O'Roarke's Destiny (Cornish Rogues Book 1) Page 9

  Think of the evenings she strolled along this scented path, drawing the soothing fragrance into her lungs, the afternoons she instructed Lizzie how to make shortbread to put by for Christmas, of the mornings she sewed little sacks for all her drawers. The chest of wooden ones anyway. It couldn’t all be gone. Not this border she’d nursed back to life after her father left it to die. Just like he’d left Doom Bar Hall. As much a ruinous drunk as Orwell. She'd have to sort it all. And she'd enough doing today what with that footstool needing mended and that cushion cover to be finished and the wassail bowl brought down from the attic seeing as Lizzie wasn't here to do it for her.

  “These children …”

  The words tore from her, a sentence she couldn’t finish. Even her black gown felt like a cage despite the fact it hung on her hips.

  “What about them?”

  “What about them? What do you think? I’m not for having children here. Look at the fine mess they’re making of your lawn. Well?” She marched up to the crowd on the edge of the lawn. “What do you think you are doing here? All of you? Well? Leave here at once. This isn’t your place. Go on. Be off with you, you beggarly brats. Now.”

  “Father?”

  She swung her gaze around. Chestnut hair, grey eyes, perhaps three, or four and staring at Divers O’Roarke? Shock raked her scalp. It couldn’t be. He couldn’t be. And she couldn’t have said what she just had either, could she? Doom Bar Hall, remember? She gulped.

  “It’s all right, Molly.” He placed his hand on the crop of curls as Molly's mouth wobbled. Oh God, she had said. “You have nothing to fear. We talked about this lady, remember? And we agreed, she's not as scary as she looks, as awful either."

  Awful? She tightened her jaw. Molly O’Roarke? It was the kind of name he’d give a child, certainly. As for the look on his face? It wasn’t just hangdog. It was hang the whole pack of dogs. My God. It couldn’t be. Lydia was an invention. Surely? Anything less said she had it all wrong about Divers O’Roarke having things to hide. And she didn’t. She couldn’t. But what if she did?

  “I’m sorry?” She was actually. “Are you saying these are your children?”

  “Well … ”

  “All of them? Or just this one?”

  Because this one was about the only one she could live with. At a push. Rather than live with the field mice and foxes in the hedgerows, that was. And yet, they couldn’t possibly be his. Put aside the fact they were ragamuffins every one, except for this one, that boy, the one she’d first seen, was a Chaunchell if ever she saw one. The face long as four rainy days, the hair sandier looking than the stretch of beach between Ryland’s Point and Penvellyn Cove. As for the two girls presently knocking the lavender for six? If these were Divers O’Roarke’s, he must have been all of ten at the time.

  Given that, given this wasn’t just Doom Bar Hall and revenge for Ennis, this was a continuation of last night and that rubbish he’d spouted about Lydia, after she’d resisted his attempt to … what exactly? Chisel something from her she didn’t want to give. That’s what. Probably in advance of throwing her out of here. Task one? Task one was to swallow this sword.

  Pulling that question about his wife from the air had been a stroke of genius. Something that just came from her inner core, regardless, as she’d sat there, listening to his talk to desecrate Doom Bar Hall, drinking wine she never should have swallowed, when it left her reaching into the dark for something that was not there. Oh yes, dressing up, had cost her dear.

  It would be for nothing if she didn’t breathe deeply of the lavender scented air, level her gaze fully on him, let him see this little game wouldn’t dent her armour. Actually, as with last night, the situation wasn’t without its entertainment. Him doing all this to get rid of her when she wasn’t for going. Or maybe because he thought she knew something she wasn't for telling?

  “Goodness. How amazing. You and Lydia must have known each other when you were children and you must have known Kenal Chaunchell’s wife as well. You know, I didn’t think you were so badly behaved, Divers.”

  “Would you have liked me better if I had been?” He took a swaggering step towards her. To intimidate her no doubt.

  “Who says I didn’t like you?”

  “Do you want the list with your name at the top of it? Anyway, what makes you think they’re mine?”

  “The fact you claim to have had a wife. Lydia.”

  “I see. Well, indeed.” He ruffled Molly’s soft hair. “And that is why I feel for them.”

  “I’m not quite following.”

  “Lydie’s greatest wish.” His gaze swept the suddenly boundless lawn, hovering here, waiting there as he dragged out every word. “What is more, I have you to thank for the idea, really.”

  “What idea is this?”

  “Of opening Doom Bar Hall as a home for poor children.”

  She tilted her jaw. She didn’t mean to but when the words she was going to say had been taken clean out of it, some might say it was as hard not to, as it was to refrain from collapsing in a heap on the grass but that would give him the advantage. A home for poor children? Doom Bar Hall? The family seat of the Rhodes for generations? She was not going to be forced into a humiliating climbdown here, was she? He lifted his face to the sun, letting its warmth play.

  "I see the idea surprises you?”

  “Not really. No. What surprises me ..." was that she never took her hand off his jaw, but then Doom Bar Hall was at stake, "is that you feel obliged to thank me for the idea. You don’t have to do that, especially when it flies in the face of your plans for Divers O'Roarke Hall.”

  “In what way?”

  “Well, last night I seem to remember you talked of many things. About entertaining, about wine cellars, about bringing people from London, to show off your extreme brilliance at design.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t call it that—"

  “Oh, credit where it’s due, Divers.”

  “If you say so. Thank you. Last night was my business side coming out. I like to dabble in many pies. It doesn’t mean I’m going to eat them. Besides, a place this size?” He swept his gaze over the sandstone walls of what was actually her heart. Doom Bar Hall. Then he fished out his fob watch. “I don’t see why—”

  “Why don’t you just put me out?”

  Some might say the words dripped a dab more acid

  than she meant. What kind of way was this to speak when she wanted to show this was water off a duck's back? Certainly it wasn't in a way that said that water was trickling into the pond. Or made her believe it wasn't exactly what he wanted. But was it any wonder? Why toy with her like this?

  He sighed. He sighed all the way to his boots and back again. He thrust his thumbs into his waistcoat pocket and contemplated the clump of horse parsley too. “Now then Destiny, why would I do that?”

  “Because you’re waiting for me to leave, that's why. And I can go, you know. I can go now. Just say the word. After all, the house isn’t mine. But maybe you can’t do that. Maybe you—”

  Want something from me and it’s not my body either, so why don’t you just stop your silly games that I’m going to keep right on defeating, and your sighing and your languid pauses, were the words on the tip of her tongue. They were also the words that froze to her lips.

  The rapid pounding of horse’s hooves, on the path at the side of the house froze more than her tongue. It froze her scalp and it seemed to freeze Divers O’Roarke’s too.

  There was only one thing that noise could mean, unless he’d organized cartloads of children to be driven in from every corner of the southern counties. And it was the one thing she’d dreaded most since Tom Berryman had refused to help her,

  She jerked her gaze around. As she did the summerhouse jarred into her vision. Beyond it, the thought of the contents. Should she faint now and get it over with?

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Hell’s teeth, Lyon, right here in Doom Bar Hall, at the head of his not-so-merry band of men. Twelve of them at a q
uick count. Destiny Rhodes’s face was white as the foam on the waves. It probably wasn't the only one. And yet, what did Divers have to fear? He hadn't done anything.

  Lyon swung his booted leg down from the black stallion. Hopefully code for Divers to speak?

  “I---uh—an explanation from your good self for this disturbance, sir, if you don’t mind? There is some reason for the cavalry riding in here?”

  After all, he and Lyon were meant to be strangers and Destiny Rhodes couldn’t know they weren’t.

  “Orwell Rhodes?” Lyon’s glinting blue eyes were at odds with his canny Scot’s accent. His hardened, lined face, more pockmarked than the surface of the Moon, was too. He was not a man to cross. He was a man you prayed would never find out you’d crossed him. Even his coat and tricorn were stark as a hanging judge’s and had a definite sniff of the gibbet about them.

  “Not guilty.” Divers shook his head. “And you still haven’t explained what you’re doing on my property.”

  Ignoring him, ignoring the men in navy coats whose horses had flown to a halt behind him, Lyon raised his chin. “Search the place.”

  “Now just a minute.”

  “Divers, I—” Destiny Rhodes’ eyes flashed. It might have been to warn him to shut up. But maybe, after all, she was hiding something and it would put an end to all of this when she was marched off? An aviary of birds with one stone.

  Lyon cast her an unimpressed glance. “Were you saying something?”

  “I was wondering who you are and what it is you hope to find? We are simpl—”

  “The King’s man is who I am.”

  “But—”

  “You’re expecting Touse?”

  “Touse? Why would I be expectin--"

  “Well, a brief visit to the area, by my good self, ma-am, is all this is. I am what you might call his supervisor. I make it my duty to traverse the south coast, making my report to London. As for what I’m hoping to find?” His keen eyes swept the cloudless sky, like a hawk's, hovering, waiting. “Let’s just wait and see, shall we?”

  “Yes.”

  No, was what she meant. Her eyes burned even deeper holes in her head.

  “But just so you know, I do not own this house,” she added.

  “So?” Lyon kept his gaze fixed on some finite point. “What are you doing here then?”

  “What does it look like? Supervising these sodding children he only went and brought here.”

  Lyon’s gaze wasn’t the only one to flick her. Divers made a play of patting Molly’s bony shoulder. Anything to hide what sparked at the unmitigated impertinence of her answer. If he didn’t speak now, if he let her speak instead ... In this way she always did that could mean something, or nothing ... This way that even had Lyon struggling to impress her …

  “Someone has to before they wreck the place,” she went on.

  Speak? And say what? Anything would make it obvious to Lyon that for some reason he couldn’t deal with this situation with his usual aplomb. Had gone and brought these children here. Perhaps because of her? Perhaps because of himself?

  What earthly reason did Lyon have for being here unless he knew this? Knew about Rose? Divers’ history here? Knew about everything? And the only way could have been through Gil.

  “So?” Lyon returned his gaze to the horizon. “They’re not this gentleman’s then?”

  “Hell, no,” Divers asserted. “I only just won the place.”

  “Cheating at cards,” she put in, her eyes spitting fury.

  “Miss Rhodes, you know, and I know, that that game was—"

  “Sir!”

  Divers broke off mid-sentence. Nobly he had ignored the tramp of feet across the lawn, the buckets being let down into the well, the foray into the walled vegetable garden and the prodding of the ancient bushes, but now that the shout from the summerhouse was deafening? What had he to fear? As his line of work had always shown, half the southern counties would be in jail if the excisemen arrested people for buying. But harboring now? Providing a safe haven?

  What a come down for the noble and ancient family and more importantly, her. What was he about to witness? The real reason she needed to stay in Doom Bar Hall?

  So long as Lyon thought he’d done well and meant this to happen, wasn't this proof he was still the man for the job and not the one who was somehow struggling with it? In Lyon's eyes.

  "Stay here,” Lyon growled to the men closest. “Guard them. And let’s see what this is about.”

  Divers endeavoured to look natural. No-one could exude Lyon’s icy menace, except Lyon himself. The man wore his thoughts like a blank mask and was unstoppable as a winter freeze. If they weren’t working together, Divers would tremble in his boots. Destiny Rhodes now? Even she must have wilted by now on the vine of her raging fury. He lowered his voice.

  “Is there something you want to tell me? Something I should know? Because I don’t think that man, whoever the hell he is, is for messing with.”

  She shrugged. “You tell me, Divers. And even if there was, why should I tell you? Well?”

  “Something Orwell, by chance, knows about then? Because I have to tell you--"

  “How would I know what it is, or whether he sodding does? Maybe it's escaped your notice but Orwell is seldom sober enough to ask. But maybe you think I’m his keeper, although I'd say it is fairly obvious that if I was I'd have put him down by now?"

  Divers cast his glance across the straggly lawn. “But that’s your summerhouse from what I remember. And--” he broke off as a wooden keg was trundled across the stones. “Well … Unless I'm very much mistaken ... ”

  Her face tightened, her wasted eyes didn’t just darken, if they could have leapt from her face they would. A cornered viper couldn’t look more terrified, or terrifying. Certainly there was life in her yet.

  “But maybe that just walked in there?” he murmured. “Maybe someone broke in and left it? Or maybe you don’t use the place any more?”

  “And maybe you should just shut your sodding mouth unless you can say something constructive?”

  Another keg and another was rolled onto the stone path. Christ how many were there? As for her not knowing? It was perfectly bloody obvious from her stare—also stony—she not only knew, she’d probably supervised putting them there. Surprising, she hadn’t thought to move them? Or maybe that was why she'd hung that lantern the other night? She jerked up her chin, spoke through her clenched jaw.

  “Is that man the Cleanser?”

  “The what?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “That man? Is he the Cleanser?"

  Divers shrugged. How would he know who, what, the Cleanser was, that there even was a Cleanser, after all? He was from London. Remember? It was why he feigned his most harried look.

  “Now then Destiny, you’ll pardon me appearing a trifle stupid—”

  “Only a trifle? Why change the habits of a sodding lifetime?”

  How fickle, how typical. Even with her back hard against a wall, so there wasn’t so much as a twelfth of a quarter inch of space, there she went snipe, snipe, snipe. But then maybe his most harried look was slipping? And he'd somehow given her his cocky, physicality is everything one instead because he was slipping too? Well, the main thing? As Lyon strode back across the lawn, finally Rose’s name was a gentle breeze on his face. One he raised that same face to. Closed his eyes, breathed. Maybe he wasn’t here for revenge but it certainly felt good as women, as life--when life was good that was.

  “Shit.”

  Hearing the mutter he flicked his eyes open. Not quite so canty now was she? In fact beaten to a pulp was what he’d say.

  “You only just won this place?” Lyon levelled his gaze on Divers. “When?”

  “Oh, let me think? Two nights ago.”

  “And you didn’t know what was in the summerhouse?”

  “I haven’t exactly had time to look.”

  “Yes. Cheating at cards can be no end of time consuming, you know,” Destiny Rhodes muttered.
<
br />   He glanced at Lyon. “I haven’t exactly had time to look at much more than the state of this dump. Maybe do a little work. I'm a house and garden designer, from London."

  "With plans galore. Big ones. Big as his boots in fact, to take the family seat for generations apart--"

  "Only because it needs it."

  "--and throw everything in it to the dogs, when if you ask me, talking smugglers--"

  “So whose house was it then?" Thank Christ for Lyon’s timely intervention. "Who am I looking for here? Well?” He glanced from one to the other. "Or do I have to arrest you both?"

  “Shall I tell him?” Divers kept his gaze trained on the spot somewhere behind Lyon’s head, his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets. “Or will—”

  "Me brother," the retort was fast as a bullet. But maybe she was about to throw herself in with Lyon? “Orwell Rhodes, seeing as you must know and you're going to tell."

  “Who is where?”

  "Probably Daindridge’s or any of the other local hostelries within a three mile ride.”

  "I see.” Lyon narrowed his eyes. “So? he's not here?"

  "Not unless he's in sodding hiding in the bushes. Doing it well though, if he is."

  "Well then, we’ll just have to arrest you.”

  “Me? Are you serious? Me? Why would you go and--?”

  “You’re here, aren’t you?"

  "Yes, but--"

  "So are these barrels. But maybe you're going to tell me they walked into your summerhouse on legs?"

  “Walk? What?" she scoffed. "These barrels? Now you’re being no end of ridiculous. Trying to win first prize in--"

  “You can explain my stupidity to the magistrate. Take her.”

  Divers heard the ragged saw of her breath. It was not the way to speak to Lyon if only she did but know it. But this was Destiny Rhodes. A mouth at odds with the world. In a big way at that.

  “Yes,” Lyon continued. “There is nothing like a few hours in a cell to further the recovery of lost memory.”