Devil’s Cove (Tortured Souls) (22 page)

“Yes,” he whispered. “Indirectly, at least.”

Grace tilted her head and asked, “What does that mean?”

The pattering of his heart quickened, and he drew an elongated breath. Once he opened the dam to his past, there would be no holding back the rush of questions that were sure to follow. But he trusted Grace with his story.

“My mother sold me to the Butcher,” he said with as much indifference in his voice as he could muster. “His reputation doesn’t do him justice, I assure you. He took perverse pleasure in slicing off each knuckle, one by one, and then kissing the angry, raw stump, smearing a bit of blood over his lips before licking it away.”

Her lips fell open, and she sucked in a gulp of air. He needn’t explain to whom he referred. The pirate was legendary. She cupped his face and leaned her forehead to his. “What would you have me say, Devlin? I’m afraid words fail me.”

Turning her face away, she swallowed hard, taking a few moments to collect herself.

“‘
Spare me that pain.’
That’s what you said to me last evening. I admit, I didn’t appreciate what you meant at the time. But now … ” She leaned in and kissed his cheeks, his eyelids, his lips. “You don’t have to say any more.”

Choking back the tears burning in his throat, he clasped his hands over hers, pressing his cheek harder against her gentle embrace. He should’ve known she would not push him for details in a macabre desire to know all that had happened while he was held captive.

“Let us speak of lighter topics,” she offered with a curve of her lips. “You’ve filled my ears all afternoon. What would you like to know about me?”

“Everything.”

She giggled, and the wondrous sound washed over him, lifting his spirits.

“We haven’t much time left this afternoon, sir, so you must narrow your interest to one topic.”

“Tell me of
your
dreams,” Devlin said. He cupped her chin and stroked the soft curve of her jaw. “Do you dream in sight? Or sound and touch? I’ve always been curious to know how the blind dream.”

She bowed her head in a gesture so typical of one wishing to avoid eye contact. But that was silly. What could Grace possibly dream of that would cause her shame or discomfort? Devlin suppressed a groan as the folly of his question dawned on him. Perhaps she had nightmares, too, of that day when she was seven and Willie held her head beneath the water, pressed into the sand.

“Forgive me, Grace.” He gripped the tree limb with one hand and leaned back to give her space. “That was an insensitive question. You needn’t answer.”

Lifting her chin, she shook her head. “It’s okay. Truly. It’s just that … well, I often dream in sound and touch. But since arriving here my dreams have been vivid—every one of them in sight. I dream of … ”

Her lips pressed into a thin line, and she turned her face away. He held his breath, willing her to confide in him. She was shy, and her cheeks flamed red.

Dare he hope that she dreamed of him each night?

“I dream of running through this forest,” she finally said. “Being chased by another but all in fun. Frolicking. Laughing.” She bit her lip. “Kissing. Touching.”

Her admission set his blood thrumming through his veins. He dreamed of her, too. “And who, may I ask, enjoys your kisses each night?” He leaned closer to rest his forehead on hers. “Your touch?”

“At first I believed it to be you. I wanted it to be you,” she admitted, and his heart soared. Until all of her words sank in.

“At first?” he asked. “What do you mean?”

She took a steadying breath. “I never see my partner, only know she is there, feel her lips on mine, and her hands caressing all over me.”

“What do you mean ‘she’?”

“Josephine,” Grace whispered. “After she came to my bedroom, it became very clear she invades my dreams.”

Devlin grasped her arms; her face was a mask of fear and pain. “I don’t understand. Why would you dream of Josephine in that way?”

A tear slipped over her cheek, and she wiped it away. “She claims I’m evil at my core and that she’s drawn to me, just as you are drawn to me for the same reason.” Her voice quivered, but she forged on. “And it terrifies me. I cannot comprehend why I enjoy her company, unless what she claims is true. Why else would I melt in her arms in my dreams, only to wake full of revulsion? Why do I succumb to the touch of someone so evil? What is wrong with me, Devlin?”

A knot formed at the base of his throat, rendering him speechless. The Butcher flashed before his mind’s eye—stroking his cock, slicing the sensitive skin near his groin. Devlin gripped the tree trunk and drew fresh air deep into his lungs. His fingers roamed over the thick, knotty vines of the bark, reminding him of the scars marring his body everywhere. Arms, legs, torso, back. All the way down to his feet. If Grace melted into his arms and touched him all over, would she be repulsed, knowing that someone as evil as the Butcher had touched him? Brought him to climax?

What is wrong with me?

How many times had he asked himself that very question? He stared at the terrified woman sitting before him. She was beautiful and pure of heart. He believed it without a single doubt.

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” he said. Cupping her face in his hands, he drew her close and kissed her trembling lips. “Nothing’s wrong with you at all. Josephine is an evil creature, capable of wielding black magic and toying with your senses. Perhaps she wishes to drive you a little mad. Just for sport.”

Grace laughed woodenly and nodded. She clearly didn’t believe him. And in that moment he wanted to open up to her. Tell her of his own nightmares. Let her know that she wasn’t alone. Yet sharing his past might be nothing more than a burden to Grace. What thoughts would steal through her mind when she felt his scars? The confession sat on his tongue and screamed to be released. She would understand. She said she cared. He could trust her.

“Grace, you must believe me. I—”

But before the words spilled from his lips, a rustle of leaves caught his attention, and he peered into the forest. Maribeth hopped over a log and squealed when she nearly tripped. She righted herself and ran toward the oak tree. “Devlin, Grace, come. It grows dark, and Brother Anselm fears you might be late for supper.”

Devlin growled low, eliciting a chuckle from Grace.

“We’ll be down shortly, Poppet.” He raised himself onto his feet and clasped a branch overhead. “Take my hand, and I’ll help you down. Our adventure for today is at an end.”

As was the undeniable attraction between them. After learning the truth of his captivity in the hands of the Butcher, she would never think of him the same way again.

If the first three days after Grace’s confrontation with Devlin crawled by as slow as a snail, then the subsequent days passed in a whirlwind of activity. He didn’t allow her a single waking moment outside of his company and filled their hours out of doors in the daylight, foraging through the forest in search of the perfect climbing tree or riding his stallion along the sandy beach with the wind whipping through her hair.

With his strength and agility lending her courage, she felt free to climb higher than she had since she was a child. And when they could climb no higher, he’d held her close and described the scenery that lay before them in minute detail, from the scurrying forest animals, to the foliage textures and rich colors, to the contrast of blue sky and brown earth. She saw it all through him, and their adventures were both liberating and exhilarating.

He shared stories of his travels, and she lived vicariously through him, unable to sate her hunger for knowledge of the world. Each day bridged the gap between them and sealed her fate. Despite everything she’d been raised to believe about saving one’s virtue for marriage, she yearned to share Devlin’s bed as she did with Josephine in her dreams. Still, he wouldn’t touch her the way she longed to be touched. He stole kisses, stroked her hair, and held her close, but he didn’t attempt to lure her to his bed.

And though her days were blissfully filled in Devlin’s company, her nights belonged entirely to Josephine. There was no longer any doubt in her mind that it was Josephine who worshipped her body and soul in her dreams, leaving her breathless and sated. She awoke each morning in a state of confusion, feeling equal parts euphoric and defiled. It was as if her soul had split in two and a mighty battle raged within her. The more time that passed, the stronger the battle raged, until she feared falling asleep altogether.

On the one-week anniversary of her meeting with Josephine, as Grace approached the stairwell, intent on making it to breakfast early enough to catch Maribeth and Brother Anselm, Victor greeted her.

“Good morning,” he said, falling into step beside her. He adjusted his longer strides to her shorter ones, taking her hand onto his arm. “You appear rather tired still. Did you not sleep well?”

“Not well at all, I’m afraid.” She patted his arm. “But I can rest later in the afternoon if need be.”

“Please don’t make yourself sick over your decision,” he murmured. “Devlin won’t send you to Waverly Hills. You must know by now you appeal to his softer side.”

Grace halted on the stairs and tilted her head. “You would not have me help him, then?”

“That isn’t what I said.” His voice was cautious but determined. “Although it may not be clear to you, Devlin has valid reasons for delivering retribution on his mother. He has endured atrocities far worse than your innocent imagination can conjure. Do not believe he does this lightly. Could I negotiate with Josephine on his behalf, I would do it in a heartbeat. But, alas, I cannot. Only you possess that power. I beseech you to help Devlin, because I assure you that his mother’s life isn’t worth your concern.”

With that, they reached the bottom of the stairs, and Victor left her to make her way to the dining room alone as he sought the stables. His advice left her with a heavy heart. In assisting Devlin to condemn his mother to Hell, Grace would condemn him as well. And that she could not do. Would not do. Ever.

Pausing in front of the kitchen door, she took a calming breath. So many things were converging at once, leaving her a bit dizzy. Brother Anselm had agreed to attempt communications with Marcus Deveraux in the library, a calm and inviting atmosphere where he would have relaxed during his lifetime. She needed to know what happened all those years ago in the ballroom, though after much reflection, she had an idea of what might have inspired Josephine’s rage. But Marcus was her only hope for confirming the truth. Only then could Grace devise a plan to thwart Josephine.

A twinge of guilt pinched her heart for keeping her plans secret from Devlin, but she couldn’t predict what would be revealed through her line of questioning, and she didn’t wish to worry him unnecessarily. Though it was possible to communicate through her mind alone, she still felt most comfortable speaking aloud.

Grace pushed through the doorway and grimaced at the utter chaos that assaulted her. People chattering, pots and pans clanking, bacon sizzling. Maribeth and Brother Anselm preferred to take their meal in the heart of the kitchen, where second helpings were an arm’s length away and conversation flowed. While she enjoyed spending the occasional morning in their company, the noise overwhelmed her senses at times, and this morning was no exception. Her head ached from lack of sleep, and her heart was sick with fear of the evening to come.

“Come sit, Grace!” Maribeth shouted. “We’ve boiled eggs, fried a few strips of bacon, and made toast with strawberry jam for you. Let me fetch you some tea.”

“Thank you, Poppet,” she said, shuffling to the table, lest she trip over a dog or run into a bucket, another reason she avoided the kitchen. She settled onto a chair. “Good morning, Brother Anselm.”

He mumbled a greeting through his stuffed mouth and then slurped his tea. “Good morning to you. You’re looking a bit peaked. Are you sure you’ve enough energy for this morning’s activities?”

“I’ll be fine after a hearty breakfast,” Grace said, though she doubted she could muster more than verbal communication. Although she wished to see her father dearly, the energy required to conjure his image was beyond her today.

They ate in silence, and within the half hour, Grace was running her hands along the bookshelves of the library in search of a deep connection to the former lord of the manor while Brother Anselm offered prayers to cleanse the room and emit the holy light. Maribeth sat quietly on an armchair as she was instructed; while she wouldn’t be allowed to stay once the real business started, Grace had taken pity on the child and allowed her to observe the preparations.

“Nothing, there’s nothing here to connect with,” Grace said with a deep-rooted frustration. “I thought for sure there must be a book Lord Deveraux was particularly fond of.”

“He’s quite fond of his pipe,” Maribeth said. “Shall I fetch it for you from the parlor?”

Grace grinned. “I daresay you’ve a knack for this sort of thing, Poppet. Why didn’t I think of it? Let’s go to the parlor, instead. It’s best to keep the positive energy in the room where it originates. Brother?”

“Yes, excellent. A man’s pipe gives him pleasure and a few moments of peace and quiet. That’ll do very nicely.”

They rushed down the hallway, and Grace’s breast filled with excitement. As they entered the parlor, a few piano notes drifted over her, and she froze, her heartbeat suddenly erratic. She stumbled to the piano and touched the keys. A pleasurable wave of emotion cascaded over her—a mixture of pure love and adoration.

Mother, are you here?

“Sorry,” Maribeth said. “I didn’t mean to startle you, Grace. Piano is my favorite instrument, and I can’t seem to resist touching it whenever I’m in here.”

Grace released her breath in a steady stream. How silly of her. But, for a moment there, she’d realized how bereft her life was without her mother. What she wouldn’t give for five minutes in her company.

“It’s okay, Poppet. Come sit in a chair like a good girl and watch as Brother Anselm prays for us. Remember what I told you?”

“Yes, I must clear my mind and look for the light,” Maribeth said, her voice serious. “Imagine the light filling my whole body until it pours out of my fingertips.”