a family friend of one of the yard’s most important owners. If it went pear-shaped, there’d be hell to pay. “What about you?”
    He sighed. “Working, I’ve got masses of paperwork to get through.”
    “Oh, poor you.” She sipped her wine. “Paperwork sucks.”
    “Did I just hear you take a drink of something? You’re not getting drunk again, are you?”
    Grace giggled. “My first glass of wine, that’s all. Though on an empty stomach it probably isn’t the best decision.”
    “I’ll probably have a few tomorrow night, in the officers’ club. Not the most scintillating company, but the whiskey’s not bad. I know where I’d rather be.”
    She closed her eyes and caught a drift of his cologne in the fabric of the cushions. It was hard to see where this was going to go.
    * * * *
    In her dream, Christopher kissed her awake, much as he had done on that Sunday morning. He covered her face with tiny, light kisses, her chin, her jaw, the tip of her nose, her eyelids. His fingers trembled when they traced the curve of her throat. His voice was a soft whisper when he told her that she was beautiful, that she was his Epona, his Rhiannon.
    Grace woke, cold and disappointed, when the gates clanged open and Jane, one of the stable lasses, drove into the yard for evening stables. Grace lit a cigarette and sat, knees under her chin, while she stared out of the window. The racing clouds of the morning had knitted together to form a dull, gray blanket. The scent of rain was in the breeze. She stubbed out the cigarette, found her shoes and her jacket then went out to put the horses to bed. Jane was already filling water buckets and Pavel, who lived in the other cottage, had started on the hay. Jane and Pavel got the evening feeds ready while Grace hosed cold water onto the off-side foreleg of a filly with a questionable tendon. She squatted close to the floor and absently stroked the warm, slightly bowed leg while the filly nibbled at her hair and jacket.
    “Are you all right?” Jane peered around the door. “You’re very quiet.”
    “I’m okay.” In her way, she was. She would get by. It was only hormones, for Christ’s sake. It would pass, one way or the other.
    “Are you sure?”
    Grace stood up and turned off the hose. “No, I’m not sure. I hate my hormones, Jane. I hate that I’ve been so long without a man that, as soon as the first decent one comes along, I crumble and fall for him. I hate that he’s not here and I hate myself for hating that he’s not here. Does that make sense?” She untied the filly and led her out of the box.
    Jane smiled and Grace saw the sympathy in her eyes. “Yes, it makes perfect sense and I’m glad I’m not where you are.” She grinned. “Does he pass the Icewell Hill test?”
    In spite of everything, Grace laughed. The flats on Icewell Hill were dreadful and there was a question that Newmarket girls