O'Roarke's Destiny (Cornish Rogues Book 1)

by Shehanne Moore

  What else was he meant to do though after last night? Destiny Rhodes, but not Destiny Rhodes? A woman he’d once thought so exotic, he’d even believed the stuffed tigers prowling the sitting room in frozen poses moved whenever she walked amongst them. Had he always been besotted, or what?

  “Looks like it,” he muttered, staring across the windswept moor. “It’s where that path leads, after all.”

  He edged back in the damp bracken, biding his time until the shadow of a boulder fell across his hands, then he slipped round it and eased to his feet. If nothing else the fact that Lyon wasn’t long about joining him said the bastard was as satisfied as it was possible for the bastard ever to be satisfied. Generally that was not at all but what else could Divers do but have his favourite visitor? Hope.

  If Lyon now headed for the horse that was tethered to the blasted tree trunk, that hope would be rewarded. There was no doubt who Destiny Rhodes was on a royal progress along the perilous cliff path to see. That minion wasn’t Divers O’Roarke. Something he should have known when he’d overheard her and Orwell this morning. Tigers were always striped.

  Maybe if he hadn’t tiptoed into the dawn?

  He’d had to. Any longer and he was risking himself in a situation he’d never meant to be in. Where was Rose’s whisper when he'd needed it most? Certainly not when Destiny Rhodes had said she and Chancery had been in love and the thought had led him along that corridor? Because Rose had been different that summer. So now? He swallowed, relief flooding as Lyon’s hawk-eyed gaze sat on his horse’s back.

  “Well then, I best be getting back into Penvellyn. It would be wrong to disappoint a lady. I wouldn’t want a capricious creature like her changing her mind about giving you up.”

  “Look, I know you think I shouldn’t have told her anything but how the hell else was I going to keep Berryman in play? You’d have to arrest him otherwise and then I can’t get a foothold on the ring. Getting a foothold on the ring is all that counts.”

  Ignoring his sweating palms, he set his tricorn back on his head.

  Lyon thrust his booted foot into the stirrup, squinted at the dwindling sun as he pulled on the bridle to yank himself up. At last the bastard was going and Divers could relax for the first time since he’d woken up this morning trapped in the tangled folds of a dress he should never have asked Destiny Rhodes to wear and never would again. Not when he’d dreamt of the moment Eirwin had been shot. And that dress was her blood on him.

  Lyon clicked his tongue raised his face to the sea-sprayed breeze cutting across the rough moor.

  “What I think is you should have put her out as you were under express orders to do, and then let me deal with Berryman still being in play, provided she stayed in the area.”

  “She might have gone to him.”

  “As you say, but it’s not like you to disobey. Don’t do it again.”

  Fair enough but plainly Lyon had never tried putting Destiny Rhodes out of anything. Still, from now on, Divers wouldn’t stray from the path. Lyon couldn’t ever know how he’d done this so often, he’d strayed into becoming one with these people. Felt the thrill of taking gold. The agony of having to betray them. Lost something he’d cared about.

  Not this time.

  Now he’d clawed this back and was going to play a new game here, he’d sooner dig his grave with a bent twig, a dead bumblebee.

  However he'd cursed her, rightly, wrongly, or indifferently, over his dead body and tattered soul would there be any repeat of last night.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “So Miss Rhodes, what can I do for you?”

  Should she just say, jump off the cliff and be done with it? As the craggy faced worm who’d tried to arrest her yesterday, eased down into the wooden chair on the other side of the desk, Destiny did her best to do the same.

  Before anyone even asked her where Touse was, Touse had shown her in here. But she bit her tongue and fixed on her tranquillest stare. A problem halved remember?

  “Oh, it is more what I can do for you.”

  Because it was.

  “Really? And what’s that precisely?"

  At least give this man his due, there wasn’t so much as a flicker in his eyes as he apprised her, it made it easier to face him coolly when yesterday’s humiliation still scorched her hair roots, given she hadn't expected to be facing him at all.

  “The Cleanser.” She swallowed her rising gorge, the alarm that would have taken her by the throat otherwise. “What, if anything, do you know of him?”

  “The Cleanser?” Lyon sat forward as if she’d taken him entirely by surprise. But maybe she was mistaken? Maybe Tom Berryman had been in his cups? Or trying to win first prize in the mule stubborn competition when he'd refused to move that stash--despite braying as loudly as that same mule, about this mythological creature? Maybe she'd had to do a quick turnabout on this man not being an exciseman, it didn't mean he wasn't the Cleanser. She sat forward.

  “Oh, please don’t look as if you have no idea who I am speaking of. When I think we both know who it is? Hmmm?”

  “Do we?”

  Of course, the blank look was expected. But what if she truly was mistaken? And here she was, Destiny Rhodes of the house of Rhodes, committing a folly on a par with walking barefoot on hot coals, with her toenails covered in paraffin. Accusing this man because Tom Berryman had behaved as if the devil had crossed his path and this one looked to have horns?

  “I see." No wonder the fine hair on the back of her neck stood up. "Maybe I'm wasting your time then and there is no such person?"

  “Oh, there is a Cleanser all right."

  "Right."

  "And we should most definitely like to put our hands on him.”

  “Really? And that is why you look as if you’d like to snap that quill pen, is it? Because you can’t?”

  “I’m just surprised you have heard the name when I was assured yesterday that you knew nothing of any smuggling rings hereabouts.”

  How sodding rich was that when that same smuggler had as good as sold her over a barrel and only said it to save his skin?

  “Well, I don’t. That is no lie. The Rhodes never associated themselves with smugglers. Wreckers either. The Rhodes have never been less than decent, honorable, law abiding people.”

  “And yet, yesterday, unless I am very much mistaken, we removed several barrels from your summerhouse, the kind that law abiding, decent—”

  “Because I didn’t put them there.”

  “I see.”

  So did she, that the words had tumbled out before she could stop them. But really this was not going as she’d hoped. And it wasn’t just that there was something deadly in the silence that sat on this man shoulders like a cobra, about the blackness of the velvet ribbon that tied his lank brown hair, even the crisply pressed bunch of lace at his throat either.

  “Well then?” He tapped the feathered end of the quill against the desk. “Who did? This Cleanser you came in here claiming you know so much about?"

  How sodding rich was that?

  Not rich at all when just maybe, when it came to skin, it was time to save hers?

  Besides, she’d given Tom Berryman’s name to another smuggler to keep Doom Bar Hall. Of course she hadn’t known at the time it was to a smuggler. Now she did though why not do this? Ignore the ice-cold shiver that inched up her spine? Halve her problem?

  “The man you brought here yesterday. Me house guest. Divers O’Roarke.” She cleared her throat. “So yes, to answer your question, I do think I know who the Cleanser is.”

  “Go on.”

  What? No exclamation? No demand to know how she knew this? Just his eyes sitting on her like festering maggots in the sea–washed darkness. Except the room wasn’t dark, there was no sea washing against the walls in the darkness. No sea, period. Just the smell of it, wafting in the window. She lifted her chin higher. To do less would say Divers O’Roarke’s behaviour last night undermined her. She straightened her shoulders.

 
“I think I said. Didn’t he tell me himself?”

  “What? That he is the Cleanser? When was this exactly? In your dreams?"

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "I asked you to go on."

  Intensely aware of Lyon’s gaze boring holes in her, she lowered her own. Very well, to agree here would be to see Divers O’Roarke hang. This man, this creature, this part of her past, her childhood, her adulthood. And not just that? If it was just that … well?

  And she should care when she couldn’t rely on herself any more? And he’d broken bits of herself last night then discarded them like old shoes this morning. Just because she’d already fallen that far, was it any reason to let herself fall further? A problem shared was a problem halved. Surely? Some would say hers would certainly be when she got him out from under her feet. In fact, when he was hung her problem wouldn’t just be halved. It would be gone completely. Well?

  Only think of the reward for turning him in. Doom Bar Hall, which he'd only gone and nicked from Orwell in a card game. Well? Not what had happened last night. And how he'd kissed like nothing on earth and seemed strangely vulnerable.

  What if he used the honorable seat of the Rhodes for generations as a place to hide his ill-gotten gains? All right, she accepted she'd done that. But that was to fund the restoration, keep the place on its feet and the servants in jobs. She hadn't stolen these kegs. What if he got arrested? She’d be strung up with him. Anyway, she’d come here, hadn’t she, to land them both in it, him and this man?

  So? That may have changed a bit in the interim, the principle was the same. Why start and not finish? She passed her tongue over her lips.

  “He didn’t tell me in so many words. No."

  "Actions speak louder, did they?"

  Damn him. "I mean he never said he was the Cleanser but he did tell me he is a smuggler, a wrecker too, and I'll thank you not to imply otherwise as to how I know, but to keep a civil tongue in your head. He said that he uses his business of designing houses and gardens as a front. You’d have to question why he ever came back here, what he was doing in Daindridge’s the other night. I know I have been. So why shouldn’t he be the Cleanser? Well?”

  “Because some say the Cleanser is an exciseman, gone to the bad.”

  “Really? Tom Berryman certainly seemed—” She bit her tongue. He was not the person to mention here. “I mean, Divers O’Roarke has always been as dishonest as the day he was born.”

  “That’s as maybe. Being dishonest does not a smuggler make. It is not an offence in law. Consider the jails if I was to arrest every dishonest man, woman, or child. For that matter the jails don’t exist that could hold them. Have you never done anything dishonest? Is sitting here like this not what you might consider dishonest?”

  Destiny fought the images of barrels that bobbed into her head, fought not to finger the back of her neck too. Her? Dishonest? Had she ever heard the likes? Hadn't she come in all honesty to get Doom Bar Hall back?

  It was scant protection for what this was really about. But how could she face what this was really about? What? Right now? Her throat tightened.

  "Well, if you’re not going to listen, I should at least like it noted that I came here in good faith, should you discover that, at the end of the day. he—”

  “I would need proof, Miss Rhodes.”

  What was he saying? That Rome was not built in a day? By God it would have had she been a builder. She sat forward.

  “Proof? Isn’t the fact these barrels were found in my summerhouse proof enough that you can hang him at the Penvellyn crossroads, a warning to any who cross the law here?”

  “And let the crows peck his bones, eh?” Lyon chuckled. Despite the fact the sound was not unlike these same rattling bones, she nodded.

  “Yes. Why not, if he broke the law and put these barrels there?”

  “Oh, I’d like to hang the perpetrator, believe me.”

  “Then why don’t you?”

  “Well here’s the thing, Miss Rhodes. He said it was you.”

  ***

  Her? Opening the door to her room, obviously Divers Roarke’s rather, which was probably why he was facing what was also technically his looking glass above his mantelpiece now too, Destiny did not feel quite the same as the woman who had left it earlier.

  Still--let her heart sing joyful songs of elation--she had been to Lyon. She had allied herself with him. In a way. Not the way she’d hoped. True. But so long as she could put aside the rankling words, ‘You say one word of what I am about to reveal, to anyone and I will personally see you hang at the nearest crossroads for smuggling. Do you understand?’ was it so bad, really?

  She did understand. Lots.

  That Orwell lay sprawled in some or other state of inebriation, snoring in a chair and Divers O’Roarke stood here with his back to her, wearing a coat, meaning he’d gone out, was not ideal but it was to be expected. She was Destiny Rhodes, after all. Able to first guess everything and anything. Even if her latest second guess had sort of backfired in a way that had scorched her eyebrows.

  Doom Bar Hall was still at stake. Doom Bar Hall. What Lyon had said meant that Doom Bar Hall was still on the table. She’d keep quiet all right at a price. Of course, while she’d wanted to say as much to Lyon, somehow it had seemed safer being a serious contender for winning the golden apple in the keeping her mouth shut, competition—for now.

  In truth? At that point she’d struggled to say anything at all. Any reaction had been tempered by Divers O’Roarke’s treachery towards her. The payback for everything she, Orwell and Chancery had ever done to him. The payback she must now overcome in order to face him down coolly as if it was no trouble to her and last night was nothing. That his treachery, after she had extended the hand of friendship towards him, was pitiable really.

  Imagine not being able to move on in your life, even after having heard the truth about Rose and that particularly stupid time in Chancery’s life, certifiable on a scale of idiocy—Chancery would marry her, indeed. No wonder their father had had an apoplectic fit and told him where to go.

  Now, some might say she could not move on either. But the fact was that curse uttered for nothing had killed Ennis, as surely as if Divers O’Roarke had pushed his carriage down that ravine that night.

  So, mustering her cold calm—what else could she do?--she stepped inside the room and closed the door.

  “Divers. And Orwell too? Amn’t I the honored one?”

  “Where were you?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  Her throat tightened so the breath stuck in the back of it. What if Lyon did indeed agree to let her have Doom Bar Hall when this was over but then Divers O’Roarke didn’t because she’d gone to Lyon? Despite the deep breath she dragged, her mind emptied except for one thought. She should never have done it.

  So long as she didn’t say she had--and why should she?—and Lyon could be persuaded to say it was about something else, this would be fine.

  “Divers, exactly why would you think I would go anywhere? Well? Apart from round the garden?”

  “Because I know you.”

  “Really?” Ignoring Orwell snoring like a pig in her best armchair, squashing the antique shawls belonging to Grandmother Tintagel, she edged into the other chair. “How glad I am that you clarified that. Well, then, let’s drop all the pretence about where I went when you know perfectly well, it was hardly along the cliffs to the bay, round the garden either. And you told me you were a smuggler in the express hope that I wouldn’t. Came to this room last night too. Indeed have done everything to cloak your questionable deeds when I’d say you’ve used me and this situation all along. You even had Tom Berryman’s name from me by false means. Please don’t look shame-faced about it. Well? Let’s drop all the pretence, not just about where I went and why, but what I heard there too.”

  “Heard there?”

  “And talk, talk frankly, shall we? About exactly who you are, why you are here and what I would like from the situation.”<
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  She peeled off her gloves. Yes. She had meant to say nothing. Why should she when he had done her the very great courtesy of insulting her? It meant she could be more measured than an inch tape, despite the desire that had risen in her hot and dark, to take a mallet off his treacherous head. Lyon was his boss. Not the other way about. Why shouldn’t he pay for her silence? Why shouldn’t she be exactly as Divers O’Roarke thought? He’d probably planned Lyon telling her the truth in advance, with Lyon. And she’d only gone and moaned shamefully in his arms.

  “Now, why would I do that?”

  “Because I know you of old, Divers, I also know you lied. So please, don’t insult what intelligence you believe I have by continuing to do so.”

  “Are you sure you’re not speaking of yourself and the little web you always liked to spin, to sit in like a spider too.”

  “Goodness, the name’s Destiny, not Arachne.” Anyone would think he didn’t know that Lyon had told her everything. Why should she be played with like this? “No, Divers, you have me fair and square. Do you really think I’d choose risking being put out of here, over choosing Doom Bar Hall? That is why, having been to Lyon and told him everything, I am allying myself fully with you and will say nothing to anyone about the dirty little game both of you are playing here.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  If she’d flung a bucket of snakes in his face Divers O'Roarke couldn’t have felt a sharper sting of surprise. Him? And Lyon? Not in his book as such. “I’m sorry?”

  “No, you’re not. That would be a first. And much as I played games in the past, I admit it, I don’t now.”

  Much was the word on the tip of his tongue about the games she played all the damned time. She was playing one now. But the knowledge spider crawled with inch long spikes attached to each leg, across his scalp. That the thought she might not be playing should thud, didn't just make him catch his breath. It made him feel that what breath he did catch might conceivably be his last. But how could he very well let it be?