Christopher's Medal (38 page)

“I’d like that.” Grace smiled. “Because I love you too.”

“Shall I tell them to take their medal and stuff it?”

“That’s entirely your choice. I know you don’t think so and I know you don’t want to remember, but it was a brave thing that you did.”

“I didn’t have much of a choice.”

“You didn’t have to lie out there and shoot.” Grace picked up his hand and kissed his palm. “This is entirely your call, Chris. I shouldn’t think you’d want a lot of fuss and bother, though.”

“No. I don’t. I don’t really want anyone else to know.” He sighed. “I know I hated everything about that place and what we had to do, but… I don’t know…” He bit his lip. “I suppose it would be rude to tell them to stuff it. It wouldn’t be right. But I don’t want a ceremony. I don’t want to go back to the barracks.”

“Will they send it to you in the post?”

“I suppose so.” He stood up. “I should phone Howie. I didn’t want to talk to anyone, but I guess I owe him a call.”

* * * *

“Chris?” Grace shook the rain from her coat and peered into the living room. December had come on the heels of a storm with cold, driving rain and a bitter wind that cut the morning work short. “Are you there?”

“I’m in the bedroom.” His voice sounded heavy.

Grace tossed her boots into the laundry room. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah.”

She hung her coat up and walked into the bedroom. It was gray and cold and rain streamed down the window. She found her husband sitting on the bed, staring at a brown packet on his lap. She sat down beside him. “What’s wrong?”

“I can’t open it, Grace. I know what it is and I can’t open it.”

She glanced and the packet, at the return address. “Your medal.”

He sighed. “Yeah.”

Grace put her arm around him. “No one says that you have to. We can put it away somewhere,” she said, softly.

“That would be a good idea.” He rested his head on her shoulder. “I’m done with it, Gracey. That’s the last of it now. Take it and put it away, please.”

She took the package. “I will. It doesn’t matter anymore. Maybe if we have kids…one day. I’m so proud of you, Chris. Not just because of what you did…over there, but because of who you are and how you’ve fought back.” She wanted him to make love to her. He felt so warm and solid while he rested against her in silence. Instead, she kissed his hair and rose. There were some things that would have to wait.

* * * *

“Dad, are we finished yet?” Grace stood in the tack room doorway shivering in the rainy chill of the December evening. Her father was taking an agonizingly long time with evening stables. It was Christmas Eve and she wanted to be home. Christopher had promised her surprises and had driven to the shops earlier. She had no idea what he was up to, but she wanted to find out. She wanted to enjoy the novelty of their first Christmas together. It seemed impossible that a year before, she had been glumly checking her emails and tucking into a curry with Billy. Now the cottage felt like home again, it was ready for Christmas and all the good things that went with it.

When she had left for evening stables, the pheasant had been in the slow cooker filling the house with a rich, herby aroma. Christopher had been stacking logs beside the fireplace. The lights on her tiny Christmas tree twinkled in the late afternoon gloom while Christmas music played on the radio.

“Patience, Gracey,” her father called out from one of the stables. “I’m nearly done.”

“Good, because we’re all freezing here.”

The yard had finally settled into the winter routine after the fuss over the Breeders’ Cup. Allonby had come home in triumph, greeted by a small crowd of well-wishers before he’d limped into his stable, taken a few leisurely mouthfuls of hay and fallen asleep, his legs tucked underneath him on the deep, golden bed of straw. Now he was gone, settling into his new home at a stud farm a few miles up the road. His half-sister, a smaller, more compact version of him, now occupied his box. Grace could see her white blaze glowing in the muted light of the yard when she hung her head over the stable door, always curious to know what was going on.

Jane lit a cigarette and sat down on the traveling trunk. “I bet you’re looking forward to this Christmas.”

“Oh, yes.” Grace thought longingly of the warm cottage, of Christopher whistling while he set about his Christmas Eve secrets. “As soon as we’re done here, I’m going home, locking the door and not stirring until tomorrow morning. Dad says he’ll do the horses on his own.”

“Bollocks.” Pavel spat. “I help too.”

“It’s all right, Pavel. If Dad says he’s going to do it on his own, he will. He reckons we’ve all earned the time off.”

He shrugged. “Okay, fine by me.”

They all glanced up as the stable door closed. “Right, you lot. Piss off home. Merry Christmas, don’t drink your bonuses all at once.”

“Thank fuck for that.” Billy kissed Grace’s cheek. “Have a brilliant Christmas, Gracey. Make sure you get plenty of mistletoe action.”

Grace nodded and smiled. “That would be nice.”

“Goodnight, Dad.” She kissed her father’s cheek. “We’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Have a good evening, Gracey, love. You’ve earned it.”

“Thanks, Dad.” She put her hands into her pockets and hurried across the gravel. The rain whispered on the gravel and dripped from the eaves of the cottage. The kitchen windows were steamed up but Grace could see Christopher standing at the sink. It was a good evening to be home and warm.

“All done?” he asked when she swept into the kitchen.

“Yup, that’s it.” She locked the door and drew the curtains. “All done.” After the cold outside, the cottage was a haven of warmth. The aroma of herbs and pheasant filled the kitchen.

“Well, go and get yourself changed and cleaned up and I’ll dish up dinner.”

She tossed her boots into the laundry room. “Isn’t there anything I can do?”

“Nope, just relax.” He kissed her forehead. “Tonight is on me.”

“If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure, now…go.”

The living room was lit only by the tree, the fire and by candles on the table, which had been cleared of Grace’s habitual piles of papers and her laptop. She hurried into the shower then changed into comfortable clothes. By the time she returned to the living room, Christopher was setting the food out on the table.

“I think I managed to take all the lead shot out,” he said when she sat down. “You’d better be careful, just in case.”

“It smells lovely.” She poured the wine and handed him a glass.

“Better than last Christmas Eve?” He touched her glass with his.

“Oh, yes. I shan’t do that again.” It seemed impossible how different it all felt. How right it all was. They had been a world apart, separated by broken internet and a war. Instead of curry there was pheasant stew. Instead of Billy there was her husband.

* * * *

After dinner, he cleared the plates away and returned to the settee. Grace curled up next to him.

“This is how it should be,” he whispered against her cheek.

“Yes.” His closeness stirred all kinds of feelings inside. Grace slipped her hand between the buttons of his shirt and smiled when he sighed and trembled.

“Grace.” His voice was a shaky whisper. His fingers strayed to her breast and lingered there.

Grace quivered. His touch sent languid waves of heat through her.

“Close your eyes,” Christopher told her.

“Why?”

“You’ll see.” He rose and left her. She still felt his touch.

“All right.” She hid her face in a cushion and tried to work out what Christopher was up to. All she could hear was a soft, whispering rustle.

“Don’t open them yet,” he called from the hallway. “I’m not finished.”

She relaxed against the cushion and listened to the music. Christopher had chosen Radio Three’s classical programming over Radio One’s more modern fare. It fit the peace and the candlelight. She felt him sit beside her once more. “All right, you can look now.”

Grace opened her eyes and tried to work out what was different. Her husband looked the same, apart from the huge grin. The room looked the same. The same presents waited under the tree, no new candles were lit.

“I don’t see anything different. Perhaps I’m just tired.”

“Do you remember that letter I wrote and left with your Christmas presents last year?”

She smiled and looked at the doorways between the kitchen and the living room and between the living room and the hallway. Sprigs of mistletoe hung over each one. “You said you were going to hang mistletoe in every doorway.”

“I always try to keep my promises, Gracey.” His voice was gentle.

“You do, wonderfully,” she replied.

“We’ll start with this one, eh?” He pulled a small sprig out of his pocket and held it above her head. “Can I kiss you?”

“Yes, please.” Grace closed her eyes as his lips brushed hers. It was like a first kiss, sweet and hesitant. Her hand drifted to his face and she kissed him back. She tried to subdue her longing, but it rose in her when he drew her closer. The scent of juniper and lemon rose between them and stirred up a wealth of memories. Grace sighed against his lips and curled her fingers into his hair.

“Ah, God, Gracey, I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too.” She quivered when he slid his hands to her waist.

“It’s been too long.”

“Yes.” She ran her hand along his thigh, taking her time. His sharp intake of breath made her smile. She kept going, sliding her hand inwards and upwards.

“Oh, God, Grace,” he breathed.

Grace felt him grow hard when she rubbed the heel of her hand along the front of his jeans. She covered his mouth with hers and let him gather her up. She trembled when he groaned and caressed her. Every nerve in her strained for his touch.

“Come to bed,” he whispered.

“Yes.”

She followed him. He paused in the doorway and kissed her once more, pressing against her. She felt his heart pounding against her breasts and clung to him.

“Grace.” His breath was warm on her skin.

She slipped her hand beneath his shirt. “Chris, darling.”

“I want you.”

“Yes.”

The bedroom was cool. A cluster of mistletoe branches was suspended above the bed. Rain spattered against the window.

“You certainly do carry out your promises with style,” Grace said when Christopher eased her back onto the duvet.

“Oh yes.” His lips were warm on her throat and he eased his hands beneath her T-shirt.

She gasped when he found her breasts.

“I’m sorry it’s been so long, darling.”

She pulled his shirt over his head, wanting to feel the warmth of his skin against hers. “It’s all right, you’re worth waiting for.”

Her T-shirt followed, tumbling to the floor. Grace rose to meet him while his lips trailed along her skin. She loved how he took his time, taking her back to a rainy summer evening, before everything changed. He kissed his way down to her stomach, and a little beyond, every touch of his lips reawakening long-banked flames. Grace let her hands glide along his back and beneath his jeans. She smiled when his breath caught in his throat as she reached for his fly button.

“Grace.” His voice was a long sigh. He kicked his jeans away and reached for her.

She nibbled at his collarbone when he tugged her jeans off. It had been so long since she had felt the warmth of him and found the scent of him beneath the cologne. His tongue sought hers and she clung to him, sliding her fingers across the smooth skin of his back while they rediscovered long-missed haunts. It was hard for Grace to tell where she ended and he began when he gathered her up. Christopher moved with her, reminding her of all she had missed and all she had to be grateful for. He took her back and she found the man she had fallen in love with.

He caressed her mound with a firm, sure touch, as if he’d never been away, as if he’d never forgotten how to reduce her to a quivering mess of need. Grace trembled and lifted her hips from the bed, forcing his fingers into her. Christopher laughed—low and soft—a laugh rich with desire and promise. Something inside her rose and sang.
Her
Christopher had returned. The man she’d fallen in love with on a long-ago summer’s evening had come home and her body welcomed every sweep of his hand, every caress of his lips as he traced a teasing path from her breasts to her pussy. She reached for his cock, palming it, reveling in the heat and hardness, knowing that it would soon be inside her. Her breath escaped in short, sharp gusts and she bit back a needy whimper when Christopher covered her and pressed her down into the tousled bed linen.

Grace cried out when he entered her. She shifted beneath him and held him close when he began the familiar dance. Christopher’s mouth covered hers and she wound her fingers through his hair while his tongue darted and teased. He smiled against her lips. She tried to absorb him, to keep him there when his heat and light spread through her, in languid waves. Grace was swept back to that first, rainy evening while the breeze whispered through the curtain. Her blood rushed to meet his touch and her sighs echoed his. She rose and fell with him, collapsing into the pillows breathless and he followed, falling against her.