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

  Besides? His head was down. Protection against the wind beating at his face.

  “Divers.” She nodded.

  What kind of stare did he flash her in return? Only she couldn’t see for the shadow cast by his tricorn hat. Maybe it was none at all?

  “Destiny.”

  Oh God, just let her get past him. It wasn’t going to happen. It wasn’t … My God. It just had. He kept walking. So did she. Without falling down onto the ground, looking behind her either. Just kept walking.

  She snagged a breath. Then she snagged another. Maybe, for that matter he just liked moonlit walks too?

  Did it mean he'd no intention of coming to her room?

  She brought her gaze back to the path. Whatever he did tonight, tomorrow, whenever, there was another aspect of this. One she marvelled she’d forgotten, one that flowed like life back into her decayed veins, breathed in her pores.

  Courtesy of him everything she touched turned to dust.

  Why should he be any different?

  CHAPTER FOUR

  What should have been the last chime of midnight died silently in the clock case. Now Divers O'Roarke had trodden the silver path onto the moor and left the lantern high in the huddle of rocks, he wanted his thoughts like a cold cloak about him. No chiming bells, or scents of lavender perfume rising in the iced moonlight as it had earlier when she'd sailed past him. No little frissons of excitement either.

  He padded, a slow tread—no need to hurry--towards what stood before him--her door, the door to perdition. Reaching it, feeling, hearing, the hollow beat of his heart, he paused. A moment to turn the handle. A moment to unclick the door. A moment to slip inside. To look at her dark tresses of hair spilling on a damask pillowcase--were moments that were never going to happen, moments he’d stopped the clock on.

  For a start her hair wasn’t long enough to spill.

  For a finish everything she touched, remember?

  Once he’d have died to possess her.

  That was then.

  This was now.

  Now nothing would stop him from walking on. Just as he had earlier.

  As for what she'd been doing out there leaving lanterns tied to tree branches--at least someone had? In the middle of a howling gale at that? The morning would be the time to find out about that. But he’d a fairly good idea. A fairly good idea what to do about it too.

  The lights didn’t just go down on this. They went out forever.

  ***

  God, what was that scything her eyes? So mercilessly Destiny couldn’t see a sodding thing? The sun? How could it possibly be the sun? She couldn’t stand the sodding sun, and its hotly, pitiless, autumnal rays were beaming straight through the crack in the damask curtains.

  As for what she hit her head off? Try the brass bedrail. It sounded about right. Ennis’ face slipped, just as starlight had crept into her dreams with silver fingers too and he was going to kiss her. Now the sun shone, burning coals couldn’t have fallen faster than Ennis's image from her clasp.

  Smothering the groan, she flicked an eye open. Oh God, please don’t tell her she’d done it again? Sat staring into the darkness and fallen asleep in her dress? She closed her eye again. Last night? Last night she’d had every reason to sit and stare into the darkness for hours, waiting, waiting, waiting. Not for Ennis to whisper her name in the darkness. God no. How the hell could she have possibly forgotten what she’d been waiting for?

  Divers O’Roarke. Divers O’Sodding Roarke.

  Flicking both eyes open she sat up. Divers O’Roarke who wasn’t even here. How sodding brilliant was that?

  Perhaps he intended to be faithful to this wife of his, whoever she was? And Destiny just imagined that little electric flicker that had passed between them on the path last night? Perhaps he remembered the exact wording of that curse?

  The sweet, malleable boy he’d once been would certainly be faithful. This new, abrasive, cocksure, hardened man who’d looked her in the eye with shutters on his own and said they’d talk before morning now? Well he’d hardly be anything, least of all scared of a curse, he’d uttered with good cause. In his eyes.

  But plainly it was morning now. Late morning, in fact. At the very least she’d thought he’d want to know where she was last night. Had maybe even seen that lamp? So? Bravado, bluff call, or worse?

  She glanced at the bedside table. Great. Was that why there was no such thing as her coffee? He’d told Lizzie not to spare her so much as a drip of water that was running down the window pane because he’d gone back on his word.

  So now it was going to be broadcast from the church pulpit, her husband had died rather than be married to her—two years ago now--and incidentally, just to shove the knife in, in case it wasn't far enough already, Divers O’Roarke didn’t want her either. After she'd only gone and offered herself to him too.

  The poor sods. What a shame if that was as much as would make their day sparkle. What would make hers was lying here till she died--quietly, without fuss. She lay back down and dragged the pillow against her cheek. That dream last night had been a torture too far. What else was left?

  For that matter Ennis had probably seen how she'd considered affronting his memory. For the sake of a roof over her head. How could she? Even if it wasn't just any old roof?

  No. It wasn’t. And it wouldn’t have been sodding necessary either if he’d left her properly provided for, before he only went for a trip over that cliff, now would it?

  Of course he hadn't meant to. How could she think these thoughts about him?

  Still had only gone and sodding done it though.

  Being said all over Cornwall, wasn’t it?

  Her throat dried. Forget the villagers. Did she sail from places with her head low? Shouldn't hell freeze first? Heaven have roasting spits?

  So? Task one? At the very least seeing as Divers O'Roarke wasn't interested in her, or her lamp? Rumple the bed, open the curtains, change her dress. If the villagers wanted something to choke over with their beer and bacon, they should have it. Especially if Lizzie was now in his pay. Then Destiny could go find somewhere else to lie down and die. She had to get up.

  Dragging a breath, she stumbled across the floor and tugged the heavy damask curtains hard. Then she tugged them harder. What the hell was wrong with the sodding things that they wouldn’t open?

  Had Divers O’Roarke crept in here last night and sewn them shut? Tied the tops to the pole out of spite, so not only would she get no coffee this morning, she'd get no light either? Lizzie never had this trouble. She tugged harder. She could open a sodding curtain surely?

  Not to save herself, the pole clattering off the floorboards, said. Not that it spoke exactly. That was something poles didn't do, largely because they were too busy panning in her head, on their way to panning in the floorboards.

  “A-A-A-A-choo!”

  The curtains, the lovely cerise and orange ones that had hung there since the days of Great Grandmother Endelienta--a long time ago to be sure but that wasn't the point--flumped onto the ledge like a broken-necked swan. That the place was plainly never dusted was the point.

  “A-A-A-A-choo!”

  And if it wasn’t dusted, what the hell was she breaking her back, taking in smuggled bottles to pay that lazy trout, Lizzie and the other girls, for? Certainly not the good of her health. She’d probably caught all manner of awful diseases.

  “A-A-A. A-A-A-A. Choo! A-A-A—“

  Still so long as not a single, solitary person saw, or heard her trumpeting like a rabid elephant, she could still make A-A-A-A …

  “Good morning, Destiny.”

  Forget show. As in making one. How she never won the florin for the best jump out of her skin, ever executed by woman, man, or beast, was beyond her.

  It was a close run thing what was worse. The thud as she stepped back and landed on her backside because her foot caught the curtain? That her spine jarred as she did? Or that the back of her head smacked off the floorboards?

  Yes
. Maybe it was a good morning, somewhere else in the world. Here in Doom Bar Hall it was the worst morning imaginable. Frankly, if her skull hadn’t been panned in before, it was probably fractured in three places now. Or that coronet of stars wouldn’t be floating in the dust motes. But maybe that was heaven?

  The floorboards creaked. Please don’t tell her it was because he was crossing them. In her direction. Not only that he dropped to his haunches and extended his hand. Sort of. After a long moment’s consideration when it was plain he must have died because it was over his dead body. “Allow me.”

  Was he mad? After all, touch him and it might be over his dead body. From Land’s End to Launceston people avoided her like she had the plague. In fact it was probably from Land’s End to John O’Groats. She couldn’t get another husband even if she wanted to.

  "Seriously, Destiny, before you go getting any ideas,” she didn’t move and he added, “I don’t want my property damaged.”

  “Are you meaning me, by any chance, or the sodding curtain pole?”

  “The curtains. Obviously I’m meaning the curtains.”

  Great. That he meant the curtains were his property was a plague cross chalked into the door of Doom Bar Hall. As expected as the sun rising. She needn't die in its rays today, when courtesy of this same man, she had it in her power to wither him to dust. She glanced at his hand.

  What?

  And have Ennis birling ten times in his box if she affronted his memory with the man who was responsible for his death, even if it was purely to get revenge, and it would hardly be for anything else? She couldn't. What if he looked down from heaven and saw her?

  Only think of the generations of Rhodes' who had stood here before her, before Ennis, before their baby, had all gone, though. So every day another drop of breath left her, because of this man, looking so prosperous in his nice charcoal waistcoat, a bunch of fancy lace at his throat, the smell of the ocean in his soft brown hair? But maybe she was afraid of that tiny flicker she’d felt on the path last night because he was a bit commanding? And he wasn't half bad looking either.

  Only think of the rhythm of her life, the things that anchored her now, the Christmas mornings, a gift for each of the servants gathered in their best around wreathed trestle tables, and punch, hot with cinnamon and pressed cider apples, served from the steaming wassail bowl that had been in the family for five generations. The little things she held onto in order to hold onto something bigger--the life, the one she'd carved from the ashes, she needed to know was still there for her, when sod all else was and no-one would have her. If she’d had the courage to end that life perhaps, but she hadn’t.

  Think of how bloody entertaining it would be in the village, now she’d got her comeuppance. Finally. At the hands of a man who had cursed her for nothing, whether that curse had power or not? A man she’d greeted as warmly as a log fire last night. Telling him how good it was to see him when it was anything but, but how else could she have greeted him without being shown the door? A man who thought she hadn’t changed, when she had, beyond all recognition. A man obviously determined to squash whatever iota of pity he’d perhaps had for her lying on the floor like a prostrate giraffe. Maybe for that matter he thought she was lying like a prostrate giraffe for that very purpose?

  Now, maybe this curse was a load of old buckets of cod, but ask Ennis, Chancery, her father, her mother, and they'd all say differently, if they could.

  So task one?

  “Actually." Ignoring the proximity of his grey eyes, she grasped his hand. Yes. Task one had changed somewhat from a few moments ago. “I was expecting to see Lizzie.”

  “Lizzie? She's someone who hides in the curtains, is she?”

  “Oh, you have no idea where Lizzie can hide on occasion. Curtains, wardrobes--”

  “Lizzie? Are you meaning the servants?”

  “Well, Divers, you might say I’m hardly meaning the stuffed parrots belonging to Grandfather Austell, even if they do have names. Glad you’ve cottoned on." She smiled. Keeping his hand of course. In fact, smiling gave her the chance to press it tighter.

  “They’re gone and--”

  “Gone?”

  Her heart stilled in its tracks. Gone? My God, was this what she got for touching him? And offering her most disingenuous stare men had threatened to shoot themselves over?

  Grandfather Austell’s stuffed parrots? The ones he’d brought all the way from Bristol? The ones that brightened the sitting room, even on a dull day? Even if one would win the prize in the squint eyed stuffed parrot competition and another for having no eyes at all?

  “What do you mean gone?" she demanded.

  "After some consideration."

  "Why have they gone?”

  “Because I told them.”

  “You what?” Oh God, don’t let her thump her hands off his chest. Forget the disingenuous stare, she sprung to her feet. She believed she even let go of his hand, her throat was that thick she couldn't breathe.

  “What I say, Destiny, " he sighed. "Servants are servants, after all."

  "Ser--"

  "And you always pointed out I was vastly uneducated? Well, well."

  The servants? She froze in her tracks. How could she be so sodding stupid? To let go of his hand and everything. Had it been the sodding parrots now? She hauled a breath.

  "Oh, I think when it comes to education, the record will show that I never had --"

  "And not that it’s your business--"

  "It's not, believe me."

  "I gave them three months wages, so Penvellyn folks will think me more than generous."

  "Right?" Well, lucky them.

  "Before you start that is."

  “I'm not. Going to start that is." She was, but then again there were times for not starting and times for not falling on the floor, times for yittering through her teeth too. "I mean Penvellyn folks and their thoughts are no odds to me. No, no, it’s only the servants after all. And really, as you can see, they'd win the trout in the as lazy as one competition, a share of it anyway. So three months wages shows no end of a generous spirit if you ask me."

  Especially when he'd spent it for nothing, if he was doing this to force her out. Maybe she should have been more of a threat to him, then it might have been four months wages? Five? Statues erected to her all along the road to Penvellyn for her services in getting sacked servants six months pay.

  He rose to his feet. “Destiny … Look ..."

  What at? The door. No wonder her face froze and her eyes felt as if they stood out like flints. Why couldn't he have come in five minutes earlier? Before she’d decided to stand by the Rhodes’ wassail bowl? When she’d still been more than happy to die in a ditch? Whereas now? More to the point, how could she have flared like that? When she had his hand and everything? She never flared like that these days.

  She ran her tongue over her lips.

  “W-what at? You not coming in here last night like you said and now giving me more work--"

  "You? Work? Well? Well?" He glanced round the room. "A new one on me."

  "--to do than I had perhaps hoped, what with last night’s storm damage to the estate—"

  “Destiny, I really don't think that the storm damage to the estate is top of my list of priorit--"

  "But maybe you were afraid to come in here, what with that curse and that?" Oh God, please let her smile be the most hotly dripping and divine she could make it, despite the fact it was nothing short of shocking she was having to offer it. "But fear not, if you've come in here now, I must warn you, not only is it not convenient. I wouldn't want to be crossing that pretty wife of yours." Well, it was a thought now she considered it. "Especially as you're likely to be doing that when she arrives to find out you've only gone and gotten rid of all the servants."

  "Nicely scored, Destiny." He shoved his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets. "But I think the servants would be the least of her complaints."

  "Really?" And no prizes for guessing what would be the most. "Why
's that? Because you're not rich at all? And here's me seeing straight through you the same as always?" Not that she meant to or anything, when there was one thing he hated was to be reminded of that fact, but having nicely scored once, it was good to do it again. “After all, no servants? What lovely wife would be happy with that unless she was accustomed to it?”

  Now he thought about it, it was probably why his face froze and he flicked his gaze to the floor.

  "Now then ..." Although her heart rose in her throat, she opened the wardrobe. Get out of here before he said get out of here and he might forget he was ever going to say it.

  "Where are you going?"

  "Oh, I'm not leaving if that's what you're thinking." Of course she could go out without her cloak, a late autumnal sun blazed from a cloudless sky. That was probably because the wind had tossed all the clouds to earth though. Why make this easy for him, by taking her place in the family crypt because she only went and caught pneumonia though? "Chance would be a fine thing eh? No. If there is one person who knows this estate, all the nooks, all the crannies, all the little fairy dells and places of legend that people claim--"

  "Legend, eh?" His enigmatic gaze perused her as if he wasn’t just bored out of his skull but bored out of his skull and about to put her out before he was bored further. "Now Destiny, I know you are desperate to keep a hold of all your tattered little—"

  “Oh, not half as much as you will be when your lovely wife doesn’t just arrive, she gets her head panned in by some of them tree branches I was out tying lanterns on last night to warn passersby. They're rotten every one of them. The branches that is although some of the passersby haven’t got much going for them either, what with all the goings on here sometimes. And I know that because I know Doom Bar Hall. Haven’t I only made it me business these last two years? Go on. Ask me anything you want and I'll tell you."

  “Destiny ...”

  “Even, when will I get out? And I will tell you it will be after I sort them branches.”