Devil’s Cove (Tortured Souls)

by R. C. Matthews

  “Don’t jest about falling,” he said, brushing a kiss on her supple lips. Her body molded against his like butter melting on hot toast, causing the corner of his mouth to quirk up. She did, indeed, care for and trust him. “I would hate to see you hurt, Grace. Your life is far more important than negotiations with the gatekeeper.”

  She wetted her lips and rested her head on his chest. “Careful, Devlin. I might use that in my own defense.”

  The woman was incorrigible, always needing the last word and pushing his buttons, but today he would not fall victim to his foul temper. He grunted and turned her toward the fat limb of the tree awaiting them. “Cheeky girl! Now up you go. Take my hand.”

  She hoisted her foot onto the limb and steadied herself. It was wide enough that both of her feet fit comfortably side by side. He held her securely by the hip with one hand while holding her hand with the other.

  “Have you got the feel of it, love?” he asked. “You’ve got eight, maybe ten steps to the trunk where it widens further. The surface is smooth, no dips or curves to worry over.”

  She nodded and stepped forward, giggling when she lost her balance ever so slightly and leaned away from him. He tugged her back, and she righted herself.

  “That’s it,” he said. “A few more steps.”

  She slid her right foot across the branch, and then her left, keeping her feet level. With each step, she rose higher and higher, until he was forced to release her hand and support her by the calf. If she fell, he’d be there to catch her. Her hands came in contact with the wide trunk. “I did it!”

  “Yes, you did. Wait right there.” He retraced his steps and hopped onto the limb. In a few long strides he joined her, wrapping his arm around her waist. “Let me lead now. Hold loosely on to my waist, like this.” He placed her hands on each side of his hips and tucked her thumbs into his breeches. When they reached the next juncture, she held on to the trunk while he climbed up another level and instructed her where to place her feet as he pulled her up by her hands.

  “Goodness, we must be very high now,” she proclaimed, somewhat breathless.

  “Indeed,” Devlin said. “Come this way, in front of me. Yes, two steps. And now we sit in the V of this sturdy branch. It makes a fine chair, but you’ll have to lean back against me.”

  He slid his back down the length of the trunk and stared at Grace’s round bottom while she crouched down unsteadily. She landed between his thighs with her buttocks pressed to his groin, and he suppressed a groan.

  “Where on earth did you procure a pair of breeches, Grace?” Not that he was complaining. He rather enjoyed her fine figure.

  “Cook spoke to one of the stable lads,” she said, stretching her legs out in front of her. “Abigail said I’d break my neck if I attempted to climb about in one of my dresses. I believe she thinks we’re quite mad for attempting it.”

  A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Maybe we are mad. Even so, this isn’t my craziest adventure, I assure you.”

  Devlin kissed her head and rubbed his lips on her silken tresses. Her hair smelled of rosemary tea and fresh air, and he could imagine how glorious it would look fanned out behind her, with the wind whipping through it, as she stood on the bow of his ship. Wild. Untamed.

  She laid her head back against his chest and folded her arms, relaxing. “Certainly not, if I’m to believe Hatchet. Did he truly get his nickname in a fierce battle with pirates?”

  A chuckle rumbled in his chest, and he wrapped his arms around her, resting his chin on her shoulder. She was greedy for information, and denying it wouldn’t serve any purpose. “Yes, he did.”

  Her body shuddered ever so slightly. “That’s horrible. Have you encountered many pirates at sea? Don’t lie or sugarcoat the truth. Tell me of your adventures, as you promised.”

  He launched into several harrowing stories that would have inspired nightmares in most gently bred ladies. But Grace was unique and faced her own form of demons. After what he’d witnessed in the ballroom, he didn’t fear for her sanity or future lack of sleep after hearing his tales.

  “I’ve had more than my fair share of encounters with pirates,” he said. “But I suppose it’s to be expected when one carries rich cargo from faraway places.”

  Grace glanced back at him and lifted her brow. “What kind of cargo?”

  He pursed his lips. Dare he mention the goods one traded only on the black market—drugs, weapons, and the like? After escaping the Butcher in his early years, he hadn’t cared where his wealth came from so long as he amassed significant profit in order to carry out his revenge. But he didn’t wish to alarm or shock Grace, so he said, “Wool, silk, and tea from China, sugar from the West Indies, and American cotton, of course.”

  “And opium?” she asked.

  She had lived in a monastery since the age of seven. What on earth was Brother Anselm reading to her all these years that she was informed about such things?

  “Most shocking,” Devlin said with mock horror.

  “Don’t feign surprise,” she said, threading her fingers through his. “I’m not a simpleton.”

  “What do you know of opium, madam?” he asked with more than a little curiosity.

  “Oh, bother.” She huffed. “I’m sure you’ve surmised by now that Brother Anselm is taken with pirates. Probably because they’re the epitome of all that is evil and wrong in this world. Pirates seek rich booty, and there is nothing richer than opium.”

  “Good Lord, woman.” He could not mask the edge to his voice. He knew very well that Grace believed him to be a pirate. Yet she claimed she cared about him. “Is that how you see me? As the epitome of evil?”

  “Well, I must confess I thought of you that way when we first met.” She turned and bestowed a brilliant smile on him. “But that was before. Now I think you’re quite redeemable.”

  A forlorn smile crept over his lips at her earnest declaration. She would never surrender the battle to save his soul. An endless array of light shone through her, but he wasn’t worthy of receiving it, not a single ray. How could she cling to hope when he was so far gone?

  “You must be daft,” he whispered into her ear. “What do you mean, that was before? Before what?”

  “Before I met Maribeth and discovered how much she adores you.”

  He grunted and shook his head. “Only because I allow her free rein of the mansion and to steal cookies from Cook without reprimand.”

  Grace frowned at him over her shoulder. “And before you rescued me twice during encounters with my father.”

  “In both cases I was motivated by my own interests,” he said with smug satisfaction. “I couldn’t very well let you die before you earned your 100 pounds.”

  “Oh, do shut up, Devlin.” She scooted around so she faced him. “You cannot change my mind.”

  He grabbed her wrist and squeezed, garnering her attention. He wanted her help, but on his own terms. This nonsense must come to an end. “Don’t fool yourself, Grace,” he said, all traces of teasing abandoned, “or waste your good opinion on me. I’ve more than earned my nickname, the Devil, plundering merchant ships, killing countless men, and seeking revenge. I’m a pirate through and through.”

  She ignored every word uttered from his lips. “I’m no fool. Deep down inside of you is a good man. I can see him even if you cannot, and with time and God’s grace, you’ll eventually embrace him. Now, tell me the truth. Am I or am I not correct in stating that pirates attack ships carrying opium?”

  With her cheeks full of color and the corners of her mouth turned down in a ferocious frown, she was delectable. He didn’t deserve her good opinion. But in this moment he’d take it all the same. Leaning over, he brushed his lips against her lush, pouty mouth.

  “You have the right of it, but I soon determined the risk was not worth the reward. The other forms of trade were lucrative and far less dangerous. Enough to allow my crew to fulfill their wildest dreams.”

  Her lips puckered in a triumphant grin,
as if his admission proved his goodness. He sighed and let it drop.

  “But what of your dreams?” Grace asked, tightening her grip on his waist.

  Devlin closed his eyes and exhaled in one long, measured breath. He didn’t wish to think on his dreams. When he drifted to sleep each night, he often stared into the black orbs of the Butcher and felt his sharp blade cutting into his skin. Devlin rubbed his eyes, as if that could ward off the horrid memories.

  “You know of what I dream,” he whispered.

  She stiffened a moment and then sighed in resignation as she said, “Revenge.”

  He regretted his words almost immediately. Their day together had been flawless up to that moment, and he didn’t wish to ruin it with talk of his mother, revenge, or Josephine. There would be time for that come the end of the week.

  “Help me understand, Devlin,” Grace said, her brow furrowed. She rubbed the outer edge of his hand, where his pinky should’ve been, dropping a light kiss on it. “Please, tell me. Did your mother do this to you?”

  His gaze was drawn to her lips, still brushing against his skin with infinite care. A lump grew at the base of his throat as he recalled that day, strapped to the table under the knife of his nemesis. How different he felt this time, watching Grace nuzzle the scar, with deep lines of worry pulling down her lips. She cared for him, and more importantly, he realized how very much he cared for her as well. She would understand his pain, having been a victim of circumstance herself. He need only let her in.

  “Yes,” he whispered. “Indirectly, at least.”

  Grace tilted her head and asked, “What does that mean?”

  The pattering of his heart quickened, and he drew an elongated breath. Once he opened the dam to his past, there would be no holding back the rush of questions that were sure to follow. But he trusted Grace with his story.

  “My mother sold me to the Butcher,” he said with as much indifference in his voice as he could muster. “His reputation doesn’t do him justice, I assure you. He took perverse pleasure in slicing off each knuckle, one by one, and then kissing the angry, raw stump, smearing a bit of blood over his lips before licking it away.”

  Her lips fell open, and she sucked in a gulp of air. He needn’t explain to whom he referred. The pirate was legendary. She cupped his face and leaned her forehead to his. “What would you have me say, Devlin? I’m afraid words fail me.”

  Turning her face away, she swallowed hard, taking a few moments to collect herself.

  “‘Spare me that pain.’ That’s what you said to me last evening. I admit, I didn’t appreciate what you meant at the time. But now … ” She leaned in and kissed his cheeks, his eyelids, his lips. “You don’t have to say any more.”

  Choking back the tears burning in his throat, he clasped his hands over hers, pressing his cheek harder against her gentle embrace. He should’ve known she would not push him for details in a macabre desire to know all that had happened while he was held captive.

  “Let us speak of lighter topics,” she offered with a curve of her lips. “You’ve filled my ears all afternoon. What would you like to know about me?”

  “Everything.”

  She giggled, and the wondrous sound washed over him, lifting his spirits.

  “We haven’t much time left this afternoon, sir, so you must narrow your interest to one topic.”

  “Tell me of your dreams,” Devlin said. He cupped her chin and stroked the soft curve of her jaw. “Do you dream in sight? Or sound and touch? I’ve always been curious to know how the blind dream.”

  She bowed her head in a gesture so typical of one wishing to avoid eye contact. But that was silly. What could Grace possibly dream of that would cause her shame or discomfort? Devlin suppressed a groan as the folly of his question dawned on him. Perhaps she had nightmares, too, of that day when she was seven and Willie held her head beneath the water, pressed into the sand.

  “Forgive me, Grace.” He gripped the tree limb with one hand and leaned back to give her space. “That was an insensitive question. You needn’t answer.”

  Lifting her chin, she shook her head. “It’s okay. Truly. It’s just that … well, I often dream in sound and touch. But since arriving here my dreams have been vivid—every one of them in sight. I dream of … ”

  Her lips pressed into a thin line, and she turned her face away. He held his breath, willing her to confide in him. She was shy, and her cheeks flamed red.

  Dare he hope that she dreamed of him each night?

  “I dream of running through this forest,” she finally said. “Being chased by another but all in fun. Frolicking. Laughing.” She bit her lip. “Kissing. Touching.”

  Her admission set his blood thrumming through his veins. He dreamed of her, too. “And who, may I ask, enjoys your kisses each night?” He leaned closer to rest his forehead on hers. “Your touch?”

  “At first I believed it to be you. I wanted it to be you,” she admitted, and his heart soared. Until all of her words sank in.

  “At first?” he asked. “What do you mean?”

  She took a steadying breath. “I never see my partner, only know she is there, feel her lips on mine, and her hands caressing all over me.”

  “What do you mean ‘she’?”

  “Josephine,” Grace whispered. “After she came to my bedroom, it became very clear she invades my dreams.”

  Devlin grasped her arms; her face was a mask of fear and pain. “I don’t understand. Why would you dream of Josephine in that way?”

  A tear slipped over her cheek, and she wiped it away. “She claims I’m evil at my core and that she’s drawn to me, just as you are drawn to me for the same reason.” Her voice quivered, but she forged on. “And it terrifies me. I cannot comprehend why I enjoy her company, unless what she claims is true. Why else would I melt in her arms in my dreams, only to wake full of revulsion? Why do I succumb to the touch of someone so evil? What is wrong with me, Devlin?”

  A knot formed at the base of his throat, rendering him speechless. The Butcher flashed before his mind’s eye—stroking his cock, slicing the sensitive skin near his groin. Devlin gripped the tree trunk and drew fresh air deep into his lungs. His fingers roamed over the thick, knotty vines of the bark, reminding him of the scars marring his body everywhere. Arms, legs, torso, back. All the way down to his feet. If Grace melted into his arms and touched him all over, would she be repulsed, knowing that someone as evil as the Butcher had touched him? Brought him to climax?

  What is wrong with me?

  How many times had he asked himself that very question? He stared at the terrified woman sitting before him. She was beautiful and pure of heart. He believed it without a single doubt.

  “There’s nothing wrong with you,” he said. Cupping her face in his hands, he drew her close and kissed her trembling lips. “Nothing’s wrong with you at all. Josephine is an evil creature, capable of wielding black magic and toying with your senses. Perhaps she wishes to drive you a little mad. Just for sport.”

  Grace laughed woodenly and nodded. She clearly didn’t believe him. And in that moment he wanted to open up to her. Tell her of his own nightmares. Let her know that she wasn’t alone. Yet sharing his past might be nothing more than a burden to Grace. What thoughts would steal through her mind when she felt his scars? The confession sat on his tongue and screamed to be released. She would understand. She said she cared. He could trust her.

  “Grace, you must believe me. I—”

  But before the words spilled from his lips, a rustle of leaves caught his attention, and he peered into the forest. Maribeth hopped over a log and squealed when she nearly tripped. She righted herself and ran toward the oak tree. “Devlin, Grace, come. It grows dark, and Brother Anselm fears you might be late for supper.”

  Devlin growled low, eliciting a chuckle from Grace.

  “We’ll be down shortly, Poppet.” He raised himself onto his feet and clasped a branch overhead. “Take my hand, and I’ll help you down. Our adventure
for today is at an end.”

  As was the undeniable attraction between them. After learning the truth of his captivity in the hands of the Butcher, she would never think of him the same way again.

  Chapter Twenty

  If the first three days after Grace’s confrontation with Devlin crawled by as slow as a snail, then the subsequent days passed in a whirlwind of activity. He didn’t allow her a single waking moment outside of his company and filled their hours out of doors in the daylight, foraging through the forest in search of the perfect climbing tree or riding his stallion along the sandy beach with the wind whipping through her hair.

  With his strength and agility lending her courage, she felt free to climb higher than she had since she was a child. And when they could climb no higher, he’d held her close and described the scenery that lay before them in minute detail, from the scurrying forest animals, to the foliage textures and rich colors, to the contrast of blue sky and brown earth. She saw it all through him, and their adventures were both liberating and exhilarating.

  He shared stories of his travels, and she lived vicariously through him, unable to sate her hunger for knowledge of the world. Each day bridged the gap between them and sealed her fate. Despite everything she’d been raised to believe about saving one’s virtue for marriage, she yearned to share Devlin’s bed as she did with Josephine in her dreams. Still, he wouldn’t touch her the way she longed to be touched. He stole kisses, stroked her hair, and held her close, but he didn’t attempt to lure her to his bed.

  And though her days were blissfully filled in Devlin’s company, her nights belonged entirely to Josephine. There was no longer any doubt in her mind that it was Josephine who worshipped her body and soul in her dreams, leaving her breathless and sated. She awoke each morning in a state of confusion, feeling equal parts euphoric and defiled. It was as if her soul had split in two and a mighty battle raged within her. The more time that passed, the stronger the battle raged, until she feared falling asleep altogether.