CHAPTER ELEVEN
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 quick 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.