Page 8 of No Going Back

CHAPTER THREE

He’d thought late nights were a thing of the past. A glance at the library clock told him otherwise. The weight around his heart told him why.

After an early dinner, Ros had retreated to her rooms to call Simon and share the news about the wedding venue, leaving Guy to his own devices. Or, given the cognac glass and the cigar resting in the ashtray on the table beside him, more like his own vices.

Not for the first time that evening, his thoughts were revolving around Maddie Scott. What was it about her that was so enthralling? Physically, she was attractive—shapely, the kind of body he’d like to hold close on a dance floor. Or see laid out in his playroom upstairs, so he could watch those pretty cocoa-brown eyes glisten with tears.

That weight around his heart, though… As it increased once again, he finally acknowledged its true identity—guilt. The thoughts he’d been entertaining about Maddie were nothing short of a betrayal of Liz. Even after all these years, his heart remained hers, locked in an impenetrable icy shield, guarded against even the minutest possibility of his giving it to someone else.

Yet even as he acknowledged that guilt, he was still drawn to the woman he’d met just a few short hours ago. In a flash, his imagination slipped its leash, painting a seductive scene of the two of them together.

First of all, he’d weave her glorious hair into a short, tight braid, to protect it from being snagged by whatever implement he chose to use on her. He’d take his time with the task too, to turn it into a sweet torture all on its own. The thought of her naked and bound to his St. Andrew’s Cross had him more aroused than he’d been since Liz. For that alone, he should probably be horse-whipped through the nearest village.

As a sadist and usually the one to be found wielding the whip, that would give him no pleasure whatsoever.

Maddie Scott, on the other hand, would give him pleasure. So maybe she did wear her make-up a little too heavy for his liking. What did it matter? There might be a sexist expectation that women in the hospitality industry should be made up like catwalk models, but it wasn’t a deal-breaker.

Shit.Why the fuck was he thinking in terms of deal-breakers? What deal? There was no deal, not the one between a Dom and a sub, and certainly not the one between a sadist and a masochist. Christ, a woman like Maddie would run a mile if he revealed even one-tenth of his true nature to her.

Besides, even if that were feasible, it would be a betrayal of his Elizabeth.

But what if he were to talk to Liz, and tell her about Maddie?

Was that asking permission? Perhaps. If things had been different, if he hadn’t been such a self-obsessed arse, he might have seen the telltale signs. He might even have avoided making the mistakes in the first place. Over the years, he’d tried not to dwell on the might-have-beens, but some days were more difficult than others. Liz had been to him what Simon was to Ros—if he was honest with himself, she still was. Or had been, until he’d walked into Maddie Scott’s office and his world had turned upside down.

All he knew was he wanted a chance to see if there could be anything between him and Ms. Scott, to see if she could melt the ice protecting his heart and make him feel again.

And if that meant seeking closure on his relationship with Liz Barton, then so be it.

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Over a decade old now, the grave was still in immaculate condition, as it had been the last time he’d visited it. Before he’d left the country after her funeral, he’d taken steps to ensure it would always be well cared for.

On one knee on the damp grass, Guy arranged the bouquet—cream lilies, purple gentians and lilac roses, according to the florist—at the foot of the headstone. She’d always loved those colours. Her joy when he’d given her flowers had always been wholehearted. He should have done it more often.

With his fingertips, he traced the outline of her name, etched in black on the light-grey granite. Her name, the year of her birth, the year of her death. No Beloved wife. She should have been. He should have given her that, as he should have done so many other things. Why the hell hadn’t he defied his orders and told her?

How many times had he asked himself that over the years, and how many times had he got a satisfactory answer?

Never.

Guy frowned. He’d always—always—experienced guilt settling like a boulder in his chest when he’d come here before, but this time it was different. He took a slow, deep breath, testing this new lightness of spirit. It felt… odd. He didn’t quite know what to make of it.

“Well, here I am, Liz. Back again.”

Like a bad penny, he’d turned up once a month for most of the last decade. Once his undercover assignment had ended, only duty had kept him away the handful of times he’d missed. Liz had been his world, until that bloody mission had come between them. When word of her death had reached him, he’d moved heaven and earth to get back for her funeral.

They’d tried to stop him attending—especially William Matthews, the snivelling bastard. And while they might have scared her friends away, they hadn’t succeeded in deterring him. He remembered it as if it were yesterday. He’d stood just here while the minister droned meaningless words over her grave as the snow fell. When the words were done, Guy had been left alone with his grief.

For years he’d believed he’d left his heart in that hole with Liz. Now he wasn’t so sure, hence his second visit of the month.

“So, my strategy to get Ros and Simon together worked, but here I am, hoist with my own petard, to paraphrase the Bard. Here’s the thing, Liz. I met someone. Her name’s Madeleine Scott… Maddie. She’s the events manager at one of the hotels Ros and I visited, looking for a wedding venue. And I like her.”

Quite what he’d expected, Guy wasn’t so sure. He didn’t believe in an afterlife, or signs from beyond the grave, so what the hell did he think this was going to accomplish?

“Sometimes all you need is someone to listen. This place is full of good listeners.”

Guy stood and pivoted in the direction of the voice. An elderly man was leaning on a hoe, his demeanour relaxed as he studied the scene in front of him.