Chapter 3:
Remington had commandeered one of the Castle's cars the night he left – they belonged to him, after all, as part of the Castle's holdings – and drove into Galway where he found a passable hotel in which to spend the night. Not that he'd slept, not even so much as a single wink. He'd ordered up a bottle of fine scotch, had paced and prowled and abandoned the idea of drink after only a couple of quick swallows. Alcohol wouldn't have blunted the rage fueling him in any case, in fact it would be more likely to make it burn all the brighter.
So he'd paced, and prowled, and raged, then paced and prowled and raged some more, angry with himself, furious with her. When he finally stopped moving, he sat with hand propped against knuckled fist and had sulked for a bit, before he'd grieved. Grieved for the life he thought he'd been creating, one he'd come to cherish. A home, a profession he enjoyed (even if he wouldn't miss legwork a lick, at all), and a woman with a quick wit, fiery temper and gentle hand, when it suited her at least, who'd kept him enthralled for four, long years.
As dawn had begun casting its pale light along the horizon, he'd sunk into melancholy. Already, he missed her. Missed her so much that he ached physically from longing for her. It was only then that he'd reached for the scotch again, trying to drink her away: her image, the smell of her lingering on his clothes, the melodic lilt of her voice, the feel of her small hand against his arm, the gentle sway of her hips as she walked with his hand on the small of her back, her taste… those delightful dapples of colors sprinkled across her skin, her dimpled cheek when she smiled freely, those glimmering brown eyes.
To his utter mortification, he'd cried as he'd departed the Castle. Oh, just a stray tear here and there, at least at first. By midway to Galway, however, he'd had to pull the car over to the side of the road, and laying his head against arms crossed over the steering wheel he'd given in to his utter heartbreak. They were well and truly done, yet he couldn't even conceive of a life without Laura Holt in it. She'd been that singular spot around which his entire world had revolved for years now. He'd sobbed, there on that road nearly abandoned at this hour: Great, manly sobs which had left his shirt sleeves soaked, his chest heaving, his throat burning, and his head aching. He hadn't cried so hard when he'd been sent away from all those homes as a child when found wanting or even when he'd believed Anna dead. But none of those people had owned his heart as thoroughly as Laura Holt had. She'd been his Ilsa, which no one had been before her, and no one would be after. He'd at last pulled himself together and had vowed, then and there, there'd not be another tear shed by him for her.
The dream was gone, and now it was time to start over. He'd started from scratch dozens of times throughout his life, and he could do so again. At least this time, it'd be made all the easier, as he wasn't doing it destitute as he'd been so often in his early years. A quick visit to a contact in Galway had produced identification and a well-placed call to Monroe had seen funds wired to him. He flew out of Galway that afternoon to Dublin, catching a few much needed winks during the flight. By that evening, he'd contracted for six passports, recreating those seized by the Yard, for little more than nostalgia's sake, and one in the name of Alec Walker, one of Grant's lesser known roles, which would be used for travel. If all went well, by Sunday he'd be on the Cote d'Azur and by that evening he'd have a willing woman in his bed.
Just as the life he'd dream of once had come to an end, so had his celibacy. What better way to forget a woman, than to lose yourself in others.