Devil’s Cove (Tortured Souls)

by R. C. Matthews

  “Well, it’s bloody cold in there. That would anger me, too. I'll have Hatchet start a fire in the hearth at once.”

  Her shoulders shook with laughter, and she feared he might reduce her to tears.

  He wrapped her tighter in his embrace. “I’m sorry, Grace. I didn’t mean to make you cry. You nearly took a palette knife to the chest. You’re entirely right, this isn’t funny.”

  Her shoulders shook harder, and she fought to control her mirth. “Yes, it is,” she said, grinning up at him. “You’re quite funny. If Brother Anselm and I didn’t find ways to make light of our craft, I’m afraid we would both be insane by now, Captain.”

  “Devlin,” he whispered. “Please … call me Devlin.”

  All traces of laughter evaporated in the wake of his plea. It stirred feelings within her breast best left unexplored, yet he’d saved her life twice, and he’d sworn to protect her. Didn’t that form a bond between them, enough to address each other on a first-name basis?

  His fingers traced the line of her jaw, and she struggled to form words with his warm breath lingering between them, his mouth so near her own. That odd sensation from the evening before returned to her belly, an unsettling mix of joy and fear. She became aware of all the sculpted parts of his chest and abdomen pressing against her body. She should push him away, bring an end to this madness. But he smelled of leather and a hint of raspberry. And she suddenly wanted to taste him.

  Goodness, it was only a name. Why had she lost all reason? She could say it without losing her mind.

  “Dev—” she began, but his lips caught hers in a fiery kiss that robbed her of her senses. He slanted his mouth over hers, tasting every inch of her lips. Lord, grant her mercy, but she didn’t want him to ever stop. His lips were as smooth as the silk she’d once touched at the milliner’s shop. And when she opened her mouth for a breath of air, and their tongues touched, a possessive madness took over him. He slid his fingers into her tresses and held her captive, plundering the recesses of her mouth with his velvety tongue. She moaned under the onslaught and surrendered to the fervent sensations coursing through her. She molded her body against him, wanting to be closer. His manhood sprang to life, straining against her belly, and she gasped.

  It was like a slap on the face, and much needed to bring her to her senses. He grabbed her by the shoulders and pushed her an inch away. She worked to control her harsh breathing, which was matched by his.

  “My apologies,” he said, his voice gruff. “I don’t know what came over me.”

  She ought to slap him, but stood immobile instead, unable to utter a single word. He regretted his actions, and a lump formed in her throat with the realization.

  “I think that is enough for one day,” he said, resting his forehead on hers for a brief moment. “You must be tired and will want to visit with Brother Anselm. Surely they have returned from the priory by now.”

  He placed her hand on his arm and started down the first flight of stairs. She stumbled, but he caught and steadied her. His kisses had unsettled her, perhaps as much as the ghost had unsettled him.

  “Brother Anselm is staying in the chapel. I hope you don’t mind.”

  His return to mundane topics helped her regain a modicum of composure. “Not at all; the walk will do me good.”

  By the time they made it to the main floor, her heartbeat had recovered to a normal rate. Devlin called for Emma to escort her to the chapel and requested that Victor meet him in the library posthaste.

  “Enjoy your afternoon with Brother Anselm,” he said before he strode away.

  She tapped her foot, impatient for Emma’s arrival. The episode in the attic had revealed more than she’d bargained for, and she wished desperately to be on her way to the chapel to consult with Brother Anselm.

  Chapter Nine

  Devlin gripped a decanter of whiskey in one hand and reached for a tumbler with the other. His hand shook, forcing him to set the glass down before he poured a healthy two inches.

  “Pour me a glass, will you?” Victor said, eyeing him with a wide smile. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “Bugger off.” He threw back his whiskey in one heaving gulp. It burned like a bloody, filthy bastard on the way down, but warmth spread through him like wildfire, taking the edge off his anxiety. He closed his eyes for a moment to savor the feeling. “Pour your own damn glass.”

  Victor lifted one eyebrow and walked to the sideboard. “Would you like another?”

  “Yes, please.”

  As his first mate made himself useful pouring their drinks, he glanced over his shoulder. “Tell me what has your knickers in a bunch, Devlin.”

  “Ghosts.”

  Victor paused, the decanter poised midair. “You’re serious?”

  “Yes.”

  Victor handed Devlin more liquid fire. Three fingers this time. “Since when do you believe in ghosts?”

  “Since Grace was attacked in the attic and almost gutted with a palette knife.”

  Victor’s eyes widened, but he otherwise maintained his composure. “Sounds encouraging.”

  “So it would seem.”

  Devlin’s stomach was a riot of contradiction. He felt sick with fear for Grace’s safety, and yet he couldn’t deny the excitement coursing through him. Though he had dared to believe the stories whispered about Devil’s Cove Manor might be true, now he had concrete evidence.

  He sat on the couch and laid his head against the back, gathering strength to fill Victor in on everything he’d learned that afternoon. He relayed the events swiftly and then lifted his brow, awaiting his friend’s reaction.

  Victor took a gulp of whiskey and winced. “You’re telling me that Grace is Eveline Mitchell, the young girl you rescued when you were a lad?”

  “Yes.” Devlin pinched the crook of his nose. “Bloody foul luck.”

  Victor took a seat across from Devlin then leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “Josephine might kill Grace. The gatekeeper is far more powerful than a malevolent ghost brandishing a palette knife.”

  He glared at his best friend. “You think I don’t know that? Believe me, I do. I’ve thought of little else since the moment I realized who Grace was.”

  Victor shot him a pitying glance and stood to pace before him. “Give it up, man. Find another medium. Not her.”

  Devlin lowered his head into his hands. “I’m too close. I’ll not give up now.”

  A second later, he was hauled to his feet. Victor grasped the front of his shirt and shook him. “That woman saved your goddamned life countless times. Every lash of the whip on your hide, every slice of the knife, every single time your enemies sought to bring you down and you wished you were dead, who did you tell me you thought of? Her! She pulled you through and rallied your spirits. She’s honest and innocent and good. It’s people like her that make life worth fighting for, dammit.”

  “She’s the fucking reason my mother sent me to the Butcher!” Devlin shouted, shoving Victor away, along with the weighty truth of his words. Victory was within his grasp. He swallowed hard, wanting nothing more than to smash his fist into something solid. “I’ll not feel sorry for her. Do you hear me?”

  Victor bit his bottom lip and closed his eyes. “Devlin—”

  “I need you to inquire in the village again,” he said, cutting him off. He wouldn’t discuss the matter any further. His mind was made up. “Find out what you can about Grace. How did she come to live in the care of Brother Anselm? Why did he change her name? And learn what you can about her mother. All of it. Was the woman insane? Did she have the sight? And did she play a role in the massacre said to have occurred here? I must know.” He dragged both hands through his hair. “And for Christ’s sake, be discreet.”

  “What’ll you do with Grace if it’s all true?” Victor asked, coming to stand directly before him. He folded his arms over his chest. “And why does it matter about her mother’s history?”

  “It matters!” Devlin roared, grasping
Victor by the neck.

  His best friend knew every sordid detail of his life, so why was Victor questioning his decisions? He wasn’t a monster, but he refused to abandon his lifelong quest because of a blind chit no one cared about, other than Brother Anselm.

  The thought soured in his gut the moment he swallowed past it. He was a repulsive liar. Eveline Mitchell was, and always had been, his lifeline to humanity. Dammit all to hell!

  He did not care.

  He would not care.

  “You know it matters,” Devlin said with a sigh, releasing his friend. “I agree with you. Grace is an innocent, but I’ve waited too long to have my revenge. I don’t have time to find another medium, and yet I’ll not destroy my chances because I didn’t do my research. I need her to be sane, to negotiate on my behalf. Insanity can be hereditary, you know.”

  Victor’s jaw clenched, and a muscle worked along the edge. He leaned in. “What if it takes someone insane to negotiate with the gatekeeper to Hell? Did you ever consider that?”

  The wheels grinding in his brain came to a stuttering halt. “Point taken,” he admitted.

  Victor headed toward the door. “I’ll do my best to uncover the truth.” He stopped, and without turning back, he asked, “Do you believe Josephine resides here?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m open to the possibility.” Devlin stared out the window and caught the sun’s reflection off Neptune. The sparkles glittering off the water defied belief. “Lord knows I’ve encountered stranger things in my lifetime.”

  “Promise me one thing,” Victor said, glancing back over his shoulder.

  Devlin nodded.

  “Reconsider what I’ve said.” Victor’s eyes grew bleak. “Because I know you, my friend, and if Grace dies in your pursuit for revenge, you may as well put a bullet through your own head. It isn’t worth it.”

  Devlin had never doubted for an instant he would forfeit his life to ensure his mother burned in Hell. He turned his back on his friend and strode to the sideboard to pour another fortifying drink. What he didn’t know was whether he could sacrifice Grace, and that thought chilled him to the bone. The decision ought to be simple. But it was not. Perhaps his mother had been right about him all along and he was a blackhearted monster.

  • • •

  Rays of sunshine permeated Grace’s cloak and offered comfort against the harsh wind. Emma guided her to the chapel as quickly as the gravel path would allow, pointing out larger rocks and the divots forged by the recent rain. She stumbled once or twice but didn’t care, so great was her desire to see Brother Anselm.

  Devlin’s cool departure weighed on her. Was he angry at her about the kiss? Her fingers brushed along her swollen lips, and she recalled her passionate response. He must think her insane. One minute she admonished him for thinking her a loose woman, and the next she melted into his embrace, a willing participant.

  But, Lord help her, she couldn’t resist the fire he flamed in her belly. She’d never imagined a man might want to slip his tongue into her mouth, nor how wonderful the sensation might feel. Perhaps she ought to consult with Emma on the topic of men and women. She’d heard whispers in the tavern, and once, when she was a young girl, she’d seen her dog mount a bitch. But that was the extent of her knowledge. Speaking with Brother Anselm was out of the question.

  Emma ushered Grace through the back door of the chapel, where the living quarters could be found, and ensured she was safe in the care of Brother Anselm before departing for the mansion.

  Grace’s nostrils filled with the welcoming fragrance of mint tea and raspberry. The air caressing her skin was warm, and a fire crackled nearby.

  “Are those raspberry scones I smell, Brother Anselm?” she asked with a grin forming on her lips. “You’ve endeared yourself to Abigail. So quickly? You were gone half the morning, if I am to believe Captain Limmerick.”

  Brother Anselm took her cloak. “Priorities, my dear.”

  She chuckled and waited for his return. He guided her to a wooden chair and table set nestled next to the wall. A slight chill and howling of the wind confirmed it. He placed a cup of tea in front of her, making a veritable racket as he poured and spooned in sugar.

  “Did you encounter any problems retrieving our belongings?” she asked, blowing on her tea.

  “None at all.” The chair beside her creaked under his large frame. “And what of your morning? Did you encounter any spirits?”

  “Yes.”

  A slurp, and then he asked, “Already? Don’t tell me, was it in the attic?”

  She grinned, as surely as he did, and nodded.

  “Friendly?” he probed.

  Her lips connected with the edge of the teacup, and she sipped. How much should she divulge of the afternoon’s events? He might inquire with the captain, so she may as well have it out with now, and she was curious to see if he could fill in some gaps.

  “Quite the opposite,” she said, holding her voice steady. It wouldn’t do to alarm him. He was getting up in years, and she worried about his health. Fighting evil spirits was an exhausting pastime. “He made his ire with my presence known.”

  There was a pause as Brother Anselm chewed a bite of scone, a rather large one at that, if the length of the pause was any indication. She really must speak to him about taking smaller bites lest he choke.

  “He?”

  “Lord Marcus Deveraux,” she offered. “We found his portrait with a nameplate in the attic. I received quite a shock when I touched it. Colder than the Atlantic on a winter morning.”

  Grace tapped her foot on the floor and awaited his reaction, her posture stiff with tension. She couldn’t douse the flame of doubt flickering within her belly every time she thought of what had happened in the attic.

  “Out with it, child,” he said as his hand enveloped hers. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  He knew her too well. She sighed. “Devlin made a curious observation about Lord Deveraux.”

  “Devlin?” He snorted. Not an inconspicuous snort, but one that held enough substance that his hand shifted against hers. “You’re on first-name terms now, are you?”

  She bore enough guilt to hide her face in her teacup, sipping altogether too long for what one might consider proper. “I suppose it’s not so unusual considering he saved my life, twice.”

  “Twice?” Brother Anselm asked.

  She nodded. “Lord Deveraux hoped to make his dissatisfaction with our presence painfully clear. Devlin pushed me out of the direct line of a palette knife, if he’s been honest with me, and he carried me out of the attic amidst a storm of flying objects.”

  “Goodness, you’ve earned your keep for one month, at least. And what was this curious observation of the captain’s?”

  She smiled weakly, but it took some effort, because she was not in a mood to be entertained. What she wanted was answers to questions she found difficult to ask. Still, she must ask them if she hoped to quiet the unease welling inside of her whole body. “Did you perchance happen to meet Lord Deveraux in your lifetime?”

  Brother Anselm didn’t answer her question straightaway, and the pause set her heart to racing, because it was unlike him to hesitate, unless he felt uncomfortable with the topic at hand.

  “Yes, I have. Why?”

  “Devlin seemed to believe I bear an uncanny resemblance to the man, both the color of my hair and eyes.”

  “The likeness is astonishing,” Brother Anselm whispered.

  Grace swallowed, and a strange pressure gathered on her chest. She stood and cut a path to the hearth, following the crackle of the fire, and stretched out her fingers. The soothing heat did little to prevent the shiver running down her spine as memories from her youth sprang to mind.

  “When I was a little girl,” she began, twisting her hands together, “I could hear my parents arguing in their bedroom late at night. They believed I was sound asleep, but I wasn’t.”

  The wooden legs of Brother Anselm’s chair scraped against the floor, but she con
tinued her story, determined to lay it all out in her mind. She’d harbored the bothersome memories for too long and wished to be rid of them, as if voicing them aloud would relieve her conscience of their burden.

  “Father was the loudest. Even still I only caught a word or two. Strumpet. Bastard. Those were the words that struck me as odd, most likely because I didn’t know what they meant at the time.” Grace turned her back to the fire, facing Brother Anselm. “But I do now. Why would my father call my mother a strumpet?”

  Silence greeted her. She lifted her chin, prepared to face the truth.

  “Am I a bastard, Brother Anselm? Please tell me if Marcus Deveraux is my biological father.”

  Her heart raced, and she dragged air into her lungs. He must know the truth. Why wouldn’t he say anything? Not knowing was ripping her insides to shreds.

  “Is that why my father abandoned me at the priory? Because he found out?”

  “Yes,” Brother Anselm said. “He wanted you to repent for the rest of your life. But he was misguided. You’ve done nothing wrong; you are the kindest, sweetest, most caring … ”

  His words were drowned out by the sobs ripping from her chest as a torrent of tears flooded her face. She collapsed to the ground as her strength abandoned her. All this time she’d held on to the notion that her father loved her, had given her up to Brother Anselm in a selfless act of kindness, ensuring she remained safe from the harsh rumors attached to her mother’s insanity.

  As difficult as it was to accept that her father despised her, it all made sense as the pieces fell into place. How many times had she made excuses when her father turned a cold shoulder to her within the village? He’d signed the petition to commit her to the asylum. Bile lurched up her throat.

  She was living a horrific lie, the seeds of which were planted so many years ago. They had taken root in her heart and mind, and tearing them out might prove to be the end of her. Her heart ached with a searing pain. Brother Anselm wrapped her in his arms, and she wept, rocking back and forth in a mindless rhythm, wanting nothing more than to block out the cruel world.