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

  O’Roarke’s Destiny By Shehanne Moore

  Black Wolf Books.

  Kara imprint

  Digital Edition Copyright © 2019 Shehanne Moore

  CORNISH ROGUES

  ‘We are the life we live. Its graces and its pain.’

  LICENSE NOTES.

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to the vendor of your choice and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Acclaim for Shehanne Moore

  ‘There are many reasons I enjoyed this story but like the other Moore books I’ve read, I can narrow it down to…

  1. The folksy idioms threaded throughout the story

  2. The female characters who are so independent, a man is an accessory

  3. Strong men who deserve to be felled by a good woman

  4. Laughing, laughter and more laughing

  5. Sensory scenes that will make you sigh or shake your head in astonishment

  6. An ending that satisfies.’

  Author—Ann Fields

  ‘Her characters are real: gritty, decent and flawed as the rest of us. And ultimately, as redeemable by love we all are. Though it’s bloody hard work for them sometimes!’

  Author--Paul Andruss

  ‘I’m becoming a big fan of Ms. Moore’s work as I discover more and more of her unique scenes and roguish but loveable characters.’

  Author—Carolee Croft

  ‘Talented author Shehanne Moore never disappoints me with her books with a touch of darkness.’

  Book Reviewer—Nicole Laverdure

  ‘Ms Moore’s books are always everything but ordinary.’

  Author—Erin Moore

  Rogues… Rakes… Smugglers… Vikings… Highlanders… Pirates…

  Other books by Shehanne Moore

  Black Wolf Books

  Splendor– London Jewel Thieves

  Loving Lady Lazuli—London Jewel Thieves

  His Judas Bride

  The Unraveling of Lady Fury

  *

  Soul Mate Publishing

  The Writer and The Rake – Time Mutants

  The Viking and The Courtesan –Time Mutants

  Meet the Author

  When not cuddling inn signs in her beloved Scottish mountains alongside Mr. Shey, or spending time with their family, Shehanne Moore writes dark and smexy historical romance, featuring bad boys who need a bad girl to sort them out. She firmly believes everyone deserves a little love, forgiveness and a second chance in life.

  Shehanne caused general apoplexy when she penned her first story, The Hore House Mystery—aged seven. From there she progressed to writing plays for her classmates, stories for her classmates, plays for real, comic book libraries for girls, various newspaper articles, ghost writing, nonfiction writing, and magazine editing. Stories for real were what she really wanted to write though and, having met with every rejection going; she sat down one day to write a romance, her way.

  http://shehannemoore.wordpress.com/

  https://www.facebook.com/ShehanneMoore

  http://shehannemooreweeblycom.weebly.com/‎

  https://twitter.com/ShehanneMoore

  Once he’d have died to possess her, now he just might…

  Beautiful, headstrong young widow Destiny Rhodes was every Cornish man’s dream. Until Divers O’Roarke cursed her with ruin and walked out of Cornwall without a backwards glance. Now he’s not only back, he’s just won the only thing that hasn’t fallen down about her head—her ancestral home. The home pride demands she throw herself in with, safe in the knowledge of one thing. Everything she touches withers to dust.

  He’d cursed her with ruin. Now she’d have him live with the spoils of her misfortune.

  Though well versed in his dealings with smugglers and dead men, handsome rogue Divers O’Roarke is far from sure of his standing with Destiny Rhodes. He had no desire to win her, doesn’t want her in his house, but while he’s bent on the future, is there one when a passionate and deadly game of bluff ensues with the woman he once cursed? A game where no-one and nothing are what they seem. Him most of all.

  And when everything she touches turns to dust, what will be his fate as passion erupts? Will laying past ghosts come at the highest price of all?

  DEDICATION

  To Amara Patricia Pow, when if comes to destiny, may life always give you the best.

  With special thanks to writing buddies everywhere--you know who you are--and most of all to you, dear reader.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Cornwall 1801 - For every smuggler, there is an exciseman who will hunt him down.

  Destiny Rhodes was used to losing everything in one stroke. She’d just never thought it would be this stroke.

  “A Gull Wrysen, here, you say?”

  “I does, ma-am.” Lizzie’s voice tolled as befitted someone who was in the running to win the grand prize in the looking most like your surname competition at Penvellyn Fair. So, Here Lies Lizzie Tooms, Loyal Servant of the Rhodes, Now Gone as Them, Probably unto Hell, could have been etched into her forehead.

  Ignoring the rattle of the chimney pots crashing onto the lawn outside, Destiny stared harder at her reflection in the mirror above the fireplace.

  “And?”

  “And quoth I, seein’ as you be a' askin’ and me havin’ spoken to him, far worse bells could be a’tollin’ for them what be cursed.”

  “Do you know, I’m very glad you think so, Lizzie? After all, here was me thinking it could well be the man who did the cursing. So why don't we all just look on the bright side and say a prayer of joy and thankfulness? I mean, it’s not like we haven’t got anything better to do, now is it? Where’s the captain by the way?”

  “Busy.”

  “Lying drunk on the stable floor you mean? Having managed to get here on his sodding horse but not off it properly? Oh, that’s busy, I suppose, if you can call such things busy." She clasped the mantelshelf tighter in her mittened fingers, the image of Orwell meandering home beneath frozen stars, flickering through the flames. If only she was such a frozen star instead of standing here, staring as the straw end of this place disappeared down a dark rabbit hole. Doom Bar Hall. The only thing in her life still standing. The bricks and mortar she’d poured herself into. Every flower, painting, tuck on every cushion, even her pine cone garlands that made this room a work of art at Christmas. Gone. On the turn of a card. “Yes, a fine thing to be as busy as that."

  “I can only reports what t’es my sacred duty to report, ma-am.”

  “Well, it's something of a pity you felt it was your sacred duty to come in here and report this.”

  Maybe she should just fall down now on the fender and be done with it? Then at least she might be buried along with her garlands.

  “Anyways, I be sure your brother’s done his sacred best.”

  “You know, for once you and I couldn’t agree more. His level best, or should that be epic, to get drunk? His very best to lose this place. As for everything in it--?"

  Yet, despite what she'd thought a moment ago, was this really so unexpected when Orwell inhabited the drinks ca
binet the way fish did the ocean and would be sure to win the empty cider barrel in the drinking it dry competition at Penvellyn Fair. The miracle was it had taken him this long. As for what she could do about it? Apart from winning first prize in the breaking her hand by punching a wall competition?

  “Ma-am, I be sure that despite everythin’, he has this in hand.”

  “Really? Well? That’s a first. A second first, I must say. You thinking and him having this in hand."

  “If he does not have it in hand, the Lord shall. You watch this. He will be our salvation, ma-am.”

  “Oh, please do spare me. Truly. Unless you think a sermon to match the one on the Mount, is something I can stand tonight? Wait around for the Lord being me salvation, and first prize in the look at all them moldering bones competition is what I’ll win.”

  “Then what do you require, ma-am?”

  “Right now?" She pushed her hand through her hair. "Apart from a sodding great dose of arsenic, you mean?”

  The strength to deal with this but that didn't look like it was coming unless that sodding great albatross that had careered inside her velvet gown--a triple-weighted blind one at that--found some other gown to career into. Finally, ashes existed she couldn’t rise from, despite everyone always saying she should have been named Phoenix. Imagine that, when Lizzie was sure to have it broadcast all over Penvellyn by this time tomorrow, if not before, how Destiny had collapsed in the library fireplace and lain there, cursed, like all who’d passed down the long, dusty road to the charnel house before her, too? Certainly she’d leaned her forehead on the mantelshelf. Clutched it for five minutes too.

  “Ma-am, I know we have had our differences ..."

  Mostly on the subject of accents. Destiny sounded like her mother who had come from up north. Yorkshire somewhere. And Lizzie only took instructions from those who didn’t, which made it even more ridiculous she took them from Orwell who was more refined than a glass of malt whiskey. Orwell, who probably reeked worse than one right now and was in no fit state to open his mouth, let alone let an order fall out of it.

  As for Lizzie’s pity? Another lecture on the Lord? Lizzie producing a bible from her apron pocket in another minute or so, in all probability, and asking Destiny to read from it? Well, Destiny wouldn't want first prize for causing the heavens to fall down. Now, would she? Especially not when she'd already won the one for having her head panned in with the meat mallet. After all, it was vital she at least try to raise her chin, though what she was lifting it for she'd no idea.

  “Differences? You can say that again. No. Don't." Lizzie parted her lips and Destiny hurried on. "Once is quite enough. Look, just send in this … this man. Me brother may be lying on the stable floor too drunk to deal with him. I’m not. Go on.”

  Yes. Let those who thrived on the pantomime of her life, say her black heart dripped something so common as blood? Over her burned and beaten body. That would be death, not this, even if all of it was death now. How could Orwell do this?

  “If it is yore wish and yore command, ma’am?”

  “I'd hardly put it that strongly. But what else can I do? Still, fear not, Lizzie,” she lowered her gaze from the mirror as Lizzie nodded. “Whatever happens, I’m sure the servants’ places will be guaranteed. After all, in my humble experience, everyone needs servants. Even a death knell one like you.”

  Well? Everybody did. How very lucky to be one. Suppose she said she was? Found a mob cap, claimed to be the housekeeper? Bit an arsenal of bullets, swallowed them too, suffered the laughter, the snide remarks, the fact Orwell wasn’t the only one to drag the family through the gutter? Endure the servants too? The ones who had so recently been hers?

  How far a falling from a heaven too high.

  What? Have it round the county that she qualified for entering the best servants competition for cleaning boots and changing beds for her new master, fetching him his pipe and slippers, dusting his little ornamental vases?

  No. It was better to starve. After all, she wasn't exactly likely to win it.

  My God, if only Chancery had lived. Actually, if everyone who had ever touched her sorry life had damn well lived, she’d not be in this mess. But Chancery’s death, over that sodding Rose O’Roarke had started an endless procession to the charnel house. All beneath the winding sheet of one certainty. The hollow toll of another death would shortly follow.

  Until the moment Chancery took up with Rose O’Roarke, he’d been heir to Doom Bar Hall, not sodding Orwell and sodding Orwell's brandy bottles. Captain Rhodes, if you pleased, seeing as he, and them, commanded the local militia. Then the curse uttered by Rose’s grey-eyed brother, Divers O’Roarke, across her marble-veined corpse had come true. They were all rotting in hell. Destiny most of all.

  Her shoulders sagged. She glanced back in the gilt framed mirror, wreathed in ornamental cherubs on their way to heaven--lucky them--the mirror she’d found in the attic and spent weeks cleaning, mending and wiping dead flies off. Gull sodding Wrysen’s mirror now. Well?

  Unless?

  Unless she took it down, of course. Took it with her. It was heavy as an elephant. That much was obvious the second she reached forward to wrench it free. Not that she’d ever won any prizes for wrenching an elephant. No. There weren’t exactly many of them about in Cornwall. And any there were, were hardly likely to be nailed to the wall, the half of which she’d be trying to get out of the door next, if any more plaster showered onto her fingers. And where would she put that?

  No. This was over. Over. Over. The words ticked like the grandfather clock in the hall outside. All she could do was go with her head held high. Let the locals have their farthing’s worth. Well?

  Unless?

  She fingered her throat. It was an idea. Even if she wasn't quite sure where it came from.

  “Dstny … ”

  The French doors banged open in the gale howling over the cliff face. Orwell, staggering in here with wet boots and slurred apologies for losing her pine cone garlands, was the last thing she needed. Certainly if she was really considering that idea. She slipped her gaze from her--actually, some might say, edifying as a dead viper’s--reflection. And they would be right. Some things had to be faced when it came to ideas.

  "Goodness me. Orwell. Sit down, why don’t you? Preferably not in here, before your wet feet take first place for ruining the rug, when it’s no longer ours to ruin either. At least I hope that’s from your wet feet.”

  The spindle chair nearly went over beneath his backside as he collapsed into it. She braced for the crash. It would certainly be one thing less for Gull Wrysen to claim if it smashed.

  Unless?

  Orwell sank his head with its untidy chestnut quiff on his chest and tried pulling his coat-tails from beneath his backside. “I say, old gril, l mean girl … I’ll need … that is, I’ll nleed to … I’ll need ver’ much to … to … ”

  “What? Sober up? Stop drinking? Get Doom Bar Hall back? Likely as a chocolate doily surviving in hell, that is, if you must know.”

  “Mulst know? Well, I… I sullpose, I sullpose I do. I mean … Do you know, it’s the damndest thing … but I don’t knlow what I mean …”

  “Oh, I think we can all see that, Orwell. Maybe we should hang a sign in Truro, saying, ‘This is Orwell Rhodes. He doesn’t know what he means but one thing’s for certain, he has lost Doom Bar Hall. Throw him a farthing someone, so just maybe he can buy it back.'"

  Unless?

  Hearing footsteps marching like a procession along the hall, she raised her chin.

  “Yes Lizzie, what is it?”

  “Milord Wrysen, ma’am.” Lizzie’s bobbed curtsy was probably the lowest the man towering in the doorway had ever seen. It was certainly the lowest Destiny had ever seen it. Start as you mean to go on her father had always said. Lizzie was starting well. Destiny should take a leaf out of that book.

  “Should I fetch tea, ma-am?”

  A good question. But no amount of tea in the best china cups Dest
iny had found moldering in the stables would sort this.

  Unless?

  She flicked her gaze over the man opposite. About thirty? Black haired—not her preferred color--a dusting of stubble on his chin. Eyes like gleaming black bullets. A plain, if not inelegant greatcoat, and leather boots, flecked with mud. No wedding ring. It didn’t mean he wasn’t married.

  In that moment she decided.

  “No. I am sure His Grace here would prefer something stronger, Lizzie.”

  Like herself.

  She pinched her cheeks, although this Gull Wrysen could take her as she was. So long as he did take her.

  It could be worse. Orwell could have lost the wager to Divers O’Roarke. Then she’d really be in trouble. It was common knowledge he regularly gambled the fortune he’d amassed designing houses and gardens in London.

  Hadn’t the sun’s rays shone on him since he’d sworn that oath? Shone to the extent his chestnut hair must be burnt black while she looked more of a corpse than his sister, Rose.

  This was the hand she’d been dealt. This was the hand she’d play though.

  Smiles were beyond her. Gull Wrysen would see what he was getting and what he was getting was someone young enough at twenty five, to be thought attractive, despite her cropped hair and--all right--the fact she’d give a dead viper a run for its money in the looks’ stakes. But really, some might say that was all.

  As for what she was getting? Well? Doom Bar Hall was what she was getting. And very nice it was too. When nothing else mattered, she wouldn't be the first, or last, to manage a few ecstatic moans where required.

  Only think of the fuel for the fires of all these little effigies the locals liked to make of her. The fires that had been dying of malnutrition lately.