“Destiny, old girl, I hope you do not mind me asking but exactly what the blazes do you want with that? I mean I know you like to repair—”
“None of your sodding business.” She scrambled to her feet, brushing the dust off her skirt. “So why don’t you just go out and get drunk? Because me? I have things, important things to do.”
***
Destiny’s eyes were open before she knew it. Or was she so sodding tired, she just spent all night staring into the inky darkness? Five weeks to Christmas now. Time yet to raise a glass from the steaming punch bowl in the hall and library anyway, the dining room was still under wraps, to thread her garlands along the mantelpiece. At least she sodding hoped so.
The bed creaked as Divers O’Roarke pushed the covers aside.
“Where are you going?”
Icy moonlight silvered his face, glittering on the tips of his exquisite eye-lashes and his blatant disregard, his attempted blatant disregard for all she offered him, on his distrust of everything she was. The things she felt at all times, against her cheek, her lips, her body. Because whatever about him, whatever he thought, felt, business was business. She understood that now. A dangerous one perhaps, but business nonetheless. Somewhere outside an owl hooted.
“Now then Destiny, don’t pretend you don’t know. It’s hardly becoming, especially when you were probably listening to me earlier.”
She yawned. “And don’t you pretend you don’t get something out of the fact I’m not becoming. Every night in fact. You won’t mind if I go back sleep. I mean if you want to go out in the cold and the dark, that’s entirely your affair, I’m sure.”
He didn’t speak, just rose from the bed. Thank God she was meant to be sleepy. Ennis never had quite that width of bicep, that narrowness of hip, that---quite a lot actually, especially for someone who was meant to be averting her eyes and for whom business was also business and who was going to wrangle Doom Bar Hall out of this. Finally. Her way too.
It would not happen if she let her gaze drift to the perfect nakedness of the man who had just left her bed.
Divers O’Roarke was just a man and after tonight he was a man she would be done with. There was no room for anything else here just because some might say he had rather nice buttocks and was sort of half decent in bed. All right he was very decent. Indecent actually. But that did not a lifetime make. She wasn't exactly going to win the local happy ever after competition with him.
It hardly mattered there were times he came home, shaking, pouring a drink from the bottle, making out he was in complete control when she sat up, getting in to bed with her as if there was no tomorrow.
As she also knew, all things were temporary, even the raw, heart bleed bite of grief. She’d already stood at the graveside of one man she’d loved. And once was quite enough.
Twelve o’clock. The clock on the landing had just solemnly chimed the witching house. By one o’clock, the silent, mossy smuggling paths that led up onto the moor would be awash with the murmur of bracken, the owl light sparkle of forgotten stars, blurred by the men the night came to chase, in the sky the moon hanging like a silver orb.
She sighed. Provided she kept to her plan, by three o’clock this would all be over.
To her satisfaction.
Finally.
The door clicked shut and taking a deep breath, she rose from the bed.
***
Never had Divers been so glad of his low brogue, the softly spoken Irish that was second nature to him as in the moment when he rounded on Gil Wryson.
“What do you mean, Sir, leave it?” Do you really think I’m stupid enough, when we’re so nearly there? Job done?”
But, having stood in the ice-cold swirling tide, feeling the starving lather eat his boots, his stockings, his toes, for the last perishing half hour and having struggled against air cold and sharp as steel, to drag a breath into his frozen lungs, felt his nose run with every conceivable thing a nose could run with, wiped icy sweat from his brow, Sir, leave it, were not words he wanted to hear. Words he’d once picked Gil off the starving streets of London, alone, dirty, starving, despite the gold fob watch in his pocket, to hear ever, either. Gil’s eyes glittered with black despair.
“Sir, I know. That’s why I want you to give me the barrel. Just give me the barrel. That’s it. Easy. Easy. And just let me put it with the rest.”
Fury sparked along Divers frozen veins. Brandy, wine, tea, lace. Every tooth of hell, when Lyon next showed up, as it was written in Divers’ stars he would, he wouldn’t find so much as a missing drip, thread, leaf. There would be no more wrinkling his nose around Divers for the infinitesimal stink of rat, as he’d been doing since Divers came back to work. Why not just let this go? Let Gil roll the barrel through the marram grass to the cart, the bones of which stood out in the moonlight like a dead man’s? Well?
“Do you think me so dishonest I’m incapable. Is that it?”
He wasn’t letting it go without saying his piece though. How could he? Were the nostrils of all of them, Tom Berryman and his crew--dotted about the shoreline and the frothing brine--afflicted by that same stench? One that was more powerful than the night cold, festering seaweed and all that was decay? When he wasn’t, he wasn’t that rat. A different one perhaps, as Berryman and his family would see before the week was out. But not that one.
“Sir … " Gil’s breath stung his cheek. “I don’t anything.”
“That’s a first. I must say. A man who doesn’t think.” Divers grimaced, dragged the keg closer. “Because I think. I think all the time.”
And what he thought, glancing at Berryman, was he wasn't any different. Why not just take this barrel, take that trunk of lace? Put them with the rest. The ones he and Gil had secreted. Add to the gold they had stashed too? Get the hell out of this life, this life of deceit and lies now? Destiny Rhodes wasn't the insurance he needed. Obviously. Or sweat wouldn't slick his palms. Not just tonight. Every night he did this, then went home to a woman he shouldn't touch, had to touch and couldn't seem to damn well stop touching either, not if someone handed him a bent daffodil stalk and said, 'Stop it, or dig your grave with that.' That’s how poisonous this whole situation was to him, although he'd kept his outward cool over it because there were times when he had been suited to this work, was good at his job, before Eirwin, before he'd been left for dead, before he'd been drawn into worlds he never should have entered, had to see things he never should have seen, always, always to keep his cover, break the ring.
What he needed to do now was beat down any thoughts about heading off with this cask into the star-lit yonder and get to the end of things. Hand up Berryman, his brother, son. Leave three families with no man to fend for them. One with five orphaned children in it and a woman who couldn't walk. To know him was death sure enough.
“And I told you it was a mistake to come here. Let it go, man.” Gil tugged harder. So did Divers. Yes, he did need to let it go but why the hell should he just because Gil said so?
“Why?”
“Because you keep looking at Berryman."
"Maybe that's because a cat can look at a king. Thought of that, have you?"
"But he's not a king. He's someone you must take down and stop giving Destiny Rhodes wrong information about."
“I don’t necessarily do that. Not when, after some consideration, I saw it saved me setting up tiresome meetings with Lyon. Do you know how helpful that was?"
“Sir …”
“All right, once," he panted. "I thought about it once. Then I thought that sending Lyon on wild goose chases would show I have something to hide. When I don’t. Although no doubt you think I shouldn't even have done that. Now let go of the damned keg.”
“And why’s that?”
The voice cut bullet holes in his spine, knocking out his breath, nearly stopping his heart. But not quite. He dragged up his chin. Lyon, his eyes like ice chips in the moonlight, with his little ring of men, was probably to be expected. Wasn’t he in for the
surprise of his life though? Divers perused Lyon as the seconds crawled by, then held up his hands. Lyon was an exciseman. And Divers? Divers was a smuggler who’d just been caught. All in the game. Even if he hadn't known Lyon was going to pounce tonight.
Behind him curses laced the bitter air. Cold metal dented Divers' temple where Lyon’s pistol pressed.
“So you can take it to wherever it is you all take it?” Lyon’s voice was a low, throated growl. “Is that it, Mr. … ?”
Divers set his jaw, stood with as much icy calm as he could muster. In truth with the wind tearing at his hair and water swirling around his ankles, it wasn’t difficult. “O’Roarke.”
“Except that’s not what you do. Now, is it, Mr. O’Roarke?”
“If you say so.”
Here they went. It always had to look good, convincing. The play tonight was a little before curtain up time but who was Divers to argue? For that matter Destiny Rhodes may have informed on him. For that matter, Lyon may have all the information he needed on this ring now. Whichever it was, Divers hands were clean. So lily-white, he fought not to laugh. If this let him finish up earlier here, wasn't he the lucky one? Relief flooded. Had he really thought about stealing that barrel in order to finish up sooner?
“I do say so. And to answer my question, Mr. O’Roarke, or rather add to it, should we ask her?”
“Her?" Now he did laugh. "What the hell are you talking about? Her?”
“This.” Lyon stood back as two of his men dragged a squirming figure forward in as far as it was possible to drag that particular figure forward, backwards, or even sideways without being spat at, threatened, kicked. “What we’d call caught bonnie, snooping, on the far side of Heffin’s Bank.”
“I’m glad you think so even if no sodding brain is what it shows you have. Now, you tell your men to take their self-satisfied, smug--"
“But you’re here, aren’t you?” Lyon snarled.
“Obviously I’m here but not for him. Are you serious? In fact I came to tell—”
“So maybe you’d like to be reunited?”
“Not especially.” Because Divers didn't. He may have shot a hand out as she smacked against his chest, his heart had sunk to his boots. What the hell was she even doing here--on Heffin's Bank at that, the most obvious place anyone could be seen on? She was with Lyon? With Lyon surely?
“So you say." Lyon’s voice was deadlier than he’d ever heard it. “So? Tell me what, Miss Rhodes? When you’ve already told me everything?”
“Me?”
“That my own exciseman is the Cleanser, that I should keep an eye out for his betrayal tonight.”
“The Cleanser?” While it almost killed him, Divers allowed himself to live. To speak too. After all, was any of this so unexpected? Except perhaps the fact Lyon had just given the entire game away? Yes. Perhaps that was unexpected.
To give into the urge to run his tongue over his suddenly calcified lips was to show the alarm coating them. “That’s a very serious allegation. Even for a man like you. You better be sure you can back it up. Even my own man here, will tell you, it’s a lie. As for being an exciseman, any man here who believes—"
“I don’t need proof.” Lyon raised his pistol. “A man like me? Are you being ridiculous? A man like me just has to say. And no-one questions it. Not even these men here.”
“Well, I’m questioning it because if you’re basing it on her say so, her say so, is lies. It’s all she knows. All she’s capable of. She’s a snake. Believe me, if anyone knows that, it’s me.”
Thank Christ he’d never been a gentleman. The pang of guilt he suffered as he grabbed her wrist and dragged her squirming body from his, might have been much larger otherwise. As it was, it wasn’t even a pang. A pinprick. Anything.
To think he had had this woman in his bed not two hours ago. Thank Christ it hadn’t meant a thing. Thank Christ his brain was iced as the Moon above his head. Thank Christ for every woman he’d ever bedded undercover.
As for Lyon? The man no-one questioned? How true. Remembering Eirwin, the game Divers had been forced to play since, his mind actually swirled in the red curtain enveloping it. It would all be for nothing if he now admitted how sweetly Eirwin had drawn him into that world because he had cared for her even if he had never loved her. She had risked everything for him. It was the start of his fall. And even now a bit of him admitted he hadn't just kept Destiny Rhodes under his nose, in his bed as insurance. Some stupid, errant, certifiable part of him, that part of him that hated what he'd done cursing her that night, thinking now it might have been for nothing, was trying to keep her safe. Himself too. Everything she cared about, remember? When this was what she was?
Why not just admit it?
The click as Lyon cocked his pistol was unmistakable. It even froze Destiny Rhodes to the spot, the wind whipping her hair, cloak, the bony wrist his fingers clenched, everything.
“And yet, she wants you,” Lyon said.
“Her? Now isn’t that the funniest thing I’ve heard in quite a while when what she wants is Doom Bar Hall. She doesn’t care what hell she’d go down to, to get it. Yours. Mine. Gil’s there. The dog’s if need be. The kind of woman she is didn’t care who she offered herself to just so long as she won Doom Bar Hall back off the table.”
Hell’s shrunken teeth. Divers wanted to add that he meant it but terror iced his scalp, freezing his laughter to his mouth. Back, forwards, the pistol went. Him. Her. Him. Her. Slowly, with perfect deliberation. Christ Almighty, Lyon wasn’t going to shoot them both, surely? Eirwin was one thing. A poor man’s wife. But Destiny Rhodes? A name that held all beneath its sway, even now, whatever he said about her.
Unless, talking sways, Lyon was beneath hers?
“And yet, she never offered herself to me.” Lyon dragged a breath, looking at neither of them. “So? Miss Rhodes? Why do you want him?”
“Me?” Destiny Rhodes jerked up her chin. “Is there some other way to say you’re being ridiculous? A complete and utter cretin? Well? Is that what you want to hear? Hmmm? I thought not. So? Where do you want me to start? With the fact I always have? But you see, it wasn’t ladylike of me to say so, whatever he says about me.”
“What? What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Divers spun her round, glared into her hotly glazed eyes. An act. All of it an act. Even the way she thrust herself against him, leapt as if she wanted to eat him. Small wonder he shouted the words. “You know and I know you’ve never liked me. Ever. Ever. What is it? Do you want to get me damn well killed, is that it? Because of Ennis? Christ. Well, don't tempt me. Don't tempt me to--"
“Grant that a girl can change her mind, Divers."
"No, don’t touch me.”
"Can choose you. Yes. Because you made me.”
He tried stopping her but she stood on tiptoes so her lips were inches from his before he could stop them. Her frosted breath mingled with his, her lips moist crimson in the moonlight. Hot. honeyed, succulent as her eyes, her manner, when life wasn't even sweet, was it?
“I made you nothing. All these years the belle of the county. You never needed to act then. But now? Christ, you want to take your turn on the stage in Drury Lane.”
“If you ask me to. I'll do whatever.”
"Then damn well let go of me now. Do you hear? Get your lying, betraying, hands--"
"And still you want him? Stand aside,” Lyon
snarled.
“Fine. Then I will.”
“Thank Christ for that,” Divers muttered.
Now, just maybe, it would be possible to get out of this mess. How, he’d no idea but he clutched the bitter straw of hope. When death ..? Since that last job ..?
“Yes. I am nothing if not obedient. Something
neither of you have ever really understood about me.” Divers’ heart sunk further down his boots as she went on, her eyes glittering in the moonlight. “In fact, I don’t know that a lot of people have. To answer your question, seeing as Divers doesn’t want to, althoug
h I never would have thought he'd win any prizes for being coy and retiring, he would for being good in bed. Not that I have any idea what you’re like, John, but a woman doesn’t have to. No. Not to know whether she might like--”
The noise ricocheted around the rocks, the foaming beach, sending the night birds screeching to the sky. Divers' whole life flew towards him on a slowing bullet. He saw his father riding through the long grass in the meadows at Connaught House. His mother, Kitty, her red hair tumbling down her back, walking barefoot along the terrace in the drowse of summer bees. And Rose … Finally Rose.
In that second Rose, her eyes like black clouds, her mouth, a torn handkerchief, put out her hand to him, taking him home, to the white walls of Connaught House and everything that was in them, from the tumble of Latin books on the shelf behind the door, to the smell of tipsy apples stewing in the copper pot. To all that was his. Destiny Rhodes sank to her knees, then she sank into the sand. Her cheek thudded off the ground, sending grains spinning everywhere.
The candle of generosity that flamed inside him extinguished the fury at her treachery. In fact it extinguished everything--even the fact she'd called Lyon John--except the ice cold agony in his brain. She had stepped in front of him. Why the hell had she stepped in front of him and taken what was meant for him? So now? Now she lay there. A dark stain, a dying cloak, water swirling around her. He thudded onto his own knees, trying desperately to gather her up, everything washing past and around him, wheeling above his head, like circling birds in slow motion. Dead? His breath tore. She couldn’t be dead. But her flesh was cold, shrunken beneath his fingertips, her body like ice as he dragged it against him.
“Destiny … Christ, girl, come on, speak, speak to me," the words also tore, ripped by the wind from his throat as he shouted them. But this wasn’t happening. It wasn’t happening. Connaught House? How the hell could he be there one minute and here the next? "No … It’s all right. You’re all right. You’re not Eirwin. It’s all right. It’s going to be all right. Truly." He pressed his mouth to her hair.
O'Roarke's Destiny (Cornish Rogues Book 1) Page 22