Devil’s Cove (Tortured Souls) (11 page)

“Goodness, you’ve earned your keep for one month, at least. And what was this curious observation of the captain’s?”

She smiled weakly, but it took some effort, because she was not in a mood to be entertained. What she wanted was answers to questions she found difficult to ask. Still, she must ask them if she hoped to quiet the unease welling inside of her whole body. “Did you perchance happen to meet Lord Deveraux in your lifetime?”

Brother Anselm didn’t answer her question straightaway, and the pause set her heart to racing, because it was unlike him to hesitate, unless he felt uncomfortable with the topic at hand.

“Yes, I have. Why?”

“Devlin seemed to believe I bear an uncanny resemblance to the man, both the color of my hair and eyes.”

“The likeness is astonishing,” Brother Anselm whispered.

Grace swallowed, and a strange pressure gathered on her chest. She stood and cut a path to the hearth, following the crackle of the fire, and stretched out her fingers. The soothing heat did little to prevent the shiver running down her spine as memories from her youth sprang to mind.

“When I was a little girl,” she began, twisting her hands together, “I could hear my parents arguing in their bedroom late at night. They believed I was sound asleep, but I wasn’t.”

The wooden legs of Brother Anselm’s chair scraped against the floor, but she continued her story, determined to lay it all out in her mind. She’d harbored the bothersome memories for too long and wished to be rid of them, as if voicing them aloud would relieve her conscience of their burden.

“Father was the loudest. Even still I only caught a word or two. Strumpet. Bastard. Those were the words that struck me as odd, most likely because I didn’t know what they meant at the time.” Grace turned her back to the fire, facing Brother Anselm. “But I do now. Why would my father call my mother a strumpet?”

Silence greeted her. She lifted her chin, prepared to face the truth.

“Am I a bastard, Brother Anselm? Please tell me if Marcus Deveraux is my biological father.”

Her heart raced, and she dragged air into her lungs. He must know the truth. Why wouldn’t he say anything? Not knowing was ripping her insides to shreds.

“Is that why my father abandoned me at the priory? Because he found out?”

“Yes,” Brother Anselm said. “He wanted you to repent for the rest of your life. But he was misguided. You’ve done nothing wrong; you are the kindest, sweetest, most caring … ”

His words were drowned out by the sobs ripping from her chest as a torrent of tears flooded her face. She collapsed to the ground as her strength abandoned her. All this time she’d held on to the notion that her father loved her, had given her up to Brother Anselm in a selfless act of kindness, ensuring she remained safe from the harsh rumors attached to her mother’s insanity.

As difficult as it was to accept that her father despised her, it all made sense as the pieces fell into place. How many times had she made excuses when her father turned a cold shoulder to her within the village? He’d signed the petition to commit her to the asylum. Bile lurched up her throat.

She was living a horrific lie, the seeds of which were planted so many years ago. They had taken root in her heart and mind, and tearing them out might prove to be the end of her. Her heart ached with a searing pain. Brother Anselm wrapped her in his arms, and she wept, rocking back and forth in a mindless rhythm, wanting nothing more than to block out the cruel world.

“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.”

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 to 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.