“Your designated area? My, my? Please do tell me, to what do I owe this very great honor of being invited here by the majesty of Doom Bar Hall himself?”
As she swept into the library, with God knew whose books on the shelves and the heap of rubble on the floor, Divers O’Roarke glanced round from his contemplation of the mantelpiece, the grey eyes distant as the North Star--the polar opposite of earlier when she'd thought it would be good to know he didn't feel protective and then he'd told her he didn't in no uncertain terms. “What do you think?”
“I didn’t know I was expected to. I thought what was expected is that I remain out of your way in me—"
“Raven’s Passage.”
“Oh, right." Great. "What about it?” As if she couldn’t guess--that had only taken about four hours, after all--so she might as well.
He thrust his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets. “Unless you want me thinking there was some other reason you wanted to talk to Lyon earlier, where is it?”
When he knew she was lying too.
Had he really called her downstairs from her contemplation of the bedroom ceiling for this? Oh, and counting her blessings. How could she possibly forget about that? When he was the one who had escalated it and was running about with some other woman. Something she had never done. But maybe it had dawned on him their paths were never going to cross? And he didn't like it?
“Well, you seem to think there was anyway, so I really don’t see the point of disabusing you of your heartfelt belief.”
"Maybe you don’t but Lyon will."
“And you expect me to, what? Give a flying proverbial about that when you told me earlier to stay out your way and that me leaving would only increase Lyon's suspicions about you? It was before you were fawning all over that woman out there, mind you, so maybe what you now want is me to go, so she can come in?"
“So you were watching?”
“I was looking out the window. Shall we just say she was hard to miss? You were too, before you go thinking I was spying. Anyone would have thought she was great God Almighty, or at the very least, His first cousin."
And anyone would think she was great God O’Blabby, the way she’d come out with that. But so long as she didn’t come out with any more, did it matter? And she wouldn't. Dragging her in here like this, when she was well done with it.
He sighed deeply. Oh here it came, he didn't just thnk she was spying, he knew, no halfpenny short of tuppence that he was.
“She’s Molly’s mother. Gil gave her some money to bring Molly here. Seeing as you want to know.”
"Hardly." And she'd appreciate it too if he didn't speak to her as if she was an idiot he needed to spare. That coaxing--in fact downright cheeky way--he spoke about parrots and kitchens and things. "What you do in your spare time when you're not out catching smugglers is of no interest to me."
Not if she was cut to pieces and sewn back together again with rusty wire. He could bring the damn woman in if he wanted. Hadn’t she thought as much the night he first walked back in here, after all? Well? And he needn't think she cared about it or try to wheedle some other response from her. It wasn't necessary to feel alive. In fact being done with it gave her more time to get on with her cushion covers and things.
Again his gaze lingered on some distant spot. "I imagine she needed the money."
"Really?" She fixed her dullest stare on him. It was hardly difficult. "And I do too that there's plenty ways to earn it."
"It's not easy leaving an abusive husband."
"You'd know this, would you, nice, little woman that you are?"
"No. But Eirwin was. And she did."
“I see. And you’re telling me this, why?" Despite what pounded in her ears like a dirty secret, it was no trouble to speak. "So I’ll be nice, take me barricades down and tell you about Raven’s Passage? Like I did with Tom Berryman? Which I never should have done, now you're going to work with him in order to arrest him. Hang him in all probability too. Nah, that ship has sailed. Look out the window and you might spot it in the bay."
"I don't make the laws."
"No. But you carry them out."
“You think smugglers and wreckers should go free?”
"Do you, when you were involved with one of them? And then ...? Then she got killed. Well? Anyway, who says Tom Berryman's a wrecker?"
"I need something to give Lyon. And you will give me that something, Destiny. You will give me it now. Or you know what will happen."
"Hmmm. And pigs will fly round my head when I'm not exactly in a situation where I can afford to let them put their wings away either. Because, let's face it, you're not telling me all this about that woman, either of them, her or Erwin, to assure me you're done playing games about the house. Not when you’ve set designated areas and you think I'm spying. When you've told me you need me here anyway."
Well?
Or he’d have won first prize in the best shot in Cornwall competition for shooting her down over that claim about his spare time. But no, no. Instead he gave her all this cheek and guff.
Equally exactly what was she fighting here? What kind of sodding logic was it where she didn’t want him knowing she’d lied when he already did? And Lyon could whistle for that proof? Especially when the only way to get that proof was to go near Divers O'Roarke and now she couldn't. Even if she wanted to, she couldn't. She wasn't risking herself any more over him. Why should she?
She shrugged. So? The broom cupboard? The kitchen cold cupboard? She could soon show him something when it came to Raven’s Passage. And oh, how shocking, terrible it was, it appeared to have sodding well caved in.
The moment for any other truth had passed the second Divers O'Roarke raised that glass to his lips and said designated areas. Not now. Not ever was it going to come again.
If she’d said she hadn’t lied last night? If she hadn’t asked him to go first? But he’d had his chance to get off the fence. Instead he’d sat with his backside glued to the wire. She gave another shrug.
"But putting all that aside, Raven's Passage ... seeing as you tell me you want the whole truth and nothing but it ...?"
He raised his head. The dying rays of the slanting autumn sunlight painted his face in such ghostly bands, his eyes stood out like grey sentinels.
"What I want is the truth you want to give me. No more, no less."
Her heart lurched, down somewhere she’d be winning all manner of explorer competitions to find it in.
The way he’d said, ‘Lyon’ in answer to her question this morning had sounded like he'd pulled a suit of armour about him. In a hurry too. Why was that?
Because he searched for things too? So maybe? Maybe, talking doubts, should she give him the benefit of one? Last night they had been something to each other, after all. And that feeling, that feeling when she was with him …?
"Very well." Despite the fact her throat dried to the same status as a sun-dried brandy keg, an empty one, ravaged by a pack of alcoholics she jerked up her chin. "The truth is I lied."
He blinked, edging his gaze sideways. “Lied?”
“Yes. Which you already know. So I can’t imagine why you’re asking, but if you want me to tell you why I lied, it was because ... because--"
“An explanation … " His throat tightened. His chest too. Wasn't the drowning pool deep enough that he needed to pour more water in? Have her tell him what, and why? Why the hell was he even asking her? Because he felt bad about the havoc he’d wreaked with that curse?
It was, wasn’t it? Last night was something he should have dug his grave with a soggy piece of paper rather than let happen. It was plain as that same paper she’d been on her merry way earlier to tittle-tattle to Lyon.
Even if she hadn't, this was his life. If the world was flat he’d have sailed his ship off the edge and be falling into darkness by now. That’s how close to the edge he was. But the world wasn’t flat. It was rounded by the fact he could offer her absolutely nothing. Lyon had things on him that went far beyo
nd that last job.
The designated areas were things he never should have done. Not now she faced him up with that glazed, hopeful look, that spoke of glazed, hopeful things that had got him into such a deep hole last night. Wild, untamed things, which she’d always been more at one with than anything on the Earth. He swallowed. Anyway, maybe she hoped for nothing?
“An explanation will not be necessary.”
Her eyes sunk to the back of her head. Oh Christ, she did hope. And no Rose to blame for this either. “I see.”
So did he, that if he didn’t speak he was finished.
“You don’t know where the passage is? Fine.” Besides she’d had the chance. She’d had the chance earlier to stake her claim. What if she really meant was to betray him to Lyon, whatever the cost, whatever the reason? And this was all an act? She was a Rhodes, for Christ’s sake. They’d sell their old, their young, if they thought they could get a few bob for them in the marketplace. “And, after all, it will save you showing me a lot of rubbish in the broom cupboard, or the kitchen. Telling me it’s in your designated area.”
She stiffened even if she didn’t flinch exactly. So he did have the truth of that? Whatever this was to him in the dark, he’d kill it stone dead. If he’d to drain every drop of blood from his body and replace it with stone, he would, although what surged, just smelling her scent, was a deadly white flame, a slow burning need that made him just want to have her.
“Go to Lyon? Not go to Lyon? I suppose for each of us, that’s the choice. Now, if you don’t mind, this is my bit of the house.”
After this lucky escape, he’d damn well stick in it too.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“Good evening, Miss Rhodes.”
As the sombre voice spoke from the shadows of the hall, Destiny nearly shot through the roof. How shocking terrible was this? When what she really wanted was to see how things were in the dining room, she’d to contemplate a sodding, unsavoury stoat right here in Doom Bar Hall? And not the Divers O'Roarke stoat either. If it had been it wouldn’t have been anything she couldn’t handle. But Lyon--winning all manner of competitions for looking most like an undertaker and without removing his tricorn either? That was different.
As to how the stoat had gotten in and was lurking in the shadows at the far end of the hall, when there weren’t any servants? Well, that was probably why.
Lizzie, whatever her faults would never have let him over the doorstep without six pieces of paper saying who his parents were, never mind himself. And at least two more bits saying he was prepared to listen to her God-awful sermons. Whatever. She and Lizzie had understood each other that way. Oh, for three seconds of Lizzie now.
“You will pardon my intrusion and the fact I startled you?” he added graciously.
“Did you? I must admit that is news to me. But then so's many things."
Her reaction to that woman, for example, was surely to do with the fact, she'd just wanted to contemplate the bedroom ceiling but how could she if she didn't have a ceiling to contemplate? So now, here she was having to contemplate this weasely stoat instead.
If she didn't she might as well lie down and expire on the floor of the hall now.
She stripped off her gloves. “If you’re looking for Divers O’Roarke I do imagine he’s about somewhere. Just don’t expect me to know where.”
His gaze fastened on her. “Then let me tell you. He’s out.”
“Of course. How could I forget?”
“It’s you I came to see.”
“Me?" Oh, let her not waste a happy moment guessing why. Two words. Could the first begin with R. and end with S.?
So much for her belief that him being tack-sharp and that he'd know she was making Raven's Passage up and why. But maybe he was mince-thick and that was why he was lurking in the dark of this hall, lit by greying moonbeams, his scent old, bitter rowan berries in the faded air?
“And why’s that?”
“Why do you think, Miss Rhodes?”
Were the situation not so dire she’d have died laughing on the floor, the one she suddenly could not remember the most important thing about. When it looked beautiful for example. If it ever had, in fact. Not with the amount of soft-soled dances going on around her.
“Well, since you’re here asking me to, I’d say earlier is a good candidate, Mr.—?" Gracious. Did she call him Lyon, or what? Nothing at all, seemed the best idea.
“Please … call me, John.”
Right. As in this being more of a social call. She refrained from falling through the floor. Perhaps Raven’s Passage wasn’t going to come into it, after all? And all he wanted was to be called John and to have a cup of tea and a currant bun?
Although he'd be hard pressed to get that with no servants about the place and sod all food either, perhaps pigs flew?
“And I’d say that earlier isn't just a good candidate. It's an excellent one," he added.
That was a pity. "Really?"
"You are right, Miss Rhodes. But perhaps you were out looking for me?”
“Me? I mean, I did. I was. Yes. Went to see you, that is,” she lied. “But of course, you were here.”
“Because I was tired of waiting.”
"Right." The problem being what for. Hopefully it was that cup of tea because anything else would win first prize in the local most revolting thought imaginable competition. Still she had the way to deal with this. She unfastened her coat.
“Well, I’d ask you in—properly, that is--but I’m afraid, as things stand, I wouldn’t know which parts of the house are mine to ask you in to."
"And why is that?"
"You mean Divers O'Roarke hasn't told you?"
“He hasn’t.”
"Yes. And pigs fly all over Cornwall. High in the sky. When we all know he probably has. And if he hasn’t--got to you yet that is--he’s probably on his way as we speak. It will be to tell you what a liar I am and how he's split the house because of it. Obviously I didn’t come to Penvellyn sooner because I had to wait for me opportunity to do so. Anything more would have aroused his suspicions when he caught me talking to you earlier."
"You are going on rather a lot about Divers O'Roarke, Miss Rhodes."
“Only because he is a skunk.”
She set her coat on a chair, smoothed her hair back from her face. Actually she wasn’t going on about him half as much as she could.
“But you did have something to tell me? It’s why I’m here,” Lyon said.
Did she? When what she really wanted was to go upstairs and look out her recipe for lavender shortcake too. Maybe find some way of lighting the fire when her nose was pinched by the cold. The distance was there, spread like a long road in front of her. But really, she wasn't getting much chance to go it. Not with the kitchen probably barred to her now the house had been sawn in half. In fact the way this was going, that recipe was about as much as she was going to get.
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
“I hope so.”
Right. Well, she didn’t. Did he have a point though? Was she perhaps going on about Divers O’Roarke instead of applying herself to what was important, like finding that recipe? She'd given him his chance. And very good of her it was too, even if she wasn’t sure what she’d have done if he’d taken it. Some might say she'd never have gotten Doom Bar Hall for a start. And she was inclined to agree. Maybe for that matter Divers O’Roarke had banned her from half the house in order to spark a reaction in her? In which case she’d be failing in her duty not to give him one, now she'd gone to the wire and he wouldn't come off the fence? Lyon hadn't come all this way to leave empty handed. Had he? He wasn't here for a cup of tea either. And it was time to deal with that fact. Whatever she'd determined earlier, living or dying required a roof over her head. She passed her tongue over her lips.
“Very well, I have nothing much right now beyond what is being said in the village. No. I mean … I mean, I don't just fear that Divers O’Roarke knows you have asked me to spy. He's t
old me he does and that is why he’s now barred me from certain parts of this house. Look, before you say another word, unless it is your assurance that you never told him I am a spy, I will get you that information. But it will now be far harder, when you need exact proof. So, let’s agree, shall we, to name our prices. Mine is very simple.”
Doom Bar Hall. Tasks one, two and ten. If she could not get it from one man she most certainly would from another. The time for prevarication was over. When she fell to earth, as she would, when Divers O’Roarke moved on from this job, who would break her fall?
Certainly not the man who didn’t own the roof over either of their heads.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Destiny jerked upright in the moonlight. The thud somewhere along the landing would just about waken the dead. Certainly it had woken her. She’d sooner drag the bedclothes over her head and ease back down, than set one foot on the bare boards when the last several days had shown she was as far from being a corpse as whoever had made the noise. Forget how embarrassing it was that Orwell, not content with losing Doom Bar Hall, when he was several sheets to the wind, had only just gone and collapsed on the landing while he was a hundred sheets more and knocked Grandmother Tintagel’s delftware basin and ewer for six. Between him and Divers O’Roarke the house would be as much as she got, if she got it though.
She had to go out on that landing. She fished for her dressing gown, threw it over her nightgown, pulled the door open, all in the bitter cold. A candlestick was rolling about the corridor floor. Bending down she grabbed it. For God’s sake, the place would go up in flames next then what she'd get was a pile of ashes.
"Sod it, Orwell … For God’s—”
“Destiny.”
The tide went out on her mind except for one thought. Divers O’Roarke. What the hell was Divers O’Roarke doing leaning on Grandmother Tintagel’s side table, the one she’d brought from Camborne on her wedding day to Austell Rhodes? And not just leaning. Bent double over it in some kind of agony. Destiny fought not to drop her jaw. Was that sweat, or sea spray beading his generally handsome face? When it wasn’t bleached as dead men’s bones in the flickering light that was. What the hell was going on here? Oh wait … how could she forget his poor, broken ribs?
O'Roarke's Destiny (Cornish Rogues Book 1) Page 18