CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

“Would you mind telling me why the hell you told Destiny Rhodes I was an exciseman?”

As Divers O’Roarke scanned the leaden sky that stretched like eternity above the rugged moorland, felt the stir of the chill breeze on his forehead, he went places deserted by angels but the alternative was worse. Besides, despite the agony in his ribs and the knowledge he’d let Destiny Rhodes past every defence going last night—worse, he was in danger of getting beneath hers, when a tombstone probably still waited--he’d met with Tom Berryman.

Not particularly successfully. A meeting was still a meeting though. Berryman was in no doubt Divers meant business and would and could undercut him, had his ear to the ground, could hire the men to help with a little light unloading of a ship already under sail from Calais. At least Divers had said it was Calais. Lyon narrowed his hawk’s eye on a piece of browning bracken, gathered the reins of his stallion so he could sit it better.