Devil’s Cove (Tortured Souls) (9 page)

This cannot be.

The young girl Devlin had saved sixteen years before had been named Eveline. Eveline Mitchell. He would never forget that name; the events had set off a chain reaction that changed his life irrevocably. He’d pounced on Willie Jackson, and not a moment too soon. A fierce anger and disgust had welled inside him, and he had beaten Willie to within an inch of his life. The young girl had almost drowned over a bloody jest.

That day was both a blessing and a curse. He would do it all again to save Eveline, because he had never felt so proud of himself, a champion of the weak. Yet his mother had declared him a monster. His actions served as confirmation that he shared the same vicious streak as his father. He wasn’t the same, dammit! His biological father was like that bloody bastard, Willie, drinking to excess and torturing helpless women.

Blood thrummed through his veins, and a dull ache throbbed where his finger ought to be on his left hand, a constant reminder of all he’d endured ...

He jerked back into reality and stared at Grace, at Eveline Mitchell. How in the hell was he going to secure his future now? He had to turn away. Devlin walked to the window overlooking the courtyard and ran a hand through his hair, drawing in a ragged breath to still his trembling hands. All this time he had believed he saved her. But in reality he had not. She still bore the scars of that afternoon every bit as much as he did. He rubbed the nub where his finger had once been, grateful that he’d at least retained the rest of his fingers. The Butcher was a cruel savage. But more than that, in his own sick way, he had loved Devlin and held on to a hope that Devlin would relent and become his lover.

And through it all, Devlin had the memory of Eveline to restore his sense of goodness in the world.

How could he sacrifice her in his quest for revenge? His Eveline, the ray of sunlight in his disturbingly dark world, the one self-sacrificing deed he clung to as evidence of his own goodness, the one person who gave him the strength to go on when he wanted to lay down and die. She had grown into a beautiful young woman as he had always imagined she would. His gut roiled, and he felt as though he might be sick.

“Devlin,” Maribeth said, grabbing his hand. “Are you all right? You don’t look well. Are you going to be ill?”

“I’m fine.” He offered a weak smile. Though, in truth, he didn’t know what he felt anymore. He needed time alone to digest the news. There would be plenty of time as he lay in his bed at night to mull it over. He searched Maribeth’s upturned face and frowned at the worry lines around her eyes. “I’m fine.”

“Grace was wrong, wasn’t she?” Maribeth asked, her mood somber. “Her story is astonishing. The price I paid was far less.”

“No, they’re equally sad. You both bear scars that will never heal. But I’m glad you’re safe now.” He squared his shoulders. “Is there anything else you would care to explore in this room, Grace? Or shall we move on? Maybe quit for the day?”

She shook her head. “We needn’t stop on my account. But there’s little spiritual activity in this room. May I suggest we start in the attic and make our way down? You’d be surprised how many spirits reside in the attic. It must sound cliché, but I assure you, it’s true.” Her smile was genuine as she made an attempt to lighten the sullen mood that had come over them.

“I’ve had enough ghost hunting for one day,” Maribeth said, giving Grace a hug. “But do tell me later if you run across any of them. I’m off to steal fresh-baked cookies. Cook will be furious, but that’s when they’re the tastiest.”

Maribeth exited the room, but not before she snatched an hourglass from a side table and placed it on the piano. Devlin bit back a laugh, glad to see the child was already back to her usual antics.

• • •

Grace was anxious to leave the parlor and the malevolent ghost who lurked in the shadows, unnerving her. His presence was oppressive, cloying to her skin like a dense fog. Even more so after she’d recited the story of her youth—as though he fed on her pain.

She kept his existence secret so as not to alarm Maribeth, or worse, provoke their esteemed host, Lord Marcus Deveraux. She hadn’t a single doubt that it was he. Though she struggled to understand why his spirit lingered at the manor. Barring a loved one in desperate need of assistance, or some other equally compelling reason, most ghosts moved on to the afterlife. The lord of the manor had been massacred together with his family and friends. Nothing tied him to this plane of existence as far as she could tell.

But perhaps the attic would offer her clues.

“Shall we go to the attic, then?” she asked, masking her unease behind a jovial tone.

The captain placed her hand over his forearm. “As you wish. Follow me.”

At the top of three flights of stairs, they paused on a narrow landing. When her companion pushed a door open, it emitted a sinister creak.

“You might be right about the attic and ghosts,” he said, laughing. “Remind me to tell Hatchet to oil the door hinges.”

They entered the room, and the first thing she noticed was the frigid air.

“My apologies, Grace. That window should’ve been repaired by now. Stay here while I examine the casement.” The captain strode away, and within seconds the swishing of his pants came to an abrupt halt. The window latch rattled as he conducted his examination. “The construction is sound. How can that be?”

“Cold is a sign of spirits,” Grace said, folding her hands behind her lower back. “Not to mention this room is closed off, trapping the negative energy within.”

“Are you cooking my goose, Miss Grace?” he asked with a lighthearted chuckle. “I think you must be.”

“Not at all, Captain. Might I ask why you hired me? It seems a terrible waste of your money if you don’t believe in evil spirits.”

The heat of his gaze bore down on her, but she didn’t flinch. He couldn’t fault her for demanding such an outrageous wage after the abominable way in which he’d behaved at the tavern.

“It doesn’t matter what I believe,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact. “I’ve heard of multiple encounters with ghosts in the past month, though I haven’t had the pleasure myself. Still, I’m inclined to believe Maribeth. Children are attuned to their spiritual side, and she, in particular, isn’t prone to dressing up the truth.”

“You
don’t
have a spiritual side, then?” she asked with a lift of her brow. He didn’t give the impression of a religious man, but perhaps he would surprise her.

“There isn’t a single ounce of spirituality within me, I assure you.”

He spoke as if the fact were a badge of honor. Well, Brother Anselm had his work cut out for him with this pirate, and his heathen crew. But she held the utmost respect for her mentor, and before their stay was over, the entire household would be attending mass, to be sure.

He cleared his throat. “Enough of that; we’ve work to do. There are a lot of odds and ends in this room,” he said, striding to her side. “Come take my arm, and I’ll lead you around. Is there anything in particular you would care to touch? A harp? Perhaps a set of beech clubs? Or a portrait?”

“There are portraits?” The excitement in Grace’s voice was self-evident.

“This way,” he said, guiding her to the far end of the room. He pulled out portrait after portrait, describing each of the women and children at length for her benefit. But she felt nothing, until he came upon the portrait of a middle-aged male.

“What about this one, Grace? The nameplate says it’s Lord Marcus Deveraux. If I recall the stories correctly, then this must be a portrait of the patriarch, the original owner of the mansion.”

Graced nodded and dug into the recesses of her mind, trying to draw an image of the man. She had been seven years old the one time she’d met him. Nothing solid formed, except she remembered him to be quite handsome.

“Who shares your hair color, Grace?” the captain suddenly asked, his voice hitching. “Your mother or your father?”

“Neither,” she said, pausing at his odd question. “Though my father jested that I shared the coloring of our milkman. But mother only slapped him on the shoulder and insisted I had the same hair as her grandfather. Why do you ask?”

“And your eyes?” he whispered. “Sky-blue eyes.”

Her sixth sense stirred to life. Why all the questions? The air surrounding them dropped a few degrees, and the hairs on her forearms stood on end. She grabbed his bicep. “What is the matter with you, Devlin? What do you see?”

Nothing but his breathing penetrated the silence, and she imagined he stared at the portrait as if in a trance.

“What is it?” she asked again, but this time with a bit of urgency. She shook his arm. “Tell me.”

He braced her by the shoulders, and she held her breath.

“You’re the mirror image of Marcus Deveraux.” Her mouth dropped open, and he added, “Of course, you’re prettier.”

Grace shook her head to clear the cobwebs from her ears. Did the captain believe her to be related to the viscount? That made no sense. If she bore a resemblance to Marcus Deveraux, it must be coincidence. But what a treasure; finding a portrait of the man was like discovering a window to his soul.

She placed her hands on the portrait, and her knees buckled as she cried out. A bone-deep chill surged through her, colder than a North Atlantic gale. In the distance something metallic rumbled to life, clattering against a hard surface.

The captain crushed her to his solid frame, letting the portrait fall back against the wall, and a resounding thud clanged in Grace’s ear a scant moment later.

“The devil take me,” the captain snapped. “That was a palette knife!”

Grace reeled with the shock of his revelation. The floor began to rattle violently beneath their feet, and the captain’s entire body stiffened.

”What’s happening?”

“Get us out of here,” she shouted, clinging to his arms. “Now.”

He tossed her over his shoulder and ran for the door, slamming it shut behind them as all manner of objects banged against it. Her heart thundered as he lowered her to her feet. She clung to him with her arms wrapped around his neck and her face resting on his chest. He must think her a complete ninny, but she wasn’t ready to leave the safety of his embrace.

Leaning back against the door, he heaved in a lungful of air. “Was that my first encounter with an evil spirit?”

Skepticism clung to his every word.

“Undoubtedly, my doubting Thomas,” she said with a smirk. “Welcome to the land of the spiritual.”

The huff of his breath caressed her forehead, and he relaxed. “What did you feel when you touched the portrait? I must know.”

“Bitter cold.” She searched for an analogy to describe the utter devastation she’d experienced. “I felt cold as death.”

“That bad?”

She shivered in his embrace, pressing closer against him. “Yes, he’s filled with rage.”

“Well, it’s bloody cold in there. That would anger me, too. I'll have Hatchet start a fire in the hearth at once.”