Devil’s Cove (Tortured Souls) (7 page)

He suddenly recalled his reason for approaching and settled a sharp glare on the lady’s maid. “Shouldn’t you take hold of Miss Grace’s arm? I don’t want harm to befall her while under my care. I believe I made myself clear on this matter. Must I draw up a contract and list out your specific duties?”

Miss Taplin had the sense to blanch under his heated stare, but Grace was as calm as a saint, without even the slightest quiver of her plump, pink lips. Enticing, damned kissable lips. He should’ve taken the opportunity last night, just to get her out of his system. At least then he would’ve earned the verbal facer she’d planted. But he’d been too intent on enjoying the way her supple breasts pushed against his chest. His gaze trailed down. She was well-endowed, indeed. Shaking his head, he returned his gaze to her companion.

“Well, Miss Taplin?” he asked, his tone clipped and impatient.

Grace placed her hand on her maid’s arm and said, “I prefer to explore my environment. I’ll ask for assistance if I need it, I assure you.”

That haughty tone of reproof was back, causing the hairs on the back of his neck to prickle. The little brat. There were stairs, and furniture, and all manner of other things that might trip her. She may not care about her safety in the mansion, but he would, until such time as she had fulfilled her services. He had just the thing in mind. “I’ll procure a walking stick for you.”

“I beg you, do not!” Her cheeks flushed crimson, and she blew out a thin breath of air. “Pardon me,” she said, “that was rude. Forgive my need to feel somewhat … normal. It won’t take long for me to adjust to living here. But if you’d like to assist me, then please advise your staff not to rearrange the furniture during my stay.”

He took a moment to study her. It wasn’t often he met with so much conviction and courage in a young woman. Her determination was admirable, at the very least. Maybe she would prove to be as talented as he’d been told. One could hope.

“Of course,” Devlin said, holding out his arm toward her. There were other ways around her obstinacy. “Might I escort you to breakfast? Please, take my arm.”

Her posture stiffened.

“Yes, I know, you’ll ask if you need assistance. This is me behaving like a gentleman, and I wish to discuss your duties over breakfast.”

The corner of her mouth quirked up, and she took his forearm, resting her hand daintily on it as he led her to the staircase.

“The balustrade is to your right,” he said, recalling the straightforward directions Brother Anselm had provided the evening before.

He allowed Grace to set the pace down the stairs; her fingers barely touched his arm yet her steps appeared confident. The grand crystal chandelier in the foyer lit the golden strands of her hair, shimmering in resplendent glory and providing a stark contrast to the ebony finish on the stairs. Devlin rather thought the original owner of the mansion took the décor a bit far, capitalizing on the manor’s famous name. As they approached the bottom of the stairs, Hatchet held out an envelope.

“Good morning,” he said with a curt bow. “You received a letter, Captain. Lady Madelaine Beaufort requests the honor of calling on you.”

Devlin turned the envelope in his hand and inspected the family crest sealing the missive. It didn’t ring any bells, so he placed the envelope in the inside pocket of his jacket to read later. “Thank you, Hatchet. I need hardly say this, but please don’t allow visitors without discussing it with me first.”

“Of course,” Hatchet said, glancing at Grace and giving a knowing nod.

Grace was staring in Hatchet’s direction with a bemused look on her face. The fact that she always directed her attention to the person speaking was probably another way in which she continued to feel normal.

“What a unique name you have, Hatchet,” she mused aloud. “Though I haven’t much experience with butlers, I don’t imagine many share your name.” A mischievous grin appeared, and she continued, “Nor do they partake in tavern brawls, I daresay.”

Hatchet coughed back a laugh, and Devlin felt his own lips twitching at her observation. His staff was unconventional, and though he hadn’t been inclined to apprise Grace of the truth, he imagined she might find it a comfort under the current circumstances.

“Many of my staff follow me at sea and on land,” Devlin said. “They are all well trained in both affairs of the house and aboard ship. Hatchet is my second mate. You’re quite safe here.”

“Is that how you earned your name, then?” she inquired. “At sea? Pray tell, why do they call you Hatchet?”

Hatchet grinned, baring a golden eyetooth, and looked to Devlin for permission to share the tale. Grace leaned in like a man around a roaring bonfire sharing battle stories with his cronies, and the gesture was so endearing, he nodded his approval.

“Well, miss, we were in the midst of a fierce battle, set upon by a nasty pirate and his backstabbing crew,” Hatchet began. “It was dark, and the sea raged around us, as if sharing our anger at being set upon in the middle of the night. I was fending off a tenacious heathen when I saw our captain in a spot of trouble. He’s a fair good fighter, but even I would’ve struggled with three men attacking me. Problem was, the captain fought on the lower deck whereas I remained on the upper deck, too far to be of any real use to him. That is, until I realized my opponent wielded a hatchet. I took him down with one swift parry of my dagger to the gut and hurled the hatchet at one of the motley crew attacking the captain.”

Grace’s hand flew to her chest. “My goodness, that was a bold move. What if you’d killed the captain instead?”

Devlin lifted a brow. The wench almost sounded disappointed he hadn’t met his demise.

Hatchet grinned at Devlin and winked. “With three men attacking him, I figured he could die at the hands of his enemy or by the toss of my hatchet. He might’ve thanked me for death in that moment, the battle was so fierce, and we’d all grown weary.”

“The hatchet became his weapon of choice,” Devlin said, drawing her attention back to him. “As well as his nickname.”

Red roses flushed Grace’s cheeks, and she sighed. “I knew there must be an adventurous tale behind it; however, I admit that exceeded my expectations.” She placed her hand on Hatchet’s arm, once again surprising Devlin with her ability to surmise her surroundings despite her blindness, and she grinned. “You must promise to tell Brother Anselm sometime.”

Devlin chuckled and shook his head. “Anyone fascinated by
Grimms’ Fairy Tales
would enjoy Hatchet’s story, and he has many more to hold the attention of an old man.”

She turned to Devlin. “Perhaps you have a story or two up your sleeve? I should very much like to hear your nickname.”

“They call him the Devil,” Hatchet said.

Grace rubbed one hand over her chest and whispered, “So it’s true. Like
The Devil with Three Golden Hairs
.”

Devlin turned an icy stare on his second mate. He didn’t care to scare the woman out of his service before she had even begun. Besides, as far as the good people of Devil’s Cove knew, he was a respectable privateer, and he preferred to keep it that way. His well-laid plans to reclaim his title and destroy his mother depended on his acceptance in good society, and woe to the man who got in the way of those plans. The bitch had sent him to Hell, and he had every intention of returning the favor.

“I only jest,” Hatchet amended with an apologetic tip of his head at Devlin. “You’re far too easy to entertain, Miss Grace. I couldn’t help myself. I’ve also heard the rumors. Forgive me for pulling your leg.”

She chuckled but began wringing her hands. “You got me!” Licking her lips, she locked her hands behind her back and finally stopped fidgeting. “Well, you must miss the sea and fresh air. How can you endure being cooped up in a mansion?”

“I don’t mind,” Hatchet said. “Mealtime on the mainland is worth the bother.” Glancing out the window lining one side of the massive oak doors to the entrance, he added, “And we have Neptune to keep us company while we’re here.”

Her brow furrowed, posing a silent question.

Devlin placed Grace’s hand on his arm. “I’ll tell you on the way to the dining room, or we’ll starve this morning. Hard right around the staircase and straight back. Watch for the side table adjacent to the stairs.”

She held out her right hand and skimmed her fingers against the edge of the table, then strode forward.

“Hatchet is referring to a statue of Neptune gracing the middle of the lake in the courtyard.” Devlin kept his focus on their progress and took a mental note to have Victor remove half the furniture cluttering the hallway. “Have you ever seen it? Before … ”

“Oh, yes, once,” she said, her tone registering the connection. “When I was a little girl, Mother visited the manor and brought me along. It was a rare treat, especially the statue—God of fresh water and sea—in our very own part of the world. I’ll never forget the way the sun reflected off the water all around him, like he was blessed with a halo of golden light.”

Devlin shook his head at her fanciful retelling. She was a hopeless romantic. The quicker he got her out of the damned mansion, the better. “That was your favorite part of the visit, I take it?” he asked drolly.

“Oh, no.” Grace shook her head. “Cook made the most amazing raspberry scones and let me eat as many as I liked. He was so kind.” She stopped in her tracks and tilted her head. “Funny, I didn’t realize until now, but Mrs. Stevens’s scones are every bit as delicious.”

“Perhaps she stole the recipe from her brother,” Devlin offered. “He was the cook of the manor in those days.” He resumed their walking. “Settee on your right and a set of chairs ahead on the left. Just a few more steps after that you’ll find the dining room on our right.”

She turned her face toward his. “Might we go to the kitchen first? I should like to meet the cook and thank her for the scones. It’ll give me an opportunity to learn my way around. One never knows when a trip to the kitchen will be necessary. I’m fond of tea late at night.”

“That’s why I hired a lady’s maid for you,” Devlin said. Goddammit, he wasn’t paying her maid to eat bonbons all day and sleep in a feather bed at night. The chit needed to do actual work. “You shouldn’t walk about the place at night. It’s—”

“Too dark?”

She stole the words from his mouth. He could feel the heat of a blush staining his neck.

“Well,” he said, refusing to acknowledge her question. It was badly done of her, making light of the situation. His objection was not without merit. “This way, then. Another ten paces or so. But you know, it isn’t seemly for a young lady to be traipsing through another’s home late at night. Therefore, I’d ask that you avail yourself of the bellpull. Miss Taplin will see to your every need.”

Grace huffed, the noise so at odds with her normal decorum that Devlin arched a brow in her direction.

“I’m hardly a young lady at three and twenty.”

“So old?” he asked, unleashing his sarcasm.

She slapped his arm, and he grinned. Despite the fact that she often irritated him, the woman was far too easy to tease, and he found her reactions rather entertaining.

They entered the kitchen, where preparations for the afternoon meal were already in full force. Grace pulled her hand away from the door and stiffened, her fingers squeezing almost imperceptibly on his arm. Tingles built up in his gut as he glanced down to gauge her reaction.

“Is it a ghost?” he asked. He’d witnessed many things in his one and thirty years, but he’d never had the pleasure of encountering a ghost. He was open to changing that. Hopeful, even. Their existence would prove there was a heaven. And a hell. And a gatekeeper. His lips curved in a grin.

“There are multiple ghosts,” she whispered. “Cook among them.”

Devlin scanned the kitchen, scouring the room for signs of Abigail’s long-lost brother, though he had no idea what those might be. What would his cook say if she knew her brother lingered in her midst while she bustled about, taking care of her duties?

Cook stopped in her tracks upon their arrival, while Maribeth looked up from her plate of eggs and bacon. The child’s eyes alighted with interest, and she hopped off the stool to race around the counter. She barreled into Devlin, threw her arms around his waist, and almost knocked Grace off-kilter while forcing the air out of his lungs.

“Poppet.” He grunted, hugging her to him and ruffling her mop of golden curls. The little ragamuffin was too impetuous for her own good. “It’s good to see you, too. But you must take care. You almost sent our guest to her knees. Now come, meet Miss Grace.”

Maribeth clapped her hands. “You’re going to exorcise our ghosts. I can’t wait to see how you accomplish it, though a part of me wishes you wouldn’t. They’re great fun. Perhaps we may keep one or two?” She stared at Grace for a long moment and then blurted, “I say, what is wrong with your eyes?”

“Watch your manners, you little termagant,” the cook admonished as she strode toward them. She snapped a towel against the girl’s bottom. “She’s eleven. You must forgive her. Pleased to meet you, Miss Grace. I’m Cook, or you may call me Abigail. We don’t hold to formalities around here.”

“Thank you, Abigail. The scones you sent to my room last night were delicious.” Grace held her hands clasped in front of her. “But you needn’t apologize for … Poppet?”

“Maribeth,” Devlin corrected.

“Yes, well, Maribeth has the right of it,” Grace said, facing the child. “I’m blind, so what you see are prosthetic eyes. They’re made of glass. Would you care to look closer? Maybe then they’ll not seem so scary.”

Grace was kind not to take immediate offense to the child’s behavior. Maribeth nodded, and a foreign ache constricted around Devlin’s heart. She must also learn to adapt to their guest, but he would offer guidance.

“You must speak your wishes, Poppet,” he said.

Her mouth formed a little
O
, and she grabbed Grace’s hand. “Yes, I should like a closer look, but not because I’m scared. Devlin is missing a finger and wears a fierce scowl most times; still I don’t quake in my boots. Besides, you’re much too beautiful to scare me.”