Devil’s Cove (Tortured Souls)

by R. C. Matthews

Grace ran from Devlin’s bedroom as if the hounds of Hell were hard on her heels. She collided with the opposite wall of the corridor and stumbled in the direction of the stairwell, moving as quickly as her legs would carry her. A loud crash boomed against Devlin’s door, spurring her on. Fear leaped from her gut to her throat, and she thought she might be sick. Was he hot on her trail? Had he changed his mind and would drag her to the asylum now?

  She lost count of her steps and cried out in frustration, groping at the wall until she finally connected with the balustrade. This couldn’t be happening. With little thought or care, she flew down the stairs, intent on escaping Devlin’s haunting threats. Footsteps pattered against the wood floors, and in the back of her mind, she thought she heard Maribeth call to her, but she pushed it away and counted down to the remaining steps. Soon she would be through the door and out of Devlin’s reach.

  Six.

  Five.

  Four.

  A strangled cry wrenched from her lungs when she was shoved forward.

  Get out!

  The malicious murmur echoed in her ears, a whisper on the wind, and she was falling, her hands flailing hopelessly in front of her.

  Maribeth’s scream trailed behind her as Grace landed against a rock-solid form. The air slammed out of her, and she grunted, trying to make sense of what had happened.

  “What the dickens are you doing?” Hatchet asked, his large hands gripping her upper arms and righting her. “You’ll kill yourself running down the stairs that way. Have you lost your good sense?”

  “I didn’t do it on purpose. Someone pushed me; you must’ve seen it.” Grace struggled to free herself, panting for her effort but unable to unleash his hold. “Unhand me this instant!” she said, putting every ounce of anger and reproof in her voice that she could muster.

  “Grace.” Hatchet shook her once, his tone gentler. “There is no one here; you’re imagining things in your haste to leave. I fear for your safety. Please. If you require assistance, ring for Emma. Or me. We are ever your servants. You almost fell to your death. Scared the wits out of me.”

  Grace bit back the harsh words sitting on her tongue. He wasn’t at fault, wasn’t her tormentor. That charge belonged to his captain alone. Had she imagined Devlin shoving her and telling her to get out? He wasn’t present—it must’ve been in her head. She hung her forehead against Hatchet’s chest for a brief moment, reclaiming a steady breath.

  Maribeth’s scrawny arms encircled Grace’s waist a moment later, and the girl cried, “Don’t scare me like that again. I beg you.”

  All the anger deflated from Grace, and she turned to wrap the girl in a hug. “I’m sorry, Poppet. I didn’t mean to scare you.” After placing a kiss on the child’s head, she stepped away and ran her hands over her skirt and hair, checking best as she could that everything was in order. “I must seek solace in the chapel and then visit with Brother Anselm. Please let Abigail know that I’ve lost my appetite this morning, but I’ll return in time for the midday meal.”

  “Let me come with you,” Maribeth said, clenching her hand.

  “Not this morning, Poppet.” Grace attempted a smile. “I would appreciate a bit of solitude. Later, after we’ve eaten, we can do anything you like. I promise to take care and follow the path to the chapel.”

  Hatchet insisted on retrieving Grace’s pelisse and assisting her to the main pathway. The air was still damp from the morning rain, and without the sun shining down on her, it wasn’t long before she felt the cold skin-deep. She walked at a brisk pace, but her mind was in such tatters that she zigged and zagged her way toward the chapel. If it hadn’t been for the gravel path to help her navigate, she wouldn’t have made it on her own.

  The chapel was quiet as she entered, and the scent of incense welcoming. Peace came over her as she knelt in the first pew and bowed her head, reciting the prayers Brother Anselm had taught her so many years ago. She became lost in the words as she gave herself up to the Almighty and let go of all that had happened in the past three days.

  When her knees ached from kneeling, she sat in the pew in utter silence, alone with her thoughts.

  “Why have you abandoned me, Lord? Is this a test of some sort? Because if it is, I’m failing miserably.”

  “He will always come if you call,” Brother Anselm said, resting his hands on her shoulders from behind.

  “How long have you been here?”

  “Long enough to know that you’re feeling troubled, my child.”

  He stood and joined her in the first pew. The wood groaned under his weight, and she smiled. How did he always seem to sense when she needed him most? She knew instinctively that he wouldn’t judge her, but still, she couldn’t bring herself to share her dreams with him. But she would unburden the rest and seek his advice. She reached for his hand and wrapped it around hers, taking comfort in his company.

  “Tell me what troubles you, Grace.”

  “Josephine visited me this morning in my bedroom,” she said. She paused, feeling worse than when she confessed her sins for the very first time. It made little sense. She hadn’t done anything wrong, and yet she felt sullied by the confrontation with Josephine.

  “I’m listening,” he offered in his steady voice.

  And with a detachment she hadn’t imagined possible, she relayed the events of the morning, careful to leave out only the parts unsuitable for a monk’s ears. He didn’t need to hear the particulars of her bath, but she shared the undeniable attraction she felt toward Josephine, wanting him to put it all in perspective somehow. She spared no details on the sounds she’d heard and the scales she’d touched, shuddering at the memory of her terror. But it was her argument with Devlin that taxed her the most, because she felt him slipping away, and she clung to the hope of getting through to him. Somehow, in the past three days, she’d come to realize her purpose at the manor was to help his soul more than any others. But how could she help him when the state of her own soul was in doubt?

  “That blackhearted pirate!” Brother Anselm growled. “How dare he threaten you while you’re under his protection?”

  Grace shook her head, unwilling to condemn Devlin’s actions without further information. There must be more to his relationship with his mother to spur him into taking such drastic measures, though Grace could not fathom what would incite such hatred. But how could she persuade him to share the details of his past? If only Devlin would open his heart to God’s loving embrace, she was certain he would find peace of mind.

  “Perhaps Devlin is right and it is best I go to Waverly Hills,” she said, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Josephine is not a spirit or even a woman. She’s a monster. Anyone listening to me would think me nutters. I half believe it myself.”

  “You’re not mad, Grace.” He stood and pulled her to her feet. “Come with me. There is an old book I found in the manor library. A collection of wives’ tales, really. You know my love for a few moments of entertainment each evening.” He cleared his throat. “I would read to you. It may have the answers you seek, if you dare to believe.”

  When they arrived in his living quarters, she busied herself filling a pot with water and then set it to boil for their morning tea while Brother Anselm went in search of the book. Her stomach protested noisily in response to the scent of lemon biscuits. She followed the lemony trail and plucked one of the confections from the plate, chewing on it absently while she waited.

  “Here we go,” the monk said, his footsteps shuffling across the floor. “Have a seat, my dear, while I pour us a spot of tea.”

  A few minutes later, he thumbed through the pages, mumbling and pausing periodically as he searched for the proper passage. “Yes, yes, here it is. The lamia is half-woman, half-serpent, but she may transform into full human form through dark magic.”

  “Lamia?” It sounded familiar, and she rubbed her temples, as if the gesture would restore her memory. “I’ve heard of it somewhere. I’m certain.”

  Brother Anselm grunted and slurped his
tea. “Probably from your mama when you were misbehaving and she wished to bring you in line. Lamia is well known in Greek mythology as the daughter of Poseidon and mistress of Zeus. It is said that Hera became so jealous, she stole Lamia’s children. Filled with grief and rage, Lamia stalked and ate the children of others, turning her into a sea monster.”

  A tiny shudder ran through her. “Yes, that’s it. I remember now. It’s unfortunate we live so near the ocean; the story held meaning. But what does this have to do with Josephine?”

  “The lamia also has origins in the Tanakh, though most refer to the creature as Leviathan, charged with delivering the deceased to the underworld. The story goes that when God created the sea monster, He also created a mate but destroyed her soon after. The creatures were such that all of mankind would be at risk should the pair breed.”

  Chewing on the inside of her cheek, Grace nodded for him to continue, still uncertain where he was going with the story.

  “One old wives’ tale claims Satan took pity on the mate. He raised her from the dead and empowered her with the ability to change into human form at will in order to wreak havoc on mankind with her dark magic. Not wanting to be outdone by God, Satan selected her a soul mate from among the humans to join her for all eternity. Only Satan fancied himself smarter than the Maker and chose a female companion, thus rendering the issue of procreation null and void.”

  “Josephine was risen by Satan,” Grace whispered.

  “Perhaps,” Brother Anselm said. “I’ve no reason to believe or disbelieve the tale. I simply offer it as a possibility.”

  Grace sipped her tea. The tale didn’t make any sense in the context of her situation. “But if Josephine has a soul mate, why would she claim to be attracted to me?”

  “I cannot say for sure,” he said, placing his hand over hers. “What I can say is that something terrible occurred on this estate fifteen years ago, and Josephine massacred an entire ballroom of guests. Can you imagine what would enrage her so much that she’d unleash her fury so completely and violently?”

  Grace let her mind drift back to the ballroom, and she recalled the overpowering sense of guilt and regret she’d felt while reliving her father’s death.

  She shook her head. “I don’t know, but I believe my father was involved. Why else would my mother want to protect me from Josephine?”

  Brother Anselm blew out a soft breath. “Perhaps. But we’ll never know. Only one person can say for sure, and he’s dead. All indications are that he wants you dead, too. First the incident with the palette knife, and now possibly the incident on the stairs this morning. I cannot make heads or tails of it.”

  “Lord Marcus Deveraux.” Grace sighed and accepted the inevitable. “I must attempt to communicate with him.”

  “That is ill-advised, and you know it.” He set his teacup down so hard it clattered in her ears.

  “What would you have me do?” she asked. She stood and gripped the back of her chair, her shoulders tensing under the mounting pressure of their discussion. “Josephine has set her sights on me. If she were to find out my true lineage … ”

  She didn’t even want to think on it further; it already set her limbs to trembling.

  “You have more pressing matters to consider.” The gruff edge to Brother Anselm’s voice was like a vice around Grace’s heart. He was concerned for her well-being.

  “Negotiate for Devlin or face the asylum?” she asked, though she knew quite well what he intimated.

  “Yes.” Brother Anselm sighed. “Given the circumstances, however, I can no longer say which alternative is a greater threat to your life.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Devlin shoved the plate away, his meal untouched, and strode through his bedroom doorway. He needed fresh air to think through his next steps. Brooding in his chambers would get him nowhere. Forcing a modicum of decorum when he spied Hatchet in the entrance, he took the steps one at a time, albeit at a clipped pace.

  “The devil take me,” Hatchet said, glaring at him. “Why is everyone in a rush? Grace nearly broke her neck this morning, and now you charge down the stairs like a bull in a china shop.”

  Halting in his tracks, Devlin stared as a wave of guilt surged through him. “Is she all right, man? Tell me what happened.”

  Hatchet eyed him curiously, folding his arms over his chest. “I’ve never seen her so distressed. She flew down the stairs as if”—he tilted his head, and a sardonic grin lifted the corner of his mouth—“as if a bloodthirsty pirate was hot on her trail. Tripped her up with four steps to go. Would’ve taken a nasty tumble if I hadn’t been here to break her fall. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, now would you?”

  Devlin heaved a disgruntled sigh and headed for the entrance door. Damnation, but he was tired of his mates challenging him. When had Grace stolen everyone’s loyalty from under his nose?

  “Come with me,” he said over his shoulder. “This isn’t a conversation for prying ears.”

  After five minutes of walking the path around the lake, Devlin finally trusted himself to speak without acting like a complete ass. “Grace and I had words this morning.”

  Hatchet grunted. “What did you say to set her off in a panic? Because the woman was fleeing and so distraught she even imagined someone shoving her down the last bit of stairs. Looked as though she’d seen a ghost.”

  What? That was a wild accusation, even for someone he’d just dressed down. More likely she’d imagined him charging after her in a fit of rage. Devlin rubbed one hand over his eyes. Damn, but he felt exhausted. Everything was spiraling out of control. He hadn’t succeeded in bending Grace to his will yet, but after his threats, she would see reason come the end of the week.

  The woman had more courage than he’d given her credit for; still, he was a cursed brute for terrorizing her in such a cruel manner, threatening her with an extended stay at the asylum. He knew exactly what would bring her to her knees and hadn’t hesitated to use it, though he would’ve preferred not to be in this bloody conundrum to begin with. Of all the people in England, why did the medium he hired have to be Eveline?

  He shook his head, unsure of his next steps. What if his threat fell on deaf ears? Perhaps his friend could offer advice on the matter if he shared the truth. “Josephine visited Grace this morning.”

  Hatchet’s eyes widened. “Well, that would explain Grace’s behavior. I’m sure it gave her quite a fright.”

  “I’m afraid that honor belongs to me,” Devlin said, glancing sideways at the forest lining the edge of the lake. “Josephine knows why I’m here and spelled it all out for Grace, who was … less than thrilled at the news. The chit flat out refused to help me negotiate with Josephine,” he said. “She would have me kneel in the confessional and repent. I quite lost my mind for a moment.”

  Hatchet’s bark of laughter filled the air. “Of course she refused. What did you expect, old man? The woman was raised by a monk.” He slapped Devlin on the shoulder, and his chuckles died down. “She hasn’t the stomach for revenge. Even after everything she has endured in her life. If anyone is deserving of revenge, it is she. How badly did you fuck it up, my friend?”

  “Bad.” Devlin shoved his hands into his pockets, gritting his teeth.

  He’d lost complete control of his emotions. Closing his eyes, he relived the bold caress of Grace’s mouth on his, the tortured plea on her lips. You’re important to me. He wanted to believe her. Perhaps it was true, but only until she learned the truth about him, until she felt the scars covering his body and begged him to bare his soul to her. Then she would recoil in disgust, knowing how his body had melted in the hands of a depraved killer, even if it was against his will.

  Had it been against his will? The thought chased him in his dreams, haunting him. Did he use his mother’s betrayal as a shield against his true nature?

  Devlin shored up his strength. “I’ve given her a week to decide her fate. Either she fulfills her duty by negotiating with Josephine on my beha
lf, or she faces solitary confinement at the asylum.”

  Hatchet cursed longer than a prisoner with his bollocks strapped in a vice. “Victor was right, you’re a damned bloody idiot! You’ll not win Grace over with threats. She’ll choose the asylum over murder.”

  Devlin’s hope plummeted. His gut confirmed that Hatchet was right. Grace had boldly stood her ground and begged him to see reason. She possessed courage, conviction of belief, and a rare beauty that went bone-deep. And he wanted her with a fierce intensity. Though he’d turned her away.

  “Then I have to convince her to stay and assist me. I was wrong to threaten her, but it’s done. Now I have one week to woo her to my side, the way I planned it from the beginning.” Running a hand through his hair, he turned to Hatchet. “Can you speak with Brother Anselm? Find out all you can about Grace. What brings her the most joy? Report back to me this evening.”

  “I can do better than that, mate,” Hatchet said with a wide grin. “I’ll speak with Emma. She’s been sending me sultry looks with those whiskey eyes. A little Hatchet charm, and she’ll be purring in no time.”

  Devlin lifted an eyebrow. “Whiskey eyes? The woman is Grace’s best friend, I’ll have you know. Treat her with respect, or I’ll tan your hide for giving Grace another charge to lay at my door.”

  • • •

  “Would you stop pacing, Devlin?” Victor asked, shooting him a disgruntled look. “You’re making me dizzy. It isn’t even seven o’clock. I’m sure Grace will be here with Brother Anselm at her side. Heaven forbid she disobey a direct order from the Devil himself.”

  Devlin stopped at the edge of the sideboard and leaned onto it.

  “Bugger off,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest as he stared at the door, willing it to open. He’d gone nearly three days without laying eyes on Grace, and it didn’t sit well with him. Was she still angry? Or worse, terrified of him? Either way, she had to stop hiding in her room, or he’d have no chance of winning her over before the end of the week.

  The door swung open, and the moment she entered a smile tugged at the corner of his lips. She was magnificent. Straight shoulders, ramrod back, and a regal tilt to her head. Her courage had returned in spades; he hadn’t crushed her spirit beyond repair. But then, he should’ve known better. Grace was not a watering pot, despite the two episodes when she’d wept in his arms. Then she’d been fragile, and oh so trusting. But no longer.