Devil’s Cove (Tortured Souls)

by R. C. Matthews

  She turned to Devlin. “Perhaps you have a story or two up your sleeve? I should very much like to hear your nickname.”

  “They call him the Devil,” Hatchet said.

  Grace rubbed one hand over her chest and whispered, “So it’s true. Like The Devil with Three Golden Hairs.”

  Devlin turned an icy stare on his second mate. He didn’t care to scare the woman out of his service before she had even begun. Besides, as far as the good people of Devil’s Cove knew, he was a respectable privateer, and he preferred to keep it that way. His well-laid plans to reclaim his title and destroy his mother depended on his acceptance in good society, and woe to the man who got in the way of those plans. The bitch had sent him to Hell, and he had every intention of returning the favor.

  “I only jest,” Hatchet amended with an apologetic tip of his head at Devlin. “You’re far too easy to entertain, Miss Grace. I couldn’t help myself. I’ve also heard the rumors. Forgive me for pulling your leg.”

  She chuckled but began wringing her hands. “You got me!” Licking her lips, she locked her hands behind her back and finally stopped fidgeting. “Well, you must miss the sea and fresh air. How can you endure being cooped up in a mansion?”

  “I don’t mind,” Hatchet said. “Mealtime on the mainland is worth the bother.” Glancing out the window lining one side of the massive oak doors to the entrance, he added, “And we have Neptune to keep us company while we’re here.”

  Her brow furrowed, posing a silent question.

  Devlin placed Grace’s hand on his arm. “I’ll tell you on the way to the dining room, or we’ll starve this morning. Hard right around the staircase and straight back. Watch for the side table adjacent to the stairs.”

  She held out her right hand and skimmed her fingers against the edge of the table, then strode forward.

  “Hatchet is referring to a statue of Neptune gracing the middle of the lake in the courtyard.” Devlin kept his focus on their progress and took a mental note to have Victor remove half the furniture cluttering the hallway. “Have you ever seen it? Before … ”

  “Oh, yes, once,” she said, her tone registering the connection. “When I was a little girl, Mother visited the manor and brought me along. It was a rare treat, especially the statue—God of fresh water and sea—in our very own part of the world. I’ll never forget the way the sun reflected off the water all around him, like he was blessed with a halo of golden light.”

  Devlin shook his head at her fanciful retelling. She was a hopeless romantic. The quicker he got her out of the damned mansion, the better. “That was your favorite part of the visit, I take it?” he asked drolly.

  “Oh, no.” Grace shook her head. “Cook made the most amazing raspberry scones and let me eat as many as I liked. He was so kind.” She stopped in her tracks and tilted her head. “Funny, I didn’t realize until now, but Mrs. Stevens’s scones are every bit as delicious.”

  “Perhaps she stole the recipe from her brother,” Devlin offered. “He was the cook of the manor in those days.” He resumed their walking. “Settee on your right and a set of chairs ahead on the left. Just a few more steps after that you’ll find the dining room on our right.”

  She turned her face toward his. “Might we go to the kitchen first? I should like to meet the cook and thank her for the scones. It’ll give me an opportunity to learn my way around. One never knows when a trip to the kitchen will be necessary. I’m fond of tea late at night.”

  “That’s why I hired a lady’s maid for you,” Devlin said. Goddammit, he wasn’t paying her maid to eat bonbons all day and sleep in a feather bed at night. The chit needed to do actual work. “You shouldn’t walk about the place at night. It’s—”

  “Too dark?”

  She stole the words from his mouth. He could feel the heat of a blush staining his neck.

  “Well,” he said, refusing to acknowledge her question. It was badly done of her, making light of the situation. His objection was not without merit. “This way, then. Another ten paces or so. But you know, it isn’t seemly for a young lady to be traipsing through another’s home late at night. Therefore, I’d ask that you avail yourself of the bellpull. Miss Taplin will see to your every need.”

  Grace huffed, the noise so at odds with her normal decorum that Devlin arched a brow in her direction.

  “I’m hardly a young lady at three and twenty.”

  “So old?” he asked, unleashing his sarcasm.

  She slapped his arm, and he grinned. Despite the fact that she often irritated him, the woman was far too easy to tease, and he found her reactions rather entertaining.

  They entered the kitchen, where preparations for the afternoon meal were already in full force. Grace pulled her hand away from the door and stiffened, her fingers squeezing almost imperceptibly on his arm. Tingles built up in his gut as he glanced down to gauge her reaction.

  “Is it a ghost?” he asked. He’d witnessed many things in his one and thirty years, but he’d never had the pleasure of encountering a ghost. He was open to changing that. Hopeful, even. Their existence would prove there was a heaven. And a hell. And a gatekeeper. His lips curved in a grin.

  “There are multiple ghosts,” she whispered. “Cook among them.”

  Chapter Seven

  Devlin scanned the kitchen, scouring the room for signs of Abigail’s long-lost brother, though he had no idea what those might be. What would his cook say if she knew her brother lingered in her midst while she bustled about, taking care of her duties?

  Cook stopped in her tracks upon their arrival, while Maribeth looked up from her plate of eggs and bacon. The child’s eyes alighted with interest, and she hopped off the stool to race around the counter. She barreled into Devlin, threw her arms around his waist, and almost knocked Grace off-kilter while forcing the air out of his lungs.

  “Poppet.” He grunted, hugging her to him and ruffling her mop of golden curls. The little ragamuffin was too impetuous for her own good. “It’s good to see you, too. But you must take care. You almost sent our guest to her knees. Now come, meet Miss Grace.”

  Maribeth clapped her hands. “You’re going to exorcise our ghosts. I can’t wait to see how you accomplish it, though a part of me wishes you wouldn’t. They’re great fun. Perhaps we may keep one or two?” She stared at Grace for a long moment and then blurted, “I say, what is wrong with your eyes?”

  “Watch your manners, you little termagant,” the cook admonished as she strode toward them. She snapped a towel against the girl’s bottom. “She’s eleven. You must forgive her. Pleased to meet you, Miss Grace. I’m Cook, or you may call me Abigail. We don’t hold to formalities around here.”

  “Thank you, Abigail. The scones you sent to my room last night were delicious.” Grace held her hands clasped in front of her. “But you needn’t apologize for … Poppet?”

  “Maribeth,” Devlin corrected.

  “Yes, well, Maribeth has the right of it,” Grace said, facing the child. “I’m blind, so what you see are prosthetic eyes. They’re made of glass. Would you care to look closer? Maybe then they’ll not seem so scary.”

  Grace was kind not to take immediate offense to the child’s behavior. Maribeth nodded, and a foreign ache constricted around Devlin’s heart. She must also learn to adapt to their guest, but he would offer guidance.

  “You must speak your wishes, Poppet,” he said.

  Her mouth formed a little O, and she grabbed Grace’s hand. “Yes, I should like a closer look, but not because I’m scared. Devlin is missing a finger and wears a fierce scowl most times; still I don’t quake in my boots. Besides, you’re much too beautiful to scare me.”

  Devlin hid his smile behind his hand as Grace bent on one knee. Maribeth, scared? The notion was ridiculous. Her courage rivaled his most seasoned crewmembers, and it appeared she possessed a sweet tongue as well. The “beautiful” remark would mend any hurt feelings Grace might’ve felt at Maribeth’s original observation.

  Grace allowed t
he child to inspect her glass eyes for a minute and then stood. “Well, what do you think?”

  Maribeth reflected on her question for a long moment. “Were your eyes brown?” she asked, regarding Grace closely. “I mean, your real ones?”

  Grace shook her head. “Oh, no, they were as blue as a cloudless sky.”

  “Then why didn’t you buy blue eyes?” Maribeth scratched her head. “I’d like to see you as God made you.”

  Devlin turned a stern eye to her. “That’s enough, Poppet.” The tone in his voice brooked no argument. “Now you’re being rude.”

  Grace grabbed hold of Devlin’s arm, and he stared at her hand in astonishment. Her meaning was clear. Back off.

  “Blue eyes are expensive. They must be custom-made. I’m afraid the brothers of the priory couldn’t afford that luxury. But it’s fine. The added cost would be a shameful waste of money since they are only for show, don’t you think?”

  Maribeth seemed inclined to disagree, but she held her tongue when Devlin tossed another stern look her way. Ah, the hell with it. She was still a child, and he hated to tamp down her curiosity and naturally vibrant nature, so he tossed her a boon.

  “After breakfast I plan to … ” He paused, catching himself before uttering the word show. A smug smile crept across his lips. “Introduce Grace to several new rooms. Would you like to join us?”

  The girl’s green eyes lit up, and she nodded, only to bite down on her bottom lip. She glanced at Grace, and he understood her frustration. Maribeth had forgotten to speak her wishes for Grace’s benefit.

  “Yes, I want to join you both,” Maribeth said, “but can we begin with the parlor in the east wing?”

  Devlin nodded. “I think we can manage that.”

  • • •

  Breakfast was an interesting affair, as Grace insisted upon fixing her own plate. Devlin stared in fascination while she chose scrambled eggs, grilled tomatoes, and toast, arranging them in sections on her plate.

  “It’s my sense of smell,” she said, taking her seat.

  Devlin looked up. “Pardon me?”

  She sighed and laid her napkin on her lap. “I rely on my sense of smell to select the food.”

  How could she possibly know where his mind had wandered?

  “You were quiet,” she said with a smirk. “People who are staring at me in rapt fascination are quiet.”

  “My apologies,” he replied.

  “Don’t be sorry.” She sipped her tea and then scooped a bite of eggs onto her fork. “I would be curious, too, if our roles were reversed.”

  Would he manage to temper his frustration that well if he were in her shoes? A part of him wished to ask her when and how she’d lost her sight. But that would be incredibly rude. Yet she had opened the door to some questions.

  “May I ask, then, how you know where to arrange the food and how much is enough or too much?”

  “You may,” she said, resting her fork and knife on the edge of the plate. “Take this plate, for example. It is larger than the full length of my hand; the larger the plate, the more food I may pile on it.” She grinned and leaned toward him. “You have rather large plates. I shall become fat in your employ.”

  He laughed, enchanted by her sense of humor. Her form was perfect in every way, so he didn’t believe for one second that she would indulge in too much food. His hand slid across the table, but he caught himself before laying it over hers. What was this draw he felt toward her? He did not chase after virgins, ever, and had no intention of starting now.

  He yanked his hand back and took a bite of his eggs. “You’re forced to employ all of your senses to survive. I must admit, it is fascinating to watch you, but I’ll endeavor not to stare too much. I might scare you away, otherwise, and I cannot have that.”

  “It takes more than a bit of staring to scare me,” she said, pressing her lips together as if suppressing a smile.

  It was ungallant of him, but he couldn’t resist. “You mean something like slithering noises, perhaps.”

  “You’re a scoundrel.” She screwed her lips into a disapproving pucker, though he could tell she was teasing him. Still, the reminder of their encounter the evening before rankled.

  “So I’ve been told,” he bit out.

  Her face fell, and he almost regretted the thoughtless comment. Did she regret her words from the night before? Not that it mattered. He didn’t give two whits what others thought of him. Except, for some inexplicable reason, her disapproval of his character cut deep. Perhaps ’twas because she reminded him of the little girl he’d rescued when he was still a lad. That young maiden had regarded him with sublime hero worship, a stark contrast to what he’d become. A dark, gaping hole had replaced his heart a long time ago.

  He shifted in his seat and lifted his fork. It was futile to linger on such musings.

  “So how does one go about exorcising spirits from one’s home?” he asked with genuine interest.

  Grace gulped a mouthful of tea. “It depends.”

  “On what?”

  “Whether they’re friendly or hostile.”

  His head snapped up, and he regarded her thoughtfully. She wasn’t jesting. How often had Grace dealt with hostile spirits in the past, and how in the devil did she manage to ward them off? She was nothing more than a slip of a girl, the top of her head reaching his shoulders.

  “But first I need to explore the mansion. Find where they linger. Get a sense for their strength. And then I’ll consult Brother Anselm on the best approach.”

  Satisfied with her response, he directed his attention at the food on his plate. “You had best eat now, Grace. Maribeth has the patience of a gnat and will be pestering us within the quarter hour.”

  She lowered her face with a brief nod of acknowledgment. True to his prediction, Maribeth pushed through the dining-room door before Grace could finish the last bite of her toast.

  “Are you ready to begin the tour? I cannot wait a moment longer.”

  Devlin laid his napkin on his plate and stood, bearing down on the child. “How many times must I—”

  “I’m ready,” Grace called out. She stood and pushed her chair back in toward the table. “Must you go on like that, Captain? The child is excited. Even I can see that.”

  Devlin stopped dead in his tracks. He had stewed over their last exchange the entire meal, annoyed with himself for being such a cad, and he’d nearly taken it out on Maribeth.

  Grace wore a smug look on her face, fully recovered and back to her mischievous self. She held out her hand. “Will you lead the way, Maribeth?”

  The girl looked to Devlin for approval and then raced to Grace’s side when he gave a curt nod.

  “Do not run,” he ordered, his warning falling on deaf ears. “If you’re tugging, then you’re going too fast.”

  A fit of giggles and screams filled the air as Maribeth led her charge to the parlor. Devlin raced after them, regretting the moment of weakness that made him issue the invitation to Maribeth in the first place.

  He skidded to a stop at the parlor door, prepared to tan Maribeth’s little hide, but became distracted by the sight before him. Grace heaved deep breaths, and her cheeks were flushed with color. But more than that, she wore a smile filled with unadulterated joy. He stood transfixed.

  “Is that you, Captain?” Grace asked through ragged breaths. “We beat you. Didn’t we, Maribeth?”

  “Yes,” the girl said with her hands planted on her hips in a sassy stance. “But why do you call him Captain? His name is Devlin.”

  Grace raised an eyebrow in her direction. “It’s a matter of respect. He has earned the title, so he deserves to be addressed as such.”

  Maribeth shrugged and plopped down on a chair, swinging her feet. “What do we do now?” She suddenly sat up straight, and the glee shining in her eyes sparked a flame of worry in Devlin’s gut. “Do you have a talking board?”

  Her question startled him into action, and he strode to Grace’s side, where he might assist h
er in navigating the room. “Where do you learn about such things, Poppet? I swear your knowledge scares the wits out of me sometimes.”

  Grace giggled and began walking the perimeter of the room with his aid, touching things along the way. “Talking boards … such nonsense. Mediums with a genuine gift of sight do not require fanciful tools—or should I say tricks of the trade.”

  Grace’s fingers paused over a handcrafted pipe sitting on the fireplace mantel. Devlin’s gaze was glued to her every move, as was Maribeth’s.

  “The previous owner loved this pipe,” Grace said, turning it over in her hands. “He placed it in the same spot exactly after his evening smoke.”

  She spoke with such confidence that the hairs on Devlin’s neck prickled in a most unusual manner.

  “How do you know that?” he asked.

  Biting her bottom lip, she paused to consider his question. “Ghosts’ memories are like footprints on the things they held dear. Sometimes those memories come to life in my mind’s eye.”

  “You have to put it back,” Maribeth whispered, her eyes darting to the place on the mantel where it belonged. “He doesn’t like his pipe to be moved.”

  A full chill ran up Devlin’s spine. Maribeth was a jokester, but something told him she was dead serious this time.

  “Why do you say that?” he asked, kneeling before the girl and taking her trembling hand in his.

  “It’s a game I play,” she confessed, staring at their joined hands. “It started as a jest. What if I moved a picture frame from this table to that? Only the first time I tried it, the frame was back to its original location the next day. So I tried it a second time but with the pipe. The moment I touched it, a vase flew across the room and shattered at my feet. I don’t like him.” She looked up, and a weak smile spread across her lips. “Can Grace banish him first?”

  Devlin let out his breath. Why hadn’t Maribeth confided in him earlier on the matter? He’d had the impression she was fond of all the ghosts. “Most definitely. Don’t you agree, Grace?”