“Jesus … man … You’ve killed her.” Gil leapt up, his eyes raked by specters.
“On that you’re wrong, if that is what you think.” Lyon’s voice shook. “What I’ve done is rid the county of—”
“Oh, I’m sure you think you have, old chap, but I am afraid I rather agree with Mr. Wryson here that you have killed her—my God--whether you meant to is, of course, debatable.”
Astonishment raked what tiny bit there was left of Divers scalp to rake. Orwell Rhodes, dapper in his perpetual cream coat and green neck-tie, moonlight glittering on the silver handle of his cane, and whatever laced his eyes, fell on his knees beside Divers, his face somber as a tomb.
“I’ve no doubt that Mr. O’Roarke is who you were aiming for. But, from where I’m sitting, I have to say that your aim is none too good. And so you’ve shot her dead. My sister. My God. How could you do this?”
“He hasn’t.” Divers held her limp body closer, fighting what tore at his lungs. “She’s not dead—”
“Well, she’s not moving that’s for sure, old chap. But, thank the Lord, there are penalties. Yes, even here in this God forsaken place, for this sort of thing. My sister. You’ve killed my sister.” Orwell pressed his fingertips to the drops that ran like quicksilver from his eyes.
“Mr. Rhodes, she killed her—”
“He’s right.” Had Divers ever thought to see the day he would see eye to eye with Orwell but Destiny Rhodes was lifeless against his chest. There was a first for everything, including the fact his tongue felt like nails in his mouth. But it was the least he could do now. “This is murder.” There was a first for letting go too of a cover that was already blown. What the hell had she done this for? Nothing, if he let this go. He couldn’t let it go. Her body maybe for now but not this. Never this. Somehow he struggled to his feet, tossed the hair back from his face. “You, men ... You know who I really am. You know we wear the same uniform. This is twice now this man has murdered a woman simply because she was with me. Because he could. Because you let him away with it the first time. And me? I had to pretend I didn’t wear your uniform. But I do. And I’m done pretending. I’m stripping him of his command. Arrest him.”
“A good try but you wouldn’t dare.”
“But I do dare. Just as you’ve dared twice now. I dare I’ll see you on the gallows too.”
“Not when it becomes known who you really are. What you really are.”
“I’m Divers O’Roarke, once of Connaught House in Cork. Try as you might, turn up what you like, you won’t find any more than that.”
“Oh, I think the record will show—"
“Now take him.” He flicked his gaze to the excisemen, dark in their corded coats in the sliver of moonlight, eased a frozen breath. Dares also needed a certain level of calm. He was second-in-command. Being that wasn’t worth a chipped farthing if no-one obeyed him.
If he leapt at this man with the black fury that was boiling in his veins, the desolation that scalded them dry, as Christ was his witness, he’d do no good if Lyon levelled that pistol on him and he’d been no good to Eirwin. “Not that it should matter but this woman has connections here. You can’t go around shooting those that do.”
“Well said, old chap.” Orwell pressed Destiny’s lifeless hand to his chest. “Well said.”
“I’m not your chap and I’m not old. Now … ” Ignoring the nerve ticking in his cheek, he glared at the man closest. “Do it.”
By Christ he’d never been so desperate to see anyone obey him in his life. Destiny Rhodes had her uses, Orwell did too, although the pleasure any of that might once have given him festered like poison in his veins. He couldn’t look as Lyon surrendered his pistol, was hand-cuffed, led away, each sound searing itself into his senses, until there was only the quiet rise and fall of the waves and maybe what breath was left in his lungs.
And then there he was standing on the shore as men he’d come to know were hustled past him by men he knew better. At his feet kegs bobbed at crazy angles, the sound echoing in his heart. This was his life going down here, because whatever he was, or wasn’t, whichever way he looked at it, he’d gotten involved. It didn’t matter he’d never touched what he’d taken. The fact was he had it. He’d got involved with Destiny Rhodes too. He had to, to feel like this.
Jesus Christ. Now what? Apart from closing his eyes, drawing another breath into his tortured lungs, flicking his eyes back open, trying not to stagger into the waves and vent his agony to the heavens, to the horizon, to the sky that wouldn’t hear him. Now what?
A voice spoke, a familiar voice that cut into what was left of his senses,
“Has that sodding stoat gone yet?”
***
Destiny Rhodes. How the hell could it be, not just Destiny Rhodes, but Destiny Rhodes sitting up? “Oh, for any’s sake Divers, stop trying to win first prize in the oh how amazed am I competition, by letting your jaw lie about the sand like that--and help me up." She held out her hand. " You didn’t seriously think I’d take a bullet for you. Now, did you?”
He didn’t. He didn’t anything for the shock that thudded through him, driving his breath to the four corners of his being. Destiny Rhodes … Destiny Rhodes was alive. Not just alive, alive and holding court in that matter of fact, I’ll just open me mouth way. How the bloody hell was that when he’d just seen her die?
His mind reeled but he clasped her hand. Christ, he didn’t for one moment imagine she’d go to all these lengths for him either. Time was all she’d bought and what would be the point of spending herself on that? For him? He hardly needed it. Orwell dropped his funereal expression as if it was a hot coal.
“Destiny, old girl … ”
“Well, it's not me sodding namesake. For God’s sake, Orwell, who invited you to the party?”
“I … I saw you go out. I thought … I thought you were mad but you did it.”
“I did. Yes. Sir Tredwynne’s breastplate does have its uses. But that doesn’t explain why you followed me.”
“Because I knew you had the old chap’s breastplate. I knew you were up to something. And then … then I could see Divers here needed a bit of help.”
“Well, while I didn’t take a bullet, I did do this for you, Divers. Lyon was going to kill you. Come hell, or high water he had you in his sights. He knew you and Gil were on the take. But now, now you can take charge of this, clear your name. I’ve bought you the chance while he’s locked up.”
“Bought me the chance?” Oh, how quickly did he go from one thing to another? What was he missing here? The fact she’d squawked once too often and felt obliged to row backwards? That she had told Lyon he was the Cleanser? “Jesus, Destiny, while I’d like to thank you for the stunt you’ve just pulled off, how the hell is that buying anything when he finds out you’re alive? And comes after you? Well?" He gestured hopelessly. Her gaze, confident in the moonlight, met his.
“Oh, it’s quite simple. In fact I’m surprised a man of your undercover capabilities hasn’t thought of it. I will just claim one thing in addition to Doom Bar Hall, which you will give me. Yes. Don’t you see? I was only … ”
Wounded? Was that the word her lips died on? But then she glanced down at what coated her moonlit fingers. A crimson, seeping stain that crept as if from an ancient crypt, onto the stomach of her gown.
Blood.
Hers.
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
Never mind tiresome. Or impossible. Lyon couldn’t have shot her beneath the edge of the breastplate? With Doom Bar Hall in her sights too? What kind of justice was that? She hadn’t felt a thing. Yet, now she did. A slow sinking of her blood to subterranean levels she hadn’t known existed. When she’d had to do this.
So Divers O’Roarke, his equally boundless aura of power, his ceaselessly handsome body, and all the things she tried so hard to hate him for, never troubled anyone here again. So that she was free, not just of him, of Lyon, from this situation that that would otherwise have bound her to him, in chains.
Because she didn’t hate him. She just couldn’t, wouldn’t, love him. Someone as cursed as her—how else could she have been shot?—should let their heart be empty. And hers was. What was more she'd had done a not very nice thing saying he was the Cleanser, even if he was.
Down. Down. Down.
All the way to dusty death. While she’d died a thousand times before, she’d never really died. Not so all she could see was the retreating threads on the breast of Divers O’Roarke’s coat. Soft, weaving beneath her fingertips, laced by damp and smelling of the ocean. Going now, replaced by the thud of his heart against her ear as her head bumped against his chest. “Christ, man … ” Replaced by his blurry voice too, the drip, drip of water around her in the strangely roofed darkness. “What the hell is this place?”
Well, what the hell was it? The passage to hell? She tried raising her head, failed.
“Oh, I imagine it’s what you’ve been looking for, old chap.” Orwell’s voice? Was that Orwell’s voice? Or a muddy echo? She couldn’t tell, only that her teeth chattered. “For some of the time anyway. But let’s just say it’s the quickest way of getting her to the house now. I’m not going to stand on ceremony about that. She’s my sister and she’s wounded.”
“You mean she did know of … ?”
“No, no. Not guilty. She believed Raven’s Passage was the stuff of legend. In many ways it is. The gold business? That’s legend.”
What? Only her heart hammered so loudly, had she misheard?
“And how the hell do you know it’s not legend? What the hell were you really doing on that beach tonight?”
“What do you think, old chap? That I’m really the drunk everyone thinks me? No. The answer is quite simple. Ridiculously simple in fact. Because I’m the one you’re all looking for. I’m the Cleanser.”
***
The Cleanser? That was what she’d heard anyway. My God. When she'd said it was Divers O'Roarke? How could it not be Divers O’Roarke? No wonder her whole body juddered as he eased her onto the mattress in her bedroom and her breath caught. How had she even come to be in her room? She tried to speak but nothing came.
"Easy, girl. Not just now. I've got you. Do you hear? Bring the lamp, Gil. And light that candle.”
"Sir ... you’re not ..."
Not what? She wanted to know but how could she when everything had fuzzy black edges, her teeth were making a funny noise. And Orwell …? Orwell was the Cleanser. He'd told Divers. Why? Because he knew what? That Divers might turn a blind eye? Unless? Unless, there was some other more sinister reason Orwell had told him? My God. A lot of good he'd be to her then. As for her noble sacrifice? As for getting Doom Bar Hall if Lyon got free? As for anything? If she could stop juddering she'd know but she couldn't. As to why she was juddering?
"Now, Gil. Hurry. It's all right, Destiny. You're all right.”
Never mind her, what about Great Grandmother Endelienta’s sewing box as he upended it, raking through the contents? The clatter as it hit the boards showed the most shocking lack of respect for its age and welfare. She tried saying so but who was she to argue when she couldn’t speak? And she'd done this awful, awful thing? This thing that made her shake harder--did the bed frame rattle? This thing she could of course deny.
"I need you to hold still."
“W-what d-d-do you t-t-t-think I’m trying to do? Judder uncontrollably for the g-g-g-good of m-m-me health?”
Ignoring her he bent closer, so the dark wing of hair fell over his brow. “I'm going to look at this.”
Not when the farthing dropped that Lyon had told the truth on that beach. But maybe that was why he snatched the scissors? So he could stick her with them before she could say what a lie, shocking and unprecedented told by people who didn't like her, it was. But should she? The struggle, the struggle, when she was going down through black clouds, as if she was a marionette whose strings had been cut and these clouds were rushing up to meet her was too much.
Down, down.
She hit the bottom of the well even as she struggled to surface. She had done a terrible thing betraying him to Lyon. And still, here he was, trying to save her.
Well, he couldn’t. She didn’t need his salvation. She was going to Ennis. It was all she wanted now. And so sodding easy when she thought of every cliff edge she had ever stood on in these past two years. And oh God, there had been many. But Orwell was the Cleanser. She needed Divers O'Roarke to sod off now before a different net closed about him.
She knew exactly how to get him to do it too.
After all, tell him the truth and she wouldn't see him for dust.
“D-Divers … P-please listen. I h-have something t-t-to t-t-ell you. On that b-beach, L-Lyon w-wasn’t lying. A-About m-m-me an-an-and … H-he was telling t-t-the truth.”
“Not just now, girl, he's not capable. So ..?" Dragging his gaze and his fingertips from her face, he grasped the scisssors. “What you said back there in Raven’s Passage, Orwell, is it something I should worry about? Or not?”
Maybe his throat had tightened, his hands were trembling--no wonder given that nightmare journey off that beach, not to mention that startling revelation, step one, was still step one here. He ran the scissor blade through the candle flame.
“What? Christ, man, you’re not seriously going to slice her up?” Orwell ran his fingers through his hair. “We need to get a doctor.”
“Divers knows what he’s doing.” Gil set the candlestick on the bedside table.
Christ, he only hoped, given what glazed his palms. "But to answer your question, I could, of course, make the wrong incision.”
He wouldn’t but as he cut into her bodice, it did no harm to say. Orwell was the Cleanser. The scores it settled, the slates it wiped forever clean, were almost too good to be true. And things that were, generally weren’t. But here he was and he wasn’t going any time soon. How could he? As it was he'd no idea if he could save her. So he needed to know the hunter had not become the hunted.
“D-Divers … No. L-listen, w-whatever you s-say, I did … I’ve done an awful t-thing. Such an awful t-thing to …”
“Well, I am the Cleanser. Good God, yes. But that doesn’t mean I’m anything to be feared, old chap. That’s just balderdash. Do I look like anyone to be feared? No. We just had to do something here about you excisemen snooping about wrecking our trade. And really, if you want to know the truth—I’d be a damn site happier if you'd just let me ride for the physician."
Another snip. Now to get the breastplate off. "Worrying you, am I?"
"Yes! I mean no. I mean … Well." Orwell took out a handkerchief and mopped his brow. "You're not exactly inspiring me with confidence, old chap. And Havelock lives … Havelock lives not a quarter hour’s ride away. I could go."
"We don't doubt that you could, sir." Gil now set a basin of water down in the candlelight. "The question is who else lives not a quarter hour's ride away, if you don't mind me saying, that is. The question is who you might fetch."
"Me? Old chap? You think that I--while my sister lies dying--would take the opportunity to turn you both over to the scum of the county?"
“In a word? Yes. Actually." Divers flicked his gaze sideways. The hell, was there no end to the bits of a woman’s gown? The breastplate was welded to the chemise and the chemise was welded to her skin. He needed to see what he was dealing with. As things stood he’d no idea how bad this was, apart from the fact his fingers were sticky and she turned paler by the second. As for the hot, sweet smell burning incense-like in his nostrils? That wasn't just blood. It was death.
“Not when she’s my sister. When she’s—" Orwell dug in his pocket, for what Divers had no idea. But then again ..? He raised his head.
“I’m hardly going to kill her. But if you kill me, then --. Just think about it a moment will you?"
"Then help her. Just ... just help her."
He paused. "In case you haven't noticed it is what I am trying to do. I'd do it better if you'd be quiet and ta
ke this." He edged the breastplate free.
“Very well but she didn’t do all this for you to stay here. Don’t you see that? You should be at the jail, taking charge. Lyon thinks you are the Cleanser—”
"And don't think I need reminding why that probably is."
"D-D-Divers ... Y-you you m-must.”
“I don't need reminding that you preferred she thought it was me either."
“Look, I could have told her, you know. I accept it." Orwell took the bloodied breastplate Divers handed him. "But then what? You know what a damnable loose cannon she is when she gets going—"
"But as for me going right now ...?” He peeled the last piece of chemise back. At last. At last he was through the sodden silk. As for what he saw? Was it better or worse than he expected? He hauled a breath into his screaming lungs.
“I h-have d-done a terrible thing. The m-most t-t-terrible thing t-to you.” Right on cue she caught his hand. The level of tenderness that rose in his gut, swamped everything else.
“That’s not possible, girl.”
“Yes. It is. B-because I did. I did it. I b-betrayed y-you. I betrayed y-you to Lyon. I t-told him y-you were the C-Cleanser. And I need … I just n-need your …"
He swallowed. What? His forgiveness? She had taken a bullet for him. She could have it with bells on. Sodding ones at that. Now he saw how shrunken, how haggard, how pale she was, what the hell else could he do here but give it? Lyon could just as easily have shot her in the head. So yes. Yes, he gave it.
He parted his lips. But maybe that was what she wanted Lyon to do? Bloody hell, the thought thudded, raking his scalp with shock, along with the thought it was something he understood. And he did. He understood. Only too well he understood. Everything. He leaned closer.
“And I don’t forgive you if that’s what you want to hear—"
“But, you--you m-must—. Ennis. E-Ennis is waiting. H-he is waiting f-for me.”
O'Roarke's Destiny (Cornish Rogues Book 1) Page 23