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

by Shehanne Moore

  “The fact that they were lying on the floor.” Where she nearly lay herself, the shocking affront to Ennis’s memory being offered largely by her heart giving that stupid bump at the sight of Divers O’Roarke’s half naked chest as he landed the pickaxe in the wall.

  As for the lies he was telling? When she had him, by the balls at that? Hadn’t he changed a very great deal?

  "The floor where, I can’t swear to it but I am fairly certain, I never left them. And now, given that there’s no servants to hold responsible for such adverse carelessness as not sweeping and dusting, and just maybe—maybe--"

  The floorboard to her left creaked. “In your room was it, Miss Rhodes?”

  She unpeeled the dress from her arm, shook it out. “Well, Mr. Wryson, I don’t think this is yours, or his, now is it? But maybe you’ll tell me it is?”

  Gil Wryson wiped his hand across his nose. “I’m unsure how it might be legally.”

  “What? That you wear dresses?”

  “That my employer here, Mr. O’Roarke—”

  “Does? Well, I never did. Or that this is the kind of place you are planning on running here, Mr. Wryson. Goodness, I wonder what the locals will say to that? I know they like a bit of gossip. But men? Wearing—"

  “He could argue--"

  "That, that's all right?"

  "--that when it comes to things being yours and things being his, absolutely nothing in this house is legally yours. And that goes for—”

  “Really?”

  Nothing? My God.They even meant to have the clothes off her back. And then what? Put her out naked? In the freezing cold? While they footered with maps in order to haul down walls? How awful was that? Why, oh why had she come in raging?

  “You mean … you mean I don’t even own me own petticoats? Me drawers neither? Is that what you’re saying, why they’ve all been pulled from the hangers and dumped--"

  “It’s fine, Gil.” Divers O’Roarke swung the pickaxe to the floor. “I’ll deal with this.”

  “I know sir, I’m just doing what—”

  “I know what you’re doing, Gil, and I’m grateful but Destiny here looks as if she needs to sit down. Don’t you, Destiny?”

  “Me?”

  Raven’s Passage? Was that what Grandfather Austell's map was doing on the table? What he was doing standing here half naked taking down that wall? Divers O’Roarke that was. Grandfather Austell would hardly be standing here doing that and not a pretty sight it would be if he was. Heavens. Here was her thinking it was to drive her out? After all, why would you need a map for that? A pickaxe maybe? But a map? To take the wall down that was. Not drive her out. Raven’s Passage, eh? Well, she never did.

  As for her needing a seat? Not that she knew of. But then again, this Wryson man was quiet and earnest, two traits that went hand in hand with being fanatically, righteously driven, in her experience. When she'd been no end of amenable about that gaping, great hole in the wall too.

  “Well, yes.” She clasped her hand to her chest seeing as Divers O'Roarke was asking and she wanted to diffuse the situation. “I--I suppose I do, now you come to mention it. A little anywa—"

  “Sir, I’ve told you what you must do about this. About her. About this. About everything.”

  "I know you did."

  “And I’m not saying—. It’s just you did dismiss the servants."

  “And?”

  Was she mistaken? Was there the tiniest edge to the way Divers O’Roarke said that simple, little word. An edge that was still so dangerous, this was not the time to say,

  “Goodness, you should be careful, Mr. Wryson, in case he dismisses you,” as she dropped onto the chair Divers O'Roarke very kindly set forward for her.

  But maybe it was? So she did it anyway. She settled her skirts about her too.

  “Sir.” Gil Wryson jabbed his finger at her. “She needs to shut her---"

  Well, she did but it didn’t mean she could do it. Not with all this going on. How could she?

  “Take the afternoon off. As I’m going to do. Uh. I mean it.” Divers I’Roarke stepped between them, resting a hand on Gil Wryson’s shoulder. “Go acquaint yourself with the local hostelries, or whatever. That’s a power of work we’ve done today. We can continue taking that wall down tomorrow.”

  She lowered her gaze. That would be in his dreams.

  Of course it may all depend on what he said next. But, glancing at that map, she had a pretty good idea of what that was likely to be. She was more than dead certain about what she'd do about it too. Yes. Why look to Tom Berryman for answers when they were right here under her nose? These dresses would be getting left on their hangers from now on and if they weren't she'd know what to do about it too.

  "So?" He flicked his gaze over her. "What's so important you burst in here uninvited? Well?"

  Her dresses, hell’s burning teeth and bells, was that what she was going to try breaking his balls about? Well, his work demanded his complete attention. The chair was as much as she was getting.

  Not only was he going to deny going anywhere near her blasted clothes, let alone leaving them in a heap on the floor if she dared accuse him, with Gil gone, what the hell did it matter? Raven’s Passage? Sure to be here somewhere. The house designing business was the best front going that way. As for her finding out he was a smuggler? Precisely what he wanted people to find out.

  "Oh, I think it hardly matters now. Indeed I fear I’ve probably disturbed you and caused you to dismiss Mr. Wryson for absolutely nothing. So, please don’t worry about it.”

  "Well then ...?" He lifted the pickaxe. "I won't."

  Yes. Another ton of rubble showering onto the floorboards would do no harm at all.

  “I‘m glad you think so. But I’m really not interested in whether you do, or not-–"

  “I put your dresses on the floor, is that it?" The wall shook as he landed another blow against it. "What you’ve come in here to say? And berate me as you used to do all these years ago when I was ten and you were nine?”

  “Maybe that was because I liked you.”

  "Just as well I never held my breath,” he panted, tightening his grip on the shaft. All right, so that was unexpected. But if she thought he was stopping for that she'd another think coming.

  “As for the dresses? If they were mine perhaps I would berate you. But from what your man has just pointed out to me--”

  “It’s what I use him for, pointing things out to people. He is very good that way. The best I’ve known in fact. It’s why I employ him. To deal with things I can't be bothered dealing with."

  And because he could be trusted. A hard thing to come by, not just in this world but the world he inhabited. That dancing, dark and shady place of gnarled shadows and twisted paths, haunted by the need to keep one step ahead where nothing could ever be as it seemed. Not even himself.

  He dragged a breath. Christ, the real reason he’d sent the servants packing. Yes. He might involve himself with them. Their lives. Their struggles. Their law breaking activities. He lifted the axe.

  “Look Divers, far be it for me to argue about these dresses."

  "Trying to though, aren't you?"

  "You want me to go, I understand. And I can't say as I blame you either. Not after the things Rose told you about me. And the things we did to you as children. You don’t have to do things like taking the walls down in the hope of driving me out, you know.”

  Oh, here it was—nip, nip, nip--about the wall. Well he did have to and he was taking it down. She didn't know where Raven's Passage was? Fine. He'd find it for himself. And if she didn't like it--he raised the axe--well? The door was there. For now. She was more than welcome to walk through it. In fact if he wasn't concentrating so hard he'd say so. As for her seeing that map? When it came to damns, he’d be lying to say he gave one. Enough was what he’d had of it all. Enough. Including the damned bickering with Gil.

  “Now, Destiny, don't flatter yourself.”

  "I'm not. But seeing as these
clothes aren’t mine, perhaps you want me to remove them first?”

  Right. Maybe his heart missed a beat but did she really think he was going to stutter, ogle, land the pickaxe on his toes instead of the wall?

  Much as it might not pain him to tell her, women were things he sometimes had to involve himself with--a hazard of the job. In fact, sometimes he did more than involve himself with them, sometimes he watched them bleed over him to a death he neither wanted nor expected.

  He tilted his jaw. “Now you're being tiresome, Destiny."

  "Me? In what way?"

  "What way do you think? But you go ahead." He tugged the axe free. "If you want to catch your death of cold, that's entirely up to you. I’m not lighting any fires to warm you."

  "Well, it's not exactly up to me. I mean your man did say these clothes are not mine, so--"

  All right? Did she really think he was going to stutter, ogle, land the pickaxe on his toes instead of the wall?

  A button. It was only a button, for God's sake. Not terribly sensuously the way she undid it, at that. Not so his tongue hung out for something other than a jug of ale—this wall-breaking was tough work, after all and his ribs felt as if they'd been broken all over again. Obviously they hadn't healed yet. But he did land a blow. Why not? The hell with whatever else she wanted here. Doom Bar Hall. The dresses. A reaction from him.

  "And I should add, you sitting here naked, is neither here nor there to me. If you think otherwise you'd have to do better.”

  She raised her chin. "I don't think that."

  "So you say." He took careful aim.

  “Fine then.”

  "Well then. Don't let me stop you."

  "You're not."

  He didn't obviously. Or she wouldn’t unfasten another button as he wiped his palm across his nose. It was still only another button. And that was another blow. He tossed the hair out of his eyes. A blow. A button. And another one. His throat dried but this was thirsty work and his ribs were murdering him. How many of the damn things were there? Buttons that was. He already knew about ribs. He hauled a breath. Blow. Button. Blow. Button. Blow. Blow. The judder went right through his body. Did her skeletal fingers tremble? He hoped so. Because, where he was now, he couldn't afford to let his kicked-to-bits-ones ever make such a mistake. But that ivory sliver of skin sailing like a galleon across his senses ..?

  He jerked up his head, sucked another breath. All right, just because someone did something as you didn’t think they would, it didn’t mean you couldn’t see the smoulder at the back of their eyes. A slow burn through frost. That it didn’t touch you in places you didn’t expect it to touch. He needed to think of Rose. Destiny Rhodes was hardly going to strip naked. And even if she did? It was hardly going to be anything more than water off his back unless she pulled something spectacular out of the hat. And how likely was that? He yanked the pickaxe out the wall.

  "Good," he muttered.

  "Well, yes it is, because I can't exactly leave here wearing them, now can I?"

  Great. He paused mid-wallop, flicked his gaze over the gaping hole. But what if she did? Leave here stark naked, that was? Wouldn’t he be as well digging his grave now--and not with a bent spoon either—as explain to Lyon what the hell he thought he was doing letting a resident of Doom Bar Hall leave that said hall without a stitch on her back? Suicide after Eirwin. He shouldered the axe.

  “I am sure you can keep the clothes if that’s your worry.”

  “Sure? Well, I don’t know about you but my reckoning is I don’t just speak for myself when I say we both know sure is seldom a certainty. Sure is a term that merely means you think so.”

  “I’m sure if Gil was here, he’d tell you we don’t need a philosophical discussion. We just need you to keep your damn clothes on. If you don’t mind? Thank you. Now.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I do say so.” He stiffened his shoulders. Quite often in life the path you walked down was by another’s design. Lyon. Destiny Rhodes. If it was his design now it would be straight cut to fit, an unrolled carpet he simply threw down before him to the place he wanted to be. No briars, no tangles, no rips to trip the unsuspecting.

  Destiny Rhodes and her brother, Chancery, had as good as killed Rose. The bastard had had his way with her. With Destiny’s help. And then? Then was now in some ways. Him having to carry out Lyon’s orders here, where Rose’s ghost wandered every room and even these walls were bloody hard work. What the hell were they made of? Iron? He landed another blow.

  “When it comes to that word say, let’s also say no more about your damn clothes. All right? Believe me, they’re hardly fit for more than rags. It’s a mercy to let you keep them if you want to wear them so badly.”

  Because it was. This was a question of who was going to give in first. On this occasion, well? He’d had no choice. Next time now? There wasn’t going to be a next time where she was concerned.

  "Oh, I'm glad you’re feeling so charitable when that is why I wear them because they are nothing frivolous, you understand? It’s actually why I want to discuss the other gowns before I leave here, as I know you are almost certainly going to tell me to do. In fact you were probably going to tell me this morning. Last night even.”

  So she knew? Well, thank Christ. The trouble that saved him meant he could be even more magnanimous. Anything to get her out of here as promised and needed, with the least amount of trouble. Finally the tide was turning. And he didn’t see her making a nice speech about it like King Canute when it flattened her either.

  “Gil spoke out of line and turn. If you want to know that you own these other dresses, then the answer is yes. Absolutely." He wiped the back of his wrist across his sweating brow. "So, the thing is—"

  “You think I want to own them?" Why did she look as if cow pats were what he wanted her to own? "I don’t want to own them. Goodness. I hope you think these dresses are something to me.”

  “Then if they’re not why the bloody hell are you in here making a fuss about the fact that yes, I had my manky Irish paws on them?" He took aim at the wall. "Well?"

  "I never said that. It's not something I would say. Think either."

  "You didn't need to say. Because, let’s face it, you never came in here to ask me about what you say you came in here for. So, talking clothes—"

  “Yes? What about them?"

  “Let’s remove the kid gloves, shall we?”

  “Well, I might if I was wearing some. But--"

  “Take them, take the lot out of this house now and—”

  “Thank you. Then I will. Now I have your blessing I was thinking of auctioning them, all proceeds to go to the servants you dismissed, if that is all right with you, that is?”

  What? And have half the fecking county clambering over the estate? Lyon would love that. No wonder he took the pickaxe off the skirting board before he could stop himself. The man wouldn’t just take the pickaxe off him, he'd be taking carpentry lessons to build the gibbet himself.

  As for there being any prizes left for guessing how that would make him look locally? The poor-put-upon Destiny Rhodes, without a farthing to her name, nobly selling off her clothes to ensure those he’d shown the door to had coal and candles this winter, while she herself was starving on the highway. He’d never be accepted after that. And he needed to be accepted. The sooner, the better, the prize cock-up he was making of this.

  He swallowed the burning knot in his throat. At all costs he needed to pull the axe out of the skirting board, carefully pull that brick there free. But more than that he needed to turn that tide back towards her, so she drowned in it not him. Now. Before she somehow advanced further. Saw him for what he really was. He knew just how to do it too. He set the axe down against the wall, pushed his sweating hair back from his forehead.

  “When I would like you to come to supper tonight?”

  “Me?”

  “Well, Destiny, I'm not meaning one of Grandfather Austell's parrots. Wearing one of these dresses as f
ine feathers at that."

  “You want me to wear one?”

  “I wouldn’t like you not to. That could be construed as indecent. The talk of Penvellyn, although from what I remember, being the talk was something you … " He flicked his gaze over her, that sliver of half naked breast in particular. “Well..."

  “But I haven’t worn any of them dresses since me Ennis died.”

  He cocked an eyebrow. Them not these. Me not my. Always a giveaway. Wearing one of these dresses would kill her. Did she think he hadn’t worked out the reason she didn’t? Well, however she’d come in here, whatever she said, this was one he was going to win, without straining himself too badly either, even if the last thing on the face of this earth he wanted was to sit down and eat supper with her.

  “Then it’s high time you did. Seven shall we say? In the dining room? The choice is yours. But let me tell you now, if you think I'm taking no for an answer, you can think again."

  CHAPTER SIX

  Seven? In the dining room? Right. And not taking no for an answer? Now some might say, standing against their room door yet again, as she was now, after she'd sort of peeled her clothes off--but not--that that hadn't gone so well. In fact some might say four words when it came to 'seven in the dining room'. Over their dead body.

  Dress up? Look pretty? Eat food? Her? Not this side of hell. And they would be right.

  How could she? Affront Ennis’s memory further either if he was waiting for her on the other side and saw her doing this? Especially after earlier and Divers O'Roarke's shameless display of his chest. She couldn't. And they would pass their hand over their face and push their hair back from their forehead, when they'd give the clothes they'd never removed from their back to go lie down in that bed there.

  But she wasn't one of them.

  How could she be?

  No. That sodding bastard had flung down a gauntlet.

  And if he thought, for one second, she was going to do anything other than pick it up, even if it killed her, he'd a big prize coming in the another thought coming competition.