They meant to drag him back, damn them. He’d tried to put the past beyond reach, yet it stretched grasping fingers out to him, threatening to hold him prisoner. Captain Fleming was to be resurrected. DeWinter and the Foreign Office had a use for him, and to hell with what he wanted. Under any other circumstances, he might have leapt at the chance to escape Bodliam and the mess he’d created. He needed space and time to think. Resettle his bearings. But he knew Gwenyth meant to go. Her eyes and heart already looked to the west. If he left now, she’d be gone upon his return. He felt a black aching despair, a yawning pit of loss beneath his feet. With each moment that passed, the crumbling ground gave way, showing him what awaited him once she was no longer in his life. He paused at the head of the stairs, debating whether to turn left or right. Left meant a chance to repair the damage done by his drunken rage. Right meant admitting defeat. Knowing that no matter what he said he could never hope to atone, still he found himself passing down the corridor toward her room.
