Devil’s Cove (Tortured Souls)

by R. C. Matthews

  “I’ll go insane like my mother,” she said, pounding her forehead against Brother Anselm’s chest. “Won’t I, Brother?” That was the one truth hidden among the lies of her existence. Her mother’s insanity.

  “No, Grace,” he chided as he shook her by the shoulders. “Don’t believe that for even one second. Listen to me! Your mother was not insane. She was a victim of your father’s hatred. He sent her to Waverly Hills out of spite, not fear for his or anyone else’s safety. Do you hear me?”

  She stilled. “She wasn’t insane?”

  “No, my child.”

  “But she killed her caretaker at the asylum,” Grace said, wiping her nose on a handkerchief.

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I made discreet inquiries after the incident,” Brother Anselm said, squeezing her hands. “Your mother was filled with grief and feared for your safety. You were a child, blind and alone with a man who despised your very existence. She fled in hopes of rescuing you, but she was caught not far from the asylum and refused to go back without a fight.”

  A fresh wave of grief assailed Grace, and she wiped furiously at her tearstained cheeks. She couldn’t remember a time since the age of seven that she hadn’t worried over her mother’s insanity. “Why have you never told me this before?”

  “Because I love you like a daughter.” His voice cracked, and Grace pulled his hand to her cheek, nestling against his weathered skin. “And I worried the truth would destroy you. You came into my life by the grace of God, and though you had nothing but the dress on your back, you were gracious and grateful, and learned to love a stupid old man like me.” His tears splashed against her hand, breaking what little remained of her shattered heart. “Please forgive me for doing what I thought was best for you.”

  She kissed his hand, wanting to soothe him despite the confusion and anger welling inside her. This was her life, and he had withheld the truth from her for fifteen years. Still, she couldn’t hate him. Would knowing earlier have spared her any pain? No, it would not have. At least now she was mature enough to understand. He’d been right to shield her in her youth.

  “You are forgiven, Brother.”

  He embraced her, and they sat that way for quite some time by the fire. She felt numb, in both body and spirit.

  “Promise me you will be careful, Grace. Something foul is afoot.” He pulled away and rose to his feet, then offered her a hand. “It surrounds us. Can you feel it on the grounds? Especially by the lake. I couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched after my morning walk. Quite unsettling.”

  It was a day for revelations, it seemed. “Do you believe the rumors about my mother?”

  “You’re referring to the part she played in the massacre?” he asked, his words more a statement than a question.

  “Yes,” she said. “She was the only guest to survive, and afterward, even I was scared of her incoherent warnings of deceit and evil.” Grace rubbed the back of her neck, working out the knots forming there. “Still, I cannot believe her capable of murder. She dedicated her life to eradicating evil from this world. Everyone touts Josephine’s existence: a child of Satan, armed with his dark powers. It requires no stretch of the imagination to believe her capable of massacring an entire village, let alone a houseful of people. Tell me what you believe, Brother.”

  Her mentor sighed wearily. “Perhaps I should hold my tongue, but you deserve the truth, and I have withheld too much from you already.” His words sounded heavy, as if they were a great burden on his heart. “Tales of Josephine are deeply rooted in the folklore of Devil’s Cove. Is she a hideous immortal monster who clawed her way out of the depths of Hell? Or merely a human wielding black magic? Perhaps a combination of the two. Either way, she is legendary. People want to lay blame at your mother’s feet, because the alternative is too horrible, by far.” He cleared his throat. “But your mother believed in Josephine—so much so that she made me swear on the Holy Bible that I would change your name to Grace to protect you from the gatekeeper.”

  Lord help them all. Her mother had been a powerful medium, had even been known to see into the future from time to time. Grace gulped for air and whispered, “Did my mother know she would be sent to the asylum and that my father would bring me to you?”

  “Yes.”

  She felt very weak all of a sudden and rested her hand on Brother Anselm’s arm. He had been a constant in her life for nearly fifteen years, far longer than the mother she had known and loved as a child. He was a man of God. She trusted him with her life, and the overwhelming need for his reassurance assailed her. “Why do I need protection?”

  “Beatrice didn’t say.” Brother Anselm wrapped his arm around her. “But I surmised Josephine was angry with Marcus Deveraux. I believe your mother hoped to shield your true identity in order to distance you from him.”

  It was all too much for her to bear at once. Her mother’s betrayal. The maniacal ghost of her father bent on harming her. And, now, Josephine. Lord, let it not be true. “Do you believe in Josephine, Brother Anselm?”

  “I respected the love of a mother for her daughter and granted Beatrice’s wish to rename you, but had you asked me two days ago if I believed in Josephine, my answer would have been an emphatic no.”

  She swallowed. “And now?”

  “I dare not voice my thoughts aloud.”

  Chapter Ten

  An obscure and powerful ache built in Grace’s nether region with a force that was both foreign and yet oddly familiar. The soft moss of the forest floor cushioned her back as her lover pinched the taut bud of her nipple. She couldn’t hold back any longer and sought to extinguish the fire blazing through her body before it consumed her whole. With an instinct she didn’t know she possessed, she opened her mouth to the gentle tugging on her lips, and her tongue slipped into sweet oblivion. Her lover’s tongue was bold and possessive as it explored every crevice of her mouth, inflaming her desire and filling her belly with the fluttering wings of a hummingbird drunk on the nectar of an exotic flower. Her lover’s hand slipped between the wet folds of her womanhood and stroked with infinite care. She was on the edge of something raw and beautiful … so close … the sensations overwhelming in their intensity, until she felt as if her entire body exploded in a thunderous wave of tingling from the very core of her being. Every single molecule of her body vibrated with the delicious aftershocks, and she collapsed, sated.

  Grace bolted upright, the vestiges of her dream alarmingly vivid in her mind. She could scarce draw breath, and her body trembled from the ache between her damp thighs. The sensations subsided with each new draw of fresh air into her lungs. She had fallen from grace, into the fiery pit of insanity.

  How did one dream of such raptures without an ounce of experience to draw from? Or little experience, at any rate. She ran the tips of her fingers across her lips. They felt bruised—so sensitive to the light touch. How could that be? She did not dare touch the sacred spot between her thighs for fear of what she might unleash. Never had she imagined such pleasures awaited her. Her dream had reawakened the wild and wondrous feelings Devlin’s kisses had brought to life, only magnified a hundredfold.

  He was an enigma.

  It was difficult to fathom that the man who had held her close and aroused her passion bore the nickname the Devil while battling bloodthirsty pirates on the high seas. Hatchet had tried to cover his blunder, but she knew the nickname to be true. And, still, Devlin had defended Maribeth against a fate worse than death, yet beat Willie Jackson senseless with his bare fists. She knew instinctively Devlin had doled out the punishment at The Black Serpent, and she even imagined he took some measure of satisfaction in doing it.

  She should recoil in disgust at the very thought of him touching her. Disgust, however, was far from what she’d felt. Perhaps she did, indeed, harbor a wicked, dark side as well. She’d been accused of it by many of the villagers. Was it the black part of her soul that connected with evil spirits and drew them t
o her?

  Flopping back on her pillow with an aching heart, she spread her arms wide in surrender. It was too much to bear. Too much to think of on an empty stomach. She ran her fingers over the sheet and froze. It was crumpled and warm to the touch. Good Lord, had Devlin stole into her bed in the middle of the night? Had he kissed her lips and stroked the embers of her desire into a raging flame? The thought sent a fresh wave of flutters racing through her, only to be chased away with a deep shame that filled her breast. A decent young woman ought to despise Devlin for his treachery.

  “Devlin,” she whispered, leaning up on one elbow. “Are you here?”

  She waited in breathless anticipation, blood thrumming through her veins and an ache building in her belly, but there was nothing.

  Rolling over, she buried her face in the warm sheet and inhaled through her nose, wanting to feel near to him, to smell him. She was a fool, but for once she didn’t care. When was the last time she had felt so cherished?

  Never.

  The faint scent of roses filled her nostrils, and she scowled, unable to make sense of it. Devlin was many things, but sweet smelling was not one of them. His scent was dark, woodsy, and thrilling. She swallowed the lump forming at the base of her throat. What was this madness?

  “Emma?” she called out, suddenly certain her best friend had taken it upon herself to comfort her through another night. But the dream …

  The door swung open, and Grace sat up, holding the coverlet to her chest.

  “Good morning, Grace,” Emma said, her mood chipper. “I hope your second night was pleasant, leastwise better than the first. Perhaps laden with sweet dreams?”

  “Yes, quite.” Dreams she would not soon forget.

  “Excellent,” Emma said, coming to the side of the bed. “Shall I help you dress? Captain Limmerick requests your company at breakfast. He has been waiting over half an hour and grows impatient.”

  Grace bit her lip, fighting the urge to leap from her bed and scream. How could Emma have dressed, been to the kitchen, and come back again in the space of time it took for the sheets to remain warm after her departure? Grace must know the truth, or her imagination would run away from her all day.

  She cleared her throat. “I hope your quarters are satisfactory.”

  “Oh, yes,” Emma said, taking hold of Grace’s hand and helping her from the bed. “I didn’t move an inch from the moment I closed my eyes. My mattress is softer than a cloud.”

  Queasiness erupted in Grace’s belly as Emma lifted the nightgown over her head and led her to the basin for her morning ablution. She wouldn’t think on it any longer, for she hadn’t awakened in her right mind. For all she knew, she’d spent the night rolling in the sheets.

  “Would you care for solid blue today?” Emma asked from a distance. “You always look lovely in this dress.”

  Blue, the color of Devlin’s eyes. She nodded and walked in the direction of the armoire that she had explored the previous evening while unpacking her belongings. It was a fine piece of furniture, if the carved etchings along the surface were any indication. Her clothes must appear poor, indeed, against such a backdrop. Though she hadn’t much idea of the current fashions, she had no illusions about her wardrobe. The brothers were generous but frugal, as they ought to be.

  As she descended the stairs with a firm grip on the balustrade a few minutes later, a melancholy tune drifted from the east parlor, and Grace paused to listen. The notes struck a chord within her breast, for it was a tune she knew well. It had been years since she’d laid her fingers on an instrument, but she recalled the joy of playing beside her mother. Perhaps she had a tune or two committed to memory and could play during her stay.

  After a few more bars, she continued on her way. Devlin was waiting for her. The moment she entered the dining room, the rich aromas of coffee and black pudding wafted over her, and the harsh scrape of wooden legs greeted her.

  “Good morning, Miss Grace.”

  Devlin’s tone was formal, his address distant. Had she done something to displease him? This was not the greeting of a secret lover who had stolen into her room and bathed her in the wonders of his lovemaking. Heat burned in her cheeks. Such fanciful musings she had allowed herself to chase this morning. It had all been naught but dreams conjured by a lonely soul.

  “Good morning, Captain,” she said, straightening her shoulders.

  “Shall I fix you a plate?” he asked.

  “That won’t be necessary. I’ll tend to it myself.”

  She ambled in the direction of the sideboard, feeling the weight of his stare. An unbidden impression of her lover’s body pressing her into the soft moss flashed in her memory. With her mind so occupied, she stumbled when the toe of her shoe hit the edge of the area rug. She paused and glowered at the floor before reaching for a plate and selecting black pudding, beans, and a poached egg.

  “Allow me,” Devlin said, taking the plate from her hand and leading her to the table. Her fingertips rested on his linen shirt, and the heat of his body permeated the thin material, playing havoc on her strung nerves.

  Despite her claims to the contrary, his quiet insistence on attending to her moved her more than she cared to admit. She sat, and within seconds, the rich aroma of coffee greeted her. While she waited in awkward silence for Devlin to return to his seat, she asked, “Who plays the piano?”

  “No one to my knowledge,” he replied with the soft clank of his utensils ringing in the background. “It must make a frightening racket at the moment, as I’m certain it hasn’t been attended in years. But you’re welcome to play. Shall I arrange for the instrument to be tuned?”

  “Someone was playing beautifully on my way down the stairs,” Grace assured him.

  He snorted. “Must’ve been a ghost.”

  She shook her head and smiled. “You’re jesting, but after yesterday afternoon I would’ve thought you a believer.”

  “I’m quite serious,” he said.

  With her fork still halfway to her mouth, she paused. It wasn’t out of the question. But why that song? All of the moisture dried up in her mouth. Her mother had not passed in the mansion, God rest her soul. She couldn’t reside here. Nothing tied her to this place. Except for Lord Deveraux. Had her mother reunited with her lover in the afterlife?

  A prickling sensation stole up her back. “Might I ask for a glass of water?”

  “To your left at the head of your plate,” Devlin said. “Are you all right? You’ve grown quite pale. Not afraid of a friendly ghost, are you? Lord Deveraux was quite another matter. I hope you consulted your next steps with Brother Anselm yesterday.”

  Cool water sluiced down her throat, bringing her some measure of relief. She wasn’t prepared to discuss her suspicions about her mother with Devlin, nor would she divulge what she’d learned from Brother Anselm about her biological father. She needed time to process what it meant. Could she banish him from the mansion without first attempting some form of communication? A conversation was ill-advised, to be sure. But a part of her longed to know him, even if only in the afterlife where he remained suspended between Earth and Heaven. Or Hell.

  Though her father’s spirit was strong within the confines of the attic and had ripped through her like a gale, Grace felt certain the epicenter of evil resided elsewhere in the mansion. True evil knocked the very breath out of her, often bringing her to her knees, or worse.

  So until she could mull it over, she ignored Devlin’s reference to her father and tossed him a saucy smile. “I’ll invite our guest to play a duet. Would you enjoy that?”

  He chuckled. “Maribeth would, no doubt, watch in rapt fascination. Heaven help me, the little ragamuffin might even force me to teach her to dance.”

  The mock horror in his tone was meant to elicit a grin, yet his words churned up a memory. Excitement tingled in her belly. “That’s it. We must visit the ballroom after we break our fast. I can’t believe I didn’t think of this earlier.”

  “Think of what?” Devlin ask
ed.

  “Where we’ll find the source of evil in the mansion,” Grace said. “Lost souls, particularly those wrenched violently from their bodies, often latch on to the place of their death. We must visit the ballroom.”

  Chapter Eleven

  More than fifteen years had passed since the massacre, and the rumors and speculation surrounding that disastrous evening had died down. Still, it was common knowledge that the bloodbath occurred in the ballroom, where an entire entourage of guests had been gathered. That’s where Grace would find the greatest surge of paranormal activity. She was sure of it.

  The door to the dining room creaked open, startling her so thoroughly that she gasped.

  “Pardon me,” Abigail said, bustling into the room. “I didn’t mean to give you a fright, Grace, but I thought you might enjoy a bit of bread-and-butter pudding. Fresh out of the oven, with raisins and cinnamon.”

  Grace laughed and patted her hand against her chest as she recovered from the shock. She didn’t usually scare quite so easily. “Goodness. What a ninny you must think I am, but all this talk of lost souls has me on edge.”

  “Lost souls?” Abigail asked, her voice bewildered.

  “Grace was saying that the massacre is reputed to have occurred during a ball,” Devlin said, addressing the cook.

  Grace wiped a napkin across her lips. “So, you see, it’s quite simple. We must visit the ballroom.”

  “Those are naught but fairy tales, Grace.” Devlin laid his hand over hers. “There is no ballroom in the mansion. Believe me, for I have searched all thirty rooms myself.”

  A dish clattered on the sideboard, and Abigail cursed under her breath. “Forgive me, but the rumors are true. My brother was the cook, you know. Crispin was in a fair state of panic while preparing for the ball. It was to be a great affair; the unveiling of the ballroom—one so beautiful and unique it was shrouded in secrecy. But, I assure you, it exists.”

  “You’re certain?” The incredulity in Devlin’s tone made it clear he struggled to believe a single word. “Did he tell you where it is?”