Chapter Forty Six

Reaching the windswept shore Divers O’Roarke knew one thing. Maybe Destiny Rhodes had done him a favor by holing the boat beneath him, so he’d no choice but to swim for the shore; when he was swimming there he was well shot of her, of the Rhodes. Surely?

As he inched through the cracks in the rock overhung by dead bracken and withered tufts of marram grass, he saw it, the only thing he wanted to see, oiled by moonlight. Not Destiny Rhodes, not Rose, not that damned mausoleum standing like a skull on the cliff top. He saw the rowing boat Orwell had promised, a shapeless hulk, draped in tarpaulins and nets.

“Hurry, man.” Gil’s voice was just the match for the howling gale. “We need to launch it. Then … I don’t know about you, but I need to get out of here.”

The tarpaulin was oily beneath Divers fingers. “Oh, I’ll be joining you. Push. We can get to everything else later.”