Devil’s Cove (Tortured Souls)

by R. C. Matthews

  “Emma, is that you?” she asked, her silhouette illuminated by the crackling fire.

  “No, it’s Devlin.” He stepped inside the room and strode cautiously to her bedside.

  She relaxed again, curling her hands under her cheek on the pillow. “How did you know you’d find me here?”

  He settled his large frame on the cushioned chair beside her bed, unsure of his welcome. “I discovered Brother Anselm in the chapel. He told me you were resting.”

  “The chapel, you say?” She sat up, and her eyebrows knitted at the top of her nose. “You knelt before God. Does that mean your negotiations with Josephine fell through, and you’ve chosen to repent, after all?”

  She looked so earnest, and he hated to disappoint her, though this would not be the last time he did so.

  “No,” he said, caressing her cheek. “I believed I would find you there, and I couldn’t wait another moment to be with you.”

  Her lips twitched, and she shook her head. “Wishful thinking on my part, I suppose. You haven’t a remorseful bone in your body.”

  “I’m afraid not.” He sat on the edge of the bed, encouraged by her playful banter. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you. However, I did offer up a small prayer. For you.”

  She squeezed his hand. “Am I so very bad that I need your prayers as well as mine?”

  “Not at all,” Devlin replied, turning his hand face up and entwining his fingers with hers. “I prayed that you can forgive a beast like me and give me another chance.”

  “That is a prayer for your own benefit, not mine. You have turned a new leaf.” She scooted over on the bed and patted the empty space. “I’ll consider forgiving you if you wrap your arms around me and hold me close for a long while. As you can see, I have a most handsome fire. Combined with your embrace, I can only conclude I shall soon be in Heaven.”

  Her voice faltered, but she offered a tremulous smile. He narrowed his gaze on the empty spot beside her, wary of her thinly veiled attempt at seduction, for he had no doubt that’s what it was. His stomach clenched. Why was she inviting him into her bed? She was chaste and strong of faith. Admittedly, he’d lain there before, but only to soothe her frazzled nerves on the night of her arrival, and again after she’d nearly died in the ballroom. Both had been extreme circumstances.

  “Why would you have me hold you?” He was charged with seducing her, and yet she’d turned the tables on him. It made no sense; he must know the reason. “Tell me why, Grace.”

  “Must I have a reason?” Her chin turned at a defiant angle. “It’s been a trying day. Is it so wrong of me to want to feel safe for a short while, to seek comfort?”

  He wasn’t convinced she spoke the truth, but arguing over the point seemed futile when it furthered his agenda. The thought soured in his gut. He wanted Grace with a fierce passion, but not under this guise of deceit.

  As soon as he stretched out on the bed, she snuggled up next to him with her cheek pressed to his chest and her womanly curves molding against his body. His manhood stirred to life, and he shifted, conscious of her proximity to his aroused state. He didn’t wish to terrify her when all she sought was comfort.

  “Are you comfortable?” he asked, draping his arm around her back.

  “Quite, thank you.”

  She grabbed his hand and homed in on the missing digit, smoothing her fingers over it rhythmically. How she managed to explore his scars without recoiling still baffled him. But even more than that, he struggled to comprehend why all thoughts of the Butcher fled his mind when she did so. Her touch was feather light, and he craved the feel of her fingers on his bare chest, around his biceps, and down his back to his buttocks.

  She sighed contentedly. “Have you concluded your negotiations with Josephine? I trust she has agreed to help you.”

  Her question yanked him out of his fantasy. He settled his chin on her head and grinned. She really was innocent, and so wholly unaffected by his nearness. He didn’t care to speak of Josephine at the moment, but it was inevitable.

  “Yes, she agreed,” he said, the words sharper than he’d intended.

  “Is something amiss?” Grace asked.

  “My apologies, but I can’t discuss the terms of the arrangement. Suffice it to say the cost was higher than I anticipated. Unfortunately, I’m prone to reactive decisions and actions, as you’re aware.”

  “Do you regret your choice already?”

  She poked him with a finger in the ribs, no doubt attempting to make light of the situation, to ease his conscience. Perhaps if the circumstances were not so dire, he could’ve laughed along.

  “What’s done is done, and now I must hope for the best.” No doubt it wasn’t what she wanted to hear, but it was all he could offer. He rubbed his cheek against her hair, savoring the silky smooth texture and seeking a moment of comfort for himself.

  “You could come with me to the chapel and pray tomorrow. The results may surprise you. My prayers were answered today.”

  He hugged her close. That she would not give up so easily on saving his soul was comforting, though she probably wouldn’t continue in her quest if she knew the terms of his arrangement with the gatekeeper. “I’ll consider kneeling by your side if you share your success with me. What prayers did your almighty God answer for you?”

  She leaned up on her elbow. “He brought you back to me. I thought I’d lost you again this morning. But here you are, in my bed.” Her fingers trailed along his forearm in a mindless rhythm. “You may despise the sight of yourself, but I find you beautiful in every way. Is there anything I can do to vanquish your nightmares?”

  His mouth went dry as he gazed upon her face, so serious and intense. Her words slayed his heart, and yet her gentle touch set his body on fire. Was she offering herself to him freely? Guilt wrapped his heart in a vice. It was too much—like a lamb to the slaughter. If he was to betray her in this abominable way, then dammit, he should have to toil over the task.

  “Grace, you cannot—”

  “Shhh … ” she said, halting his objections as she straddled his lap, capturing his hands and squeezing them tight. “I can make you forget the Butcher’s touch, if you’ll let me. Your past means nothing to me. I can see the honorable man buried inside. I would show you how much I care and let you eradicate my nightmares in return.”

  His shaft hardened against his will, and he rubbed provocatively against her womanhood, causing tiny shivers of pleasure to cascade down his spine. With a tentative curve of her lips, she leaned in and whispered, “Is that a yes?”

  “You would use my words against me? You’re a virgin by your own admission. How can you not cringe, even now, after knowing the truth? The Butcher did—”

  She covered his mouth with hers, darting her tongue in and out until his objections melted away. Lord help him, but she didn’t kiss like a virgin. Could her dreams of Josephine truly have taught her so much?

  “He’s dead,” she whispered, tugging Devlin’s shirt out of his breeches. “You are very much alive, and so am I. We each bear our own cross. Let me help you forget him, as you can help me forget Josephine. Will you help me forget?”

  “You’re certain this is what you want?” he murmured as his fingers moved down her back, unfastening the buttons at a maddeningly slow pace, giving her time to recant her offer. Seduction came in many forms; he could fulfill his bargain while leaving Grace’s maidenhead intact. Though, selfishly, he wished nothing more than to cherish her body and to feel cherished in return. Vanquish his nightmares? Please. Still, taking her virginity did not sit well with him.

  “I cannot promise you anything, Grace. That bastard pirate ripped out my soul and left me an empty husk. Victor fears for my black heart. As should you. So I ask again, are you sure this is what you want?”

  With a nod, she leaned in and found the crook of his neck with her lips, kissing a trail up his chin, over his cheek, across his lips, and to the other side. He unfastened the last button and pulled her gown over her shoulders, all th
e way to her waist. She sat up, and he placed his hands on her full breasts. Her head fell back as he pinched her nipples into tight buds through her chemise. She sighed in pleasure, and his shaft twitched with the need to plunge into her warm heat.

  “You’re so beautiful, Grace.”

  Tugging down the edge of her chemise, he leaned in and scorched a trail with his lips and tongue over the upper swells of her breasts. They were large and firm, filling his hands to overflowing. He flipped her onto the bed beneath him and slanted his mouth over hers, kissing her with a passion that branded her with his mark.

  “Don’t move a muscle while I undress,” he said, lifting off the bed and making quick work of his boots and breeches.

  Grace clamored into a sitting position. “Don’t leave me.”

  He chuckled and brushed a kiss over her pouty lips. “I’m not going anywhere. Do you think I’d leave you now when you’ve offered me such a precious gift? You can undress too, love.”

  A becoming pink flush suffused her cheeks, and she scrambled to push her dress over her hips before tossing it onto the floor. She bit her lip, a flash of uncertainty tugging down the corner of her mouth as she reached for the ties of her chemise.

  “Or you can let me undress you,” he offered, climbing back onto the bed, having divested the last of his clothing. “Whichever you prefer.”

  “Lie down.” She flicked her head toward the center of the bed as she wiggled out of the garment. Her breasts jiggled slightly with the movement, drawing his eyes to her lush, rosy nipples.

  As he lay watching her disrobe, the sheer beauty of her form struck him. She could not know how lovely she looked with her feminine curves outlined by the dim firelight twinkling behind her.

  “I wish you could see your gorgeous body,” he said, drinking in the sight of her.

  She trailed her fingers over the firm globes and caught them at the bottom, letting the weight of her breasts sit in the palms of her hands for a moment before continuing her exploration. Her fingers slid to the outer edges of her ribs and followed the curve to her narrow waist. He’d never seen anything so arousing.

  “Is this what all women look like?” she asked, licking her lips.

  He shook his head, realizing his mistake too late. “No,” he croaked. “I’ve forgotten you see with your hands.”

  “I wish to see you, Devlin.”

  She crawled toward him, and God help him. She was a virgin, but she prowled like a minx, coming to lounge beside him.

  “Show me the first scar he gave you,” she whispered, stretching out her hand.

  Grabbing her wrist, he led her to the six-inch scar crossing his abdomen on an angle. He wished to close his eyes … to block out her reaction … but was unable to do so. She froze when her fingers collided with the ragged tissue, but she soon resumed her exploration. Her expression did not reveal her feelings.

  “What are you thinking in this moment?” he asked, barely able to breathe.

  “We’ll trade a first for a first,” she said, leaning over to kiss the scar inch by inch. “A woman never forgets her first time, and every time you gaze upon this scar, you’ll think of the first time we made love.”

  A lump grew at the base of his throat as she continued to kiss and suckle his abdomen. He stared, mesmerized by the stark contrast of her delicate, flawless skin against the harsh backdrop of his mutilated body. “What kind of magic do you wield that you can take something grotesque and make it beautiful?”

  “It isn’t magic.” She lay back on the bed, beckoning him with outstretched hands. “Come make love to me, Devlin, so I can forever remember our first time.”

  He rolled on top of her and spread her thighs with his knee before swooping in for another taste of her sweet lips. She trembled beneath him and moaned with each caress of his hand on her heated flesh. While his tongue explored the recesses of her sweet mouth, he slipped one finger into her core. She was so wet and tight that his manhood pulsed with need.

  Her hands slid over his shoulders and down his back, gliding over the rippled terrain of his scars. He held his breath. Every scar lay open to her scrutiny, and she probed with gentle fingers. He drew back, searching her face for signs of disgust, only to be gifted with her tender smile.

  “I’ve wondered about the muscular contours of your back since the day I interrupted your bath,” Grace said with a hint of color seeping into her cheeks. “You’re divine, Devlin. Strong. Powerful. I feel safe in your arms.”

  Tears gathered in his eyes, and he leaned his forehead against hers, intent on reveling in her warm embrace. He hadn’t allowed anyone to touch him in this manner in years, let alone someone as precious as Grace. She rallied his spirit with her open acceptance, and he suddenly needed to possess her. All of her.

  “I don’t deserve you,” he whispered. “But I cannot resist you. It’ll only sting for a moment. That I can promise.”

  Capturing her mouth, he plunged inside her wet core and ravished her tongue with the aim of distracting her from the pain. He stilled inside until she wrapped her legs around him and relaxed. She darted her tongue into his mouth, and he found his rhythm in slow, long, deep strokes. It wasn’t enough. He wanted to feel all of her, possess all of her with his hands and mouth. She threaded her fingers through his hair and tugged him closer as his hand roamed over the mound of her breast, along the curve of her waist, and around to cup her bottom. He held on tightly, using every inch of his body to tell her everything he couldn’t say with words and hoping it would be enough.

  She cried out his name and wrapped her arms around him, squeezing him close as she found her release, sending him over the edge until he spent himself inside her. As they lay in each other’s embrace, panting from the exertion of their lovemaking, he knew exactly what he wanted.

  A chance to begin this day over.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  As the weeks passed, Devlin planned the ball with meticulous precision, directing Abigail on the menu, hiring painters, commissioning a new chandelier for the ballroom, and, most importantly, issuing invitations to the guests.

  Josephine’s advice had been sound. His stepfather canceled the meeting with the prime minister, a fact Devlin’s barrister verified, and his mother graciously accepted his invitation to celebrate his return into polite society. News of his ball spread like wildfire, and soon after the initial invitations were delivered, he began receiving visitor cards.

  It seemed his resurrection from the dead held more than a little notoriety. Few of the upper class could boast as much, and when combined with his adventures as a privateer, everyone who was anyone wished to attend the soiree if only to hear how he had survived a shark attack. And perhaps, more interestingly, why it had taken sixteen years for him to reclaim his title.

  Devlin couldn’t very well say he had spent years under the knife of the Butcher. Or how, after killing the bastard, he’d searched years for a contract that laid out the terms of his castration. So he was forced, instead, to fabricate an intricate tale of amnesia from which he only recently recovered upon returning, albeit by chance, to the site of the attack.

  A sharp pounding on the study door dragged Devlin out of his musings, and he looked up from the pile of letters and invitations that seemed to grow daily on his desk. He would have to hire a steward after the ball to take care of his correspondence. Reclaiming his title was proving more tiresome than he ever could have imagined.

  “Come in,” he barked.

  “You’re needed in the kitchen,” Hatchet said, stepping into the study and closing the door behind him.

  Devlin shook his head and buried his face in his hands. “Bloody hell, whatever for? Is Abigail losing her patience with Maribeth again? Or perhaps the chocolate soufflé is not rising to the appropriate height?”

  “I’m afraid Maribeth is attacking the sous-chef after he made derogatory comments regarding the resident medium.” Hatchet cleared his throat in an attempt to stifle his laughter. “I believe you’ll find her att
ached to his back and with her arms around his neck in a chokehold. Quite impressive, if I might say so.”

  Jumping to his feet, Devlin charged out of his study. The clatter of pots and pans along with a colorful stream of shouts was nearly deafening. It was shocking he hadn’t heard the ruckus from his study. He shoved through the double doors to the kitchen and ground to a halt.

  Chef Henri teetered precariously back and forth, his face red with exertion as Maribeth held on to his neck with one arm while covering his eyes with the other.

  “Apologize this instant!” she bellowed.

  The rotund man wheezed and groaned but did not issue an apology. And it was no surprise, considering Maribeth’s chokehold cut off his ability to speak.

  “Poppet!” Devlin shouted. “Release the cook immediately.”

  She glanced over her shoulder, and after one second of staring into his blazing eyes, she let go and fell daintily off his back and onto the floor, lowering her head. Her chest heaved in and out as she fought to regain her breathing.

  “Present yourself,” he said, fighting to keep a level tone of voice.

  With her shoulders held back, she glared once at the cook and then marched to Devlin, halting directly in front of him. Grace charged through the doors at that very moment, plowing into his back.

  “I beg your pardon, Devlin,” she cried. She grabbed his biceps and steadied herself. “Hatchet said I was to come posthaste. Something about Maribeth strangling your sous-chef. Tell me it isn’t so.”

  It still amazed him that she knew him by scent alone. He moved to the side, allowing her to stand to his right.

  “Yes, well, seeing as how I caught her in the act, I can’t very well deny the charges,” he said, staring down at Maribeth. “I was about to interrogate the accused on her poor manners when you arrived. What do you have to say for yourself, young lady? It’s not seemly to attack the staff.”