For Love's Sake (10 page)

“No,” she answered. “It was wonderful.”

He smiled drowsily, glad that he had not caused her any pain.

Laurel thought that he was falling asleep, and tried in vain to maneuver herself beneath the weight of him. “It’s very late. I should go.”

“Don’t,” Christopher begged. He shocked himself by his own reaction. It was not his nature to want to stay with a woman. In truth, he despised most women’s need to be cuddled after sex, but here he was, pleading with one to stay with him.

“Really, I can’t sleep here. I have to get up early in the morning for work.”

“So do I.” He eased himself out of her, freeing her from beneath him. “Go and take a bath. You’ll feel better, and then if you still want to leave, you can.”

When Laurel emerged from the tub, Christopher was already buried beneath the bed covers.

“You were in there a long time,” he said.

She dried herself with the soft white towel before climbing in beside him. “It’s been a very long time since I was able to take a bath in a
real
bathtub. Once I was in, I never wanted to get out!”

Christopher yawned and wrapped his arms around her waist. Just knowing that she was in the next room had comforted him, but now that she was physically there with him, he began to drift into the deep sleep that only complete contentment can bring. Laurel stared at the shadows that the moonlight made across the floor as it spilled through the windows. She felt his breathing grow slow and rhythmic, and she knew instantly that he was asleep.

That night had been a night of many firsts, and not just the physical ones. The entire sexual event had been new to her, but it was his behavior that was strangest. She was surprised at how quickly he had went from the aloof stranger that was slowly becoming her friend to the desperate lover who seemed to need her within arms reach at all times. The Lord Christopher Brayles that she now knew seemed to be a different person from the one she knew only an hour before.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Laurel awoke, dimly aware that she was not in her lumpy, narrow bed at home. Instead of a purring gray cat at her feet, there was a warm body beside her. She jerked her eyes open, shocked to see Christopher sitting up against his pillow. It was not yet dawn. His features were masked in the dark, but from his posture she could tell that he was displeased.

“Good morning,” she whispered, afraid to speak any louder.

He turned his head toward her, still unreadable. “Good morning.”

“What time is it?”

“Almost five,” he said, studying the clock on the bedside table.

“I need to go or I will never make it to the mill on time.” Laurel flung the covers back and groped in the dark to find her underclothes. When she managed to dress herself, she turned back to tell him goodbye, but the sadness written across his face stopped her.

“Are you sorry?” he asked.

She thought about the answer to that for a moment, and then finally answered. “Not at all. Are you?”

“No,” Christopher said. “Now run home...and don’t be late for work.”

All that day, Laurel was distracted. She made more mistakes than she could count – which could be deadly in her profession. Christopher never showed his face on the spinning room floor, even though she looked for him constantly. Deirdre suspected that something curious was going on, but she was so afraid of her friend’s unpredictable behavior that day that she dared not bring it up. By the time the quitting whistle blew, Laurel was flustered almost to the point of tears.

She knew that what they had done the night before was very wrong. She also knew that it had dire repercussions. If anyone in town found out, her life would be ruined. They would cut her dead, proclaiming amongst themselves that she truly
was
her mother’s child. Laurel also knew all too well the way men treated easy women. She had seen how they had treated her mother – using her for their pleasure until they grew bored, and then cast her aside, not even caring whether she were pregnant.

That realization almost made Laurel sick to her stomach –
she could be pregnant.
How could she care for a baby on her meager paycheck from the mill? Would ‘His Lordship’ agree to do the right thing and provide for her and the child? Or perhaps worse, would he make her have an abortion? Laurel was certain that she did not have what it took to kill her own baby.

If anyone spoke to her as she rode home from the mill, she did not hear them. Laurel was lost in her own thoughts, which were horrific speculations of the future that always ended with her living a life of shame. After paying for her mother’s transgressions for so many years, she thought that she would know better than to throw herself into the arms of a man!

Disgusted with herself, Laurel managed to buy a slab of salt-cured ham from the butcher before he closed his counter. It would easily feed her for the next few weeks, but what would happen if she also had a child to care for? Growing children could not live off ham and biscuits for days on end; they needed fresh milk and vegetables. After rent each month, there was never much left of her paycheck to go toward groceries – not even for the modest amount of food she ate. Laurel walked out of the shop with tears burning the backs of her eyes.

She and Christopher avoided each other for the remainder of the week. Those days were hell on earth for Laurel – the spinning room supervisor yelled at her relentlessly about her stupid mistakes, even going to far as to report her to ‘His Lordship’.

Christopher stared at the man from across his cluttered desk. Although Miss Graham was one of the best spinners employed there, the supervisor warned him that she was very close to being fired.

“Send her up here.”

The hard-nosed man looked at his employer questioningly, but did as he was told. Perhaps they were more lenient about poorly performing workers in England. He found someone to run Laurel’s machine, and brought her up to the office.

As soon as the man was gone, she burst into tears. It was from countless hours of worrying about her future, knowing that she deserved to lose her job, and also from seeing Christopher. She tried to stop herself, but she sobbed until she almost collapsed on the floor.

Seeing her like this worried Christopher. He had been so consumed by dealing with his own feelings that he took hers for granted. Rushing around his desk, he pulled her shaking shoulders into his arms. It only seemed to make her crying worse.

“Stop that!” he ordered, lifting her tear stained face up to his.

Laurel saw that there was no anger in his cold blue eyes, but concern. It quelled her fears that he would hate her afterwards, at least.

“Why are you acting like this? Is it because of the other night?”

Unable to get the words out, Laurel nodded. Her red, swollen face rubbed the soft brown fabric of his waistcoat.

“You told me that you weren’t sorry. Now you regret it?”

“I could be pregnant.”

Christopher wiped away a tear that gathered in the corner of her eye, just as it dripped off the end of her matted lashes. “I won’t get you pregnant.”

Laurel snorted. “I bet that’s what they all say.”

“I am sure it is,” he said, almost smiling in spite of himself. “But rest assured that I will not get you pregnant. On that you have my word.”

That evening, Christopher ordered a sumptuous meal for two sent up—roast beef, asparagus, and roasted potatoes. They were both famished from a hard day at the mill, but Laurel devoured the meal fastest of all because she had not had beef in years. It seemed funny that she was most ecstatic to be given good food, a hot bath, and soft sheets.

“I could really get used to this,” she confessed as she snuggled deeper under the covers.

Christopher did not know how she ever survived without it, but decided to keep that comment to himself. He reached across her and turned off the bedside lamp. As he did so, Laurel ran her palm across his bare chest, letting her fingertips graze his nipple.

“You’re not the least bit shy about what you want, are you?” Christopher said.

She laughed innocently. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Do you want me?” he asked, his pale blue eyes searching hers.

“Yes.”

“Then show me.”

Laurel circled his nipple with her index finger, and then put her lips to it. When she kissed him there, his chest flinched, and he let out a little groan. From one, she moved to the other, growing brave enough to open her mouth and touch him with her tongue.

Christopher let out a strangled little laugh. “Miss Graham, you are a fast learner.”

“Don’t call me ‘Miss Graham’. Not after we’ve…” she tried to explain. “Please just call me Laurel.”

“Then I suppose you should call me Christopher—at least when we’re alone.”

Laurel nodded and smiled, enjoying the newfound intimacy between them. Continuing where she left off, her lips again descended onto his chest, igniting a spark of desire that neither of them could restrain. They spent the night making love, then drifting off to sleep, only to wake up and hunger for each other more intensely than before.

“Tell me what it’s like in England,” Laurel said over a delicious breakfast of thick waffles covered in maple syrup. “Tell me what it’s like
anywhere
other than Gaston County!”

Christopher took a long swallow of his orange juice. “It’s lovely. The whole world is lovely. And I’ve seen a good deal of it.”

“Oh? Where have you been?”

“All over England, of course. Ireland, Scotland, and Wales. I’ve seen the majority of France and Italy. Greece…Germany…Switzerland… and a dozen others.”

“Have you been to Egypt?”

“I have not been to Egypt,” he replied. “Actually, I haven’t been anywhere in many years. You see, the majority of my traveling was done when I was a boy.”

Laurel was curious to find out anything at all about him. “Why?”

“Because my father preferred my mother to be as far away as possible from our home. So she took my brother and my sister, and myself along with her.” He sawed into his waffle with his knife. “Being forced away from everything I love has made me despise ever having to leave it. The only reason I am here now is because it was unavoidable.”

“I’m very sorry.”

“Hmmm?” He looked up at her, having lost himself in his own thoughts. “Oh. Yes, thank you. Of course,
you
alone have made it bearable.”

She smiled across the lacy tablecloth. “I hate to go, but I have to see Mrs. Stroup before it gets too late.”

Christopher flipped opened his pocket watch, noting the time. “Ah yes.”

“I’ll be back by noon, though,” Laurel said. “Just in time for lunch.”

“I doubt you’ll be hungry then after all you’ve just ate. Let me go with you.”

She was stunned. “You really want go visit with an elderly old woman on your only day away from the mill?”

“Why shouldn’t I?” Christopher asked, tossing his napkin on the table.

“Well, if you want to come along, I’m sure she will be glad to have the extra company.”

Laurel pushed the door to Mrs. Stroup’s parlor open. As usual, the white-haired old woman sat knitting by the window that looked out over what used to be her garden. Christopher thought the house smelled about a thousand years old, and swore that he had been in castles that were warmer.

“Oh there you are,” Mrs. Stroup said. “I’ve been waiting for you all morning. I see you’ve brought a friend.”

“Yes Ma’am. Hattie, this is…” Laurel was unsure how to exactly go about introducing him.

Christopher came to her rescue. “Christopher Brayles.”

“Pleasure to meet you Mr. Brayles. Welcome.” Hattie Stroup urged them to have a seat on the faded old sofa directly across from her. From there, Christopher could see the dust dancing in the sunlight around the woman’s figure as she hunched over her knitting. Even with her delicate prince-nez perched upon her nose, he had no idea how she managed to see her work.

“I noted you had an accent. Where might you be from?” she asked, not bothering to look up at him as she spoke.

“England,” he answered, clearing his throat. “Wiltshire, to be exact.”

“You are a long way from home. Would you be the fellow who bought the mill from old Holbrooks?”

“Actually, my uncle bought the mill, but he died not long afterwards, and it passed down to me.”

“I see,” Mrs. Stroup said, looking him directly in his eyes. “And when will you be returning home to Wiltshire?”

Christopher sighed, glancing over at Laurel. “As soon as I sell the mill.”

Laurel had not let herself think that he would ever be leaving. The realization nearly knocked the breath out of her, and she had to look away to keep him from seeing the disappointment on her face.

“Laurel, dear,” Mrs. Stroup said. “Why don’t you pour us some tea? You know where the glasses are.”

She was thankful for an excuse to leave the room. In the narrow kitchen, she gripped the wooden worktable for support.
He would be leaving.
One day, he would be gone from her life forever.

Back in the parlor, Christopher squirmed on the sofa, trying to decide whether he should place his elbow on the arm or sit with his hands in his lap. He tried both positions, and then tried them again, neither one feeling any less wooden than the other. Finally, he ran his hand through his hair, feeling very foolish for writhing under the old woman’s gaze.

“Mr. Brayles, you certainly are a handsome gentleman. How is it that you aren’t married? Or perhaps you’ll say that the right girl has not come along…”

He started to reply, however, she stopped him.

“But if the right girl
were
to come along, would you have the good sense enough marry her?”

“Yes, madam, I believe I would.”

“Very good!” she said as Laurel swept into the room with three glasses of sweet tea on a tray. “And what hobbies do you enjoy, Mr. Brayles?”

He was flustered for a moment, but then regained his composure as he took a glass from Laurel’s hand. “Shooting, fishing, hunting…”

“An outdoorsman! You know, we have foxhunts right here in North Carolina.”

“I did not know that,” Christopher said, always eager to be in the field amongst the pack. “I’ll have to look into joining one.”