CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT

Never had Divers been so glad of his low brogue, the softly spoken Irish that was second nature to him as in the moment when he rounded on Gil Wryson.

“What do you mean, Sir, leave it?” Do you really think I’m stupid enough, when we’re so nearly there? Job done?”

But, having stood in the ice-cold swirling tide, feeling the starving lather eat his boots, his stockings, his toes, for the last perishing half hour and having struggled against air cold and sharp as steel, to drag a breath into his frozen lungs, felt his nose run with every conceivable thing a nose could run with, wiped icy sweat from his brow, Sir, leave it, were not words he wanted to hear. Words he’d once picked Gil off the starving streets of London, alone, dirty, starving, despite the gold fob watch in his pocket, to hear ever, either. Gil’s eyes glittered with black despair.