Devil’s Cove (Tortured Souls)

by R. C. Matthews

  Nervous energy built in Grace’s veins as the seconds ticked by. She held out her hands, feeling her way around the room, wanting to put as much distance as she could between them. After ten steps, her thigh connected with something sharp, and she bit back a cry of pain, touching the object gingerly. The corner of a desk or a table. Could she hide underneath? Yes, perhaps.

  Getting on her hands and knees, she crawled into the open space below the desk, careful to keep her head down. To her surprise, the desk was quite deep, or perhaps there was simply nothing behind it. She continued forward until she bumped into the wall. Her head bounced back, and she grinned. Not a wall, but a canvas. After following the length of the canvas, she came to the end and shimmied behind it, leaning her back against the wall.

  “Forty-one, forty-two … ” said Maribeth, counting at an even pace.

  Grace had found a hiding spot with time to spare. She ran her hand over the canvas in front of her, curious to know the subject of such a large painting. Her fingers prickled with an odd sense of energy.

  Maribeth’s voice became softer and softer, drifting away. “Fifty-one, fifty-two … ”

  Blue sky flickered before Grace’s eyes, and she found herself standing on the edge of a forest, a rich pine scent greeting her. Devil’s Cove Manor stood off in the distance. She twirled around, disoriented. How had she gotten here? Something wasn’t quite right. She turned again, and it hit her. Where was the lake?

  A soft breeze caught the bottom of her dress, sending cool air rushing up her legs. The hairs on her forearms prickled, and she whirled around again. A cluster of pine trees beckoned her, and she stepped into the forest, back to her home.

  “Yes, my love,” Josephine cooed, appearing from behind the largest of the pine trees. She slithered closer, revealing her naked torso without shame. Her hair was draped over one shoulder, showcasing the long, graceful line of her neck. “You remember our home as it was before the lake.”

  “Why did you bring me here?” Grace asked, taking a step back. “What is this? How is this possible?”

  Josephine held out her hand in invitation. “Fear not. Come see all that will be ours again.”

  Grace’s throat constricted, and she fought for a breath of fresh air. Was she truly destined to live for all eternity in the company of the gatekeeper to Hell? She simply couldn’t imagine such a life, especially living within the forest. The mere thought of it terrified her despite having felt safe with Josephine in her dreams. Odd that she’d never dreamed of their home. With a burning need to satisfy her curiosity, Grace accepted Josephine’s outstretched hand.

  After walking a short distance to a cluster of six pine trees, Grace slipped into a narrow opening and gaped in wonder at the circular enclosure. She gazed up, staring at the bright blue sky above. Josephine ushered her beyond a large boulder that marked the beginning of a spiral stone staircase. It led them below the earth until they reached an oak door replete with an ornate brass knocker.

  Grace ran her fingers over the two snakes entwined in a circle, their ruby eyes twinkling, and a sense of déjà vu settled over her. Her pulse quickened, and blood throbbed in her veins, making her ache to shove the door wide. The interior was breathtakingly beautiful, she knew. Because she remembered. Biting her lip, she glanced back at Josephine, who smiled and nodded her encouragement to open the door.

  With cautious steps, Grace traversed the threshold and swept her gaze over the length of the cavernous living space. Rocks in hues of gray and rose lined the rounded walls and ceiling, giving it a natural aura. A large hearth created an inviting alcove in the far corner and boasted a blazing fire. Light from the flames flickered and danced around the room, which was furnished sparingly with plush throw rugs and pillows, a round wooden table, and a set of leather wing chairs.

  “There’s a fire,” she said, dumbfounded.

  Josephine nodded. “The chimney is lined with rocks and empties into the hollowed stump of an old maple tree. You’ll find running water, a gas stove in the kitchen, and a glorious four-poster bed in our bedchamber.”

  Their home was harmonious and warm, so far beyond anything Grace could ever have imagined. Josephine held her arms wide, and a love so strong and unwavering crashed over Grace. She rushed into Josephine’s embrace, crushing her mouth over her lover’s supple lips. Heat flooded her belly, and within seconds she lost control, ensnared in the sticky web of her lover. She couldn’t wait a few hours, refused to wait. Josephine belonged to her, and she would have her now. The delicate curve of her neck. The soft swell of her breasts.

  “Yessss,” Josephine groaned, pressing one erect nipple against Grace’s lips. “You belong to me, and I to you. I love you, Rosalie.”

  Rosalie.

  Grace pushed out of Josephine’s embrace and stumbled backward, falling onto her bottom as her mind cleared. She scooted away, scrambling to put distance between them. What in God’s name was she doing? The hold Josephine had on her was suffocating and needy—and so completely at odds with Devlin’s magnetic hold. He breathed life into her and gave freely of himself.

  She didn't want to let him go after waiting a lifetime to find him. He wouldn't let her go either. Why else did he fall to his knees in the chapel and pray? If Devlin repented, then surely God would see fit to stand by his side against Josephine. Grace had to believe that good would always triumph over evil.

  “Devlin isn’t angry anymore,” she said, holding on to the thin shred of hope burgeoning in her heart. Josephine couldn’t prevail without Devlin’s help. “He’ll abandon his need for revenge, and when he does it’ll all be over. No betrayal of his mother’s love, no black magic. Rosalie’s soul will be lost forever.”

  Josephine’s sultry chuckle wound its way around Grace’s body, coiling tighter and tighter as it grew in intensity, and when she could bear it no more, it stopped, leaving her breathless.

  “Sssssilly girl,” Josephine said. “It was never about Devlin betraying his mother. She doesn’t love him. But you do, and tonight he’ll betray you.”

  “You’re wrong.” Grace stared at her and balked at the triumph shining in the demon’s eyes. “There’s nothing he can say or do to betray me.”

  Josephine grabbed her chin, forcing Grace to stare into her eyes. “There is one thing he promised to declare before all of his guests … and it might very well drive you insane. It’s a steep price, but he promised to pay.”

  Grace’s knees wobbled, but she held her ground. “No, it cannot be true. He would never—”

  Josephine held up her hand, halting her protest. “I’ve never lied to you, but can you say the same for Captain Limmerick?”

  Of course she could. “Devlin has never lied to me, not a single—”

  “Why did he hire you?” the gatekeeper asked with a level stare.

  Her throat felt dry all of a sudden as she recalled the true reason Devlin had hired her … to negotiate with Josephine, not exorcise evil spirits. She bit her lip. And then there was the small matter of his true identity, which he’d withheld. Both lies of omission, not outright lies.

  Grace turned away from the smug smile tugging at Josephine’s lips and hugged herself. Devlin cared deeply for her, respected her, and protected her. Why would he declare her insane before all of his guests when he’d defended her against Chef Henri’s vile accusations?

  Josephine slithered closer and whispered, “Are his actions honorable?”

  Horrid, horrid, creature! Must she echo her every thought? A dull ache grew behind her temple as she played the scene over in her head.

  I don’t care what others say or think, except for those closest to me.

  Devlin had lost his temper—fired the sous-chef—and threatened all of the servants with a similar fate if they maligned her character. Did he repent out of a sense of guilt for what was to come, because he planned to cut her down on a far grander scale? He had warned her not to trust him. His words mocked her, haunted her.

  I’m far beyond redemption, you silly
chit.

  Don’t fool yourself, Grace, or waste your good opinion on me.

  That bastard pirate ripped out my soul and left me an empty husk.

  She swallowed the bile rising in her throat. No, it simply couldn’t be true. And, yet, Josephine had never lied. What was the truth? She whirled around to confront Josephine, but the world faded to black.

  “No, come back!” She scrambled to her knees and clawed at the canvas before her, desperate to return to the forest, to demand the truth. “Damn you to Hell, Josephine, come back!”

  “Grace, where are you? What’s wrong?”

  Maribeth’s panicked voice penetrated the fog hovering over Grace’s mind, and she stood abruptly, shoving the painting out of her way. She charged forward and crashed into the table, howling in pain.

  “Deep breaths. This can’t be true. Walk to your room. Call for Emma. What will I do? Find Devlin. Tell him the truth. Think of something. I should’ve confessed, I should’ve confessed. I. Should. Have. Confessed!” she shouted, slamming her fist onto the table.

  A torrent of hot tears flooded over her cheeks, and she let them flow. It felt good to cry, and it cleansed her muddled brain. After a long time of weeping, her anger deflated and she dropped her head, resting her chin on her chest.

  “I’m too late,” she muttered. “I’m too late.”

  Maribeth’s hand rubbed gently over Grace’s arm, and though it did not tremble overly much, Grace could sense fear in the child. She mopped away her tears and bitter laughter sprang to her lips. “I’m mumbling incoherently, just like my mother. Have I gone mad, then?”

  Maribeth sniffled and wrapped her arms around Grace. Christ almighty, she had made the child cry, the lass who wasn’t afraid of anything.

  “I’m scaring you, Poppet,” she said, returning the girl’s warm embrace.

  Grace didn’t want to repeat history, but by God, this cross was heavier than she could bear. What had she done in her lifetime to deserve this? Nothing at all! She was always considerate, confessed her sins, helped others in need, did not complain, and accepted her fate. And for what? To be driven to insanity and die at the hands of her father’s murderess. She inhaled once, filling her lungs and diaphragm until she thought she might burst, then she blew it out slowly.

  That was a fate she refused to accept.

  Devlin couldn’t betray her if she didn’t care about his words. His actions of late had spoken volumes of his true feelings. She’d been declared insane by almost everyone in the village at one point or another. One more time would not kill her.

  Words are only words and cannot hurt me.

  Well, the moment of truth had arrived, the moment when she proved that she meant every word of it!

  “I’m so sorry to have scared you,” Grace said, rubbing Maribeth’s hair. “All will be well. Come, guide me to my bedroom. We must find Emma posthaste so she can help me dress for the ball. Can you find her for me?”

  “Yes, anything for you,” Maribeth said.

  Upon entering her bedchamber, Grace strode to the bellpull and rang for Emma. She paced the floor as she waited—solidifying her path forward. Ignoring Devlin’s announcement was a solid plan. As she took another turn about the room, telling herself his words did not matter one whit, the door swung open.

  “Oh, you’re back,” Emma cried, rushing into the room. “Goodness, what were you thinking? We haven’t much time left.”

  “Calm yourself, Emma.”

  “Shush, you! I’ve grown a headful of gray hairs while searching for you.” Emma guided her to a stool and pushed her down, none too gently. “Sit there and hold your tongue while I tend to you.”

  Her best friend was in a fair state of panic, flitting about and mumbling under her breath until she found everything needed to complete the intricate braids she’d planned to complement Grace’s dress. She braided, pinned up bits of hair, and hummed all the while, until only a few loose strands framed Grace’s face.

  “Don’t move,” Emma said, squeezing her shoulder. “Abigail lent me her curling tongs. You’ll be the belle of the ball when I’m finished.” A few minutes later, she sighed, apparently satisfied with her masterpiece. “You’re positively stunning!”

  Grace caught a curl in her fingers, weaving it around one digit. It was still warm and sprang to life when she released it. “How can I ever thank you, Emma? You’ve been a dear friend to me throughout the years.”

  Emma clucked her tongue. “You’re attending a ball, not a funeral. Why so melancholy? Come, let’s see if we can’t lift your spirits with your gown.”

  Twenty minutes later, Grace stood in the finest creation she’d ever worn. Devlin had insisted on buying it for her and saw to every detail himself, from the fabric and cut of the gown, to the color and lace trim. A knot formed in her throat as she ran her hands over the satiny material. Actions speak louder than words. Wasn’t this tangible evidence of how much Devlin cared?

  “No frowning this evening,” Emma said as she pinched Grace’s cheeks. “I’ll concede the gown is worthy of tears of joy, but you’ll ruin all my efforts if you weep.”

  Her best friend was right. Tonight they celebrated Dominick Sommerset’s return to good society, something for which she would be forever grateful.

  “Besides, I have a surprise for you,” Emma said cheerfully.

  Grace lifted her brow and along with it, her spirits. Curiosity got the best of her. “What kind of a surprise?”

  “The best kind,” Emma said, standing before her. “Jewelry.”

  What is this? Grace only possessed the gold chain and cross Brother Anselm had gifted her with on her first birthday under his care. Emma ought not to waste her precious wages on a gift. Grace was of a mind to voice her opinion when Emma slid a ring onto Grace’s finger, and her world tilted on its axis.

  Flashes of memories swarmed in her head, too many to count as they whirled through her mind at lightning speed. Thousands of memories … laden with intense feelings … yet she couldn’t make heads or tails of them. She braced her hand against her chest, gasping for breath. What in the world was happening? She wobbled in place and clutched her hand long enough to yank the ring off her finger. The dizziness abated, and she stumbled to the edge of the bed with Emma’s assistance.

  “Where did you get this ring, Emma?”

  "Grace, tell me what’s wrong."

  "Where, Emma?"

  “From the medicine lady. It’s one of a kind, and I wanted you to have it so you may shine tonight. You’re so very dear to me.”

  Grace tilted her head. What medicine lady? She was on the verge of asking when it hit her and everything came into focus—making sense of the visions dancing in her head. She stood and threw her arms around Emma, squashing her friend in a bear hug, squealing. “This is the ring with the hidden compartment for spirits, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” Emma choked under the weight of her hug. “Are you all right, Grace?”

  “Simply wonderful,” she said, grinning from ear to ear. “I can’t thank you enough for this gift.”

  The ring had belonged to Rosalie, and she finally had a strong connection! Brother Anselm would praise the Lord when she shared the good news. Grace straightened her back and prepared to fight for her life. Eveline Mitchell was not a victim.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Victor held out a black tailcoat, and Devlin shrugged into it, pulling it tightly over his white, rounded scoop waistcoat. With his matching black slacks and polished dress shoes, he certainly looked the part of a wealthy marquess. At least the standing collar of his shirt curved open at his throat and didn’t threaten to strangle him. Bending over, he sheathed his dagger into the calf holster and stood. One could never be too careful, especially amidst a nest of vipers.

  “Are you ready, Dominick?” Victor asked, catching his gaze in the mirror.

  Devlin ran his tongue over the roof of his mouth and swallowed. Hearing his birth name spoken aloud was oddly distasteful. He could still recall hi
s mother’s deranged salutation as he rowed away on the dinghy that would bring him aboard The Bloody Mary.

  Give your father my regards when you see him in Hell, Dominick.

  He sometimes wondered if his mother had ever loved him. The Butcher was a maniacal, rotten bastard, but even he had loved Devlin in his own demented way.

  Devlin snorted and rubbed his eyes. “What a wicked twist of fate. I’ve fought relentlessly for the right to call myself Dominick Sommerset, and now that I’ve won, I wish nothing more than to be known as Captain Devlin Limmerick.”

  “Fate is a fickle mistress,” Victor murmured, turning toward the bedroom door. “But you are a man of means. In the end, you can do whatever the bloody hell you choose. Either way, I believe Eveline will stand by you.”

  “That’s what I’m counting on, too,” Devlin said under his breath as he reached for the sealed envelope sitting on his bedside table.

  He shoved the envelope into an inside pocket of his evening jacket and followed Victor into the hallway. They strode side-by-side to the stairwell and descended to the entrance at a clipped pace. The clatter of horse hooves on the cobbled driveway announced the arrival of his first guests. A swarm of bees hummed in his gut, and he wanted to be sick. The feeling would pass soon enough. After a moment he pressed his lips together and nodded for Hatchet to open the front door. An elderly couple entered, and the man handed Hatchet his card.

  “Lord Albert Winters, 7th Earl of Salcombe, and his countess, Lady Winters,” Hatchet announced.

  Anyone unfamiliar with Hatchet’s normal demeanor would’ve found his haughty tone befitting a butler of the highest rank. However, Devlin recognized the mocking gesture and smiled. He stepped forward, bowed to the earl, and then took his mother’s hand, placing a kiss on top of her white glove.

  “So good of you to come, Mother. Father sends his regards.” He smiled at his stepfather and motioned toward his study. “Please excuse us, Lord Winters. Victor will join you for a glass of port in the study while I take a few minutes to reacquaint myself with my mother in the parlor.”