Devil’s Cove (Tortured Souls) (3 page)

Grace concentrated on the ghost’s voice as they ventured outside. Thankfully, the rain had stopped, but she strained to hear anything over the howling wind. The ghost wept constantly, drawing them farther and farther into the forest. Grace stumbled over fallen branches and large rocks, all the while trying to soothe the distraught ghost and steady her own growing unease. Devil’s Cove was a small town, and she could not recall having heard of a missing woman and child of late. Hadn’t the ghost said she had been trying to speak with Mr. Evans for days?

Brother Anselm puffed out deep breaths of exertion and paused, grabbing hold of Grace’s arm and pulling her to a stop. “Perhaps we should alert the constable first. Is this really a good idea, my child? It’s rather dark in the forest. What if we are set upon by wolves or bandits? We can’t help a child if we fall victim ourselves.”

No! You’re almost there … seven more steps or so.

Patting him on the arm, Grace shook her head and then trudged onward. “She’s up ahead, Brother. We mustn’t stop now.”

Brother Anselm emitted a resigned sigh behind her, and the gentle shuffle of his feet resumed. She counted steps: one, two, three, four, five …

Her foot collided with something solid, and she gasped, falling to her knees.

“Stop!” Brother Anselm said, horror evident in his tone. He gagged, and the sounds of his retching filled Grace’s ears just as a putrid stench filled her nostrils. Her heartbeat ticked faster, and she swallowed past the lump forming in her throat. The child must’ve been dead for quite some time already.

Isabelle, my poor, sweet Isabelle. She’s dead. My sweet baby is dead. You must ensure she receives a proper burial, Grace.

After scooching back a pace or two, Grace stood and turned away to drag in a lungful of fresh air. “Are you all right, Brother?”

He braced her by the shoulders and sighed. “Yes, and you?”

“Fine,” she whispered, willing her heart to steady once more. Her work was not done, but she wished for it to be over soon. At times like these, she would gladly accept the horrors of exorcising demons to the gut-wrenching pain of helping lost souls, especially that of a young child. “Jacqueline, you have my word that Isabelle’s body will be properly buried, but now you must go to her in Heaven. Allow me to help you reunite with your daughter.”

Three days later …

A gust of wind blew through Grace’s hair, sending gooseflesh racing down her arms and reminding her why she despised sitting close to the tavern entrance. Only this time it was different as a hush settled over the boisterous room. Grace cocked her head to one side and listened closely. Nothing but the hiss of the gas lanterns could be heard. Not even the telltale squeak of the wooden floorboards as Mercy Seymour made her rounds, racing from table to table in a never-ending attempt to keep the tankards full. This was odd, indeed.

But even odder was the sense of foreboding that crept into Grace’s veins. She inhaled a deep breath, and her nostrils itched. Fear had a distinctive scent, and the air was rife with it. She shivered.

Mercy shuffled past Grace’s table, mumbling under her breath, and just like that, the muted voices resumed and the unsettling moment passed. As the clanking of forks against plates grew louder, Grace exhaled and tuned out every last speck of noise, homing in on the conversation taking place at the entrance. Ever since she had gone blind at the age of seven, her cochlear and olfactory nerves had sharpened to an astonishing level, almost as if God mourned the loss of her sight as much as she had and gifted her with heightened sense of sound, taste, and smell.

“Evening, sir,” Mercy said with the tiniest of tremors lilting on her words. “I’ve a fine table for you this way. Please follow me.”

The floorboards groaned under a heavy set of boots, and a mixture of fresh sea air and sandalwood assaulted Grace’s senses. She bit down on her lip when the footsteps paused, and her fingers tensed around the fork and knife she held steady over her plate. His heavenly scent enveloped her; he must be a fine fellow to smell so good. Her heartbeat thumped painfully against her ribs, and she hated herself in that moment for falling victim to vanity. However, she couldn’t help but wonder if the man stared at her in disgust, drawn with a morbid curiosity to gawk at the sightless spheres that rested in her eye sockets.

Her mother had gazed often into her eyes and proclaimed their beauty when she was a child. Bluer than the bluest sky on a bright spring morning. That was a long time ago and much had changed. The brothers of the priory couldn’t afford much, but she was thankful for the simple prosthetic eyes they’d procured. Brother Anselm assured her the dark-brown shade was appealing.

She shoved the treasured memory to the back of her mind and resumed cutting a piece of roasted beef on her plate. Let the man stare if he must. Bowing her head, she pulled the fork toward her mouth and welcomed the taste of the savory beef, seasoned to perfection. It melted on her tongue, tender as it was.

The footfalls resumed against the wooden planks, and the noise of the tavern reached its normal deafening pitch. Grace lifted her head toward her supper mate as the tension left her body. She must know about the newest patron of The Black Serpent. That he should bring the entire establishment to dead silence spoke volumes about the man, yet she yearned for specifics.

“Brother Anselm,” she began, licking her lips. “Please.”

She needn’t say more. After living in each other’s company for nearly fifteen years, he understood her plea. What she didn’t know was whether he would comply and provide the details she sought.

A soft chortle from across the table was enough to bring a smile to her face. Brother Anselm was amused, so the tale must be a good one. As she waited for him to collect his thoughts, she fished for a potato on her plate. They were always the largest pieces, and her fork sank into them with ease. She speared a tasty morsel and bit into it, delighting at the creamy gravy rolling over her tongue.

“It’s Captain Devlin Limmerick,” Brother Anselm said in a hushed tone.

Grace stopped in midchew and her stomach fell to the floor. “The pirate?”

“Privateer,” he countered. “Or at least that is what he would have the good people of Devil’s Cove believe. He has taken residence at Devil’s Cove Manor. Can you imagine?”

She forced the potato down her throat and washed it away with a sip of ale. That was only one of many rumors she’d heard about the man. A shudder ran through her. “No, I can’t imagine living there. The man must be the very devil himself to reside in a mansion reputed to house the gatekeeper of Hell. Pray tell, does he look like the devil?”

“Ah, my dear girl,” Brother Anselm said with an amused lilt. “You cannot believe the nonsensical rumors whispered about the gatekeeper. But the man … should you like to hear that his hair is black as night, and that he sports a chiseled jaw capable of ripping his opponents to shreds? Tall, with rippled muscles that will crush every foe? Eyes so dark and sinister that to even look into their depths would send a man screaming in the other direction?”

Grace’s lips twitched as the heat of a blush rushed up her neck and into her cheeks. That was exactly what she wished to hear. But from the sound of her mentor’s voice, it wasn’t entirely the case.

“Oh, that would be fine, indeed,” she said on a sigh. “Is it not so?”

Brother Anselm laughed and pulled her hand into his. “I would liken him to an archangel. Golden hair kept long and pulled away at the nape of his neck. Quite unconventional. Chiseled jaw, that much is true. But his eyes. From what I could see in this dim light, I believe they must be as dark blue as the fathomless sea upon which he commands his ships.”

Not what she had been hoping for, but all was not lost. There must be more to the man in order to command a room with only his presence. Perhaps he towered over everyone and wielded an axe or sword. Yes, that would do nicely. “Would you say he’s as big as Goliath?”

“Quite,” came the answer from an amused baritone at the edge of their table, and Grace froze.

Good Lord, the pirate was standing right there. Brother Anselm could’ve forewarned her, at the very least. More likely he was enjoying himself. What a jest! She often wondered at his dedication to the cloth, but there were few opportunities for intrigue in their day-to-day lives, so who was she to rob him of a little fun?

How much of their conversation had the captain heard?

Reaching for her napkin, Grace wiped delicately at her lips and turned to their unwelcomed guest. “Pardon me. I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“Allow me the honors,” the man said, and Grace imagined he dipped a proper bow in her direction.

It was the swishing of his waistcoat that gave him away. She pressed her lips together to hide her smile. She could not see him, so the gesture was wasted on her, though she secretly enjoyed the chivalry of it all. It said something about the man that he found her deserving of the required social graces. Odd, for a pirate, for that’s exactly what she believed him to be. Privateers didn’t elicit such fanciful rumors in a place like Devil’s Cove.

“Captain Devlin Limmerick, at your service.”

The deep pitch of his voice was menacing in its own right—enough to send shivers down her spine—and the man had only said “at your service.” She had no doubt he could incite fear in even the burliest of men. He stood quietly, like a cat prepared to pounce, awaiting her response. Tension settled between her shoulders, and she suddenly felt like a juicy little mouse.

She shook away the ridiculous thought. “I’m Grace, and this is Brother Anselm.”

“Just Grace?” he asked.

She nodded. “Just Grace.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Miss Grace. And you, Brother.” Again, the swish of fabric, a slight breeze on the air. They were shaking hands. She was certain of it. Brother Anselm would speak of it for days, to be sure, having shaken the hand of a pirate.

“May I be of service to you?” Brother Anselm asked.

“No,” the pirate said. “However, I hope Miss Grace will consider an offer of employment, room and board included, of course. She comes highly recommended from my cook, Mrs. Abigail Stevens. I’m afraid my servants are not settling well into Devil’s Cove Manor and would rest better if Miss Grace would extricate our”—he cleared his throat—“unwelcome guests.”

Grace ran her hand along her neck and chest, where a dull pressure pulsed against her breastbone. Live at the mansion? The man was crazy if he believed she would consider it. Her own mother had been carted away to the insane asylum after the disastrous events that took place in that manor fifteen years ago. An entire party of guests and every single servant massacred, left lying in the pool of their own blood. Grace could only imagine the level of unrest that reverberated through the walls. Absolutely not. It might be the death of her.

“Thank you for the offer, Captain,” she said, holding her chin high. “But I’m afraid there isn’t an offer high enough that would entice me to accept. You’re mad to live in that mansion.” She shook her head with a disbelieving huff. “And the villagers call
me
insane.”

The jibe clawed its way out of her like a demon escaping the fires of Hell. All of her senses were on high alert, warning her that accepting his offer would be the height of folly. The man was dangerous. She felt the raw, powerful energy radiating off of him deep within her bones. Perhaps more dangerous even than the evil spirits lurking in his home.

“Name your price, and it shall be done.” A waft of sandalwood filled her nostrils, and she gasped. The warmth of his next words caressed her ears. “I don’t take no for an answer. Ever.”

A sheen of sweat coated her palms. He would dare to threaten her? A blind woman most likely half his size. The man was despicable, and apparently deaf. She’d spoken quite plainly but found the need to repeat herself in case he hadn’t heard the first time. “I’ll not do it for any price. I must ask that you leave us alone at once.”

“God’s grace go with you,” Brother Anselm said, but the warning was clear in his tone. Though a man of the cloth, he wasn’t small of stature, and he had proven on more than one occasion his willingness to rise to Grace’s defense. She felt safe in his presence, though a niggling worry tugged at her gut, for her champion was getting on in years and had never faced such a formidable foe. Still, she placed her faith in God as Brother Anselm often begged her to do, but held her breath all the same.

She sensed the frustration building in Captain Limmerick, so great it threatened to squash her existence, but she would not yield. Battling against evil spirits for years had stiffened her spine and filled her with the knowledge of her own inner strength. The man would learn he could not bully her into bending to his will.

“This is not over.” His words cut through the silence. “I bid you good evening, for now.”

He stormed away, the heels of his boots pounding against the floorboards. He wasn’t happy about her refusal. That much was apparent. The last ounce of her courage seeped out of her, and she slumped into the bench seat.

“Don’t lose your bravado quite yet, my dear,” Brother Anselm whispered. “It seems your services are required by more than one tonight.”

Grace sat up and rubbed her forehead. What in the devil was going on? Monday evenings were quiet at the tavern and offered the respite she and Brother Anselm enjoyed so much. One evening a week. That was all they allowed themselves for venturing into the village center to partake of a glorious meal. And now that odious pirate had ruined it. Who else dared to threaten her peace of mind?

She didn’t have to wait long to find out. Stale ale and fetid fish washed over her, and she knew instantly that Willie Jackson stood glaring down at her. Or at least she imagined he was glaring. The perpetually snide tone of his voice always gave her the impression he was glaring at her. Just like he had that afternoon when she was a young girl of seven, too innocent to know that when a boy glared in that manner, one should run screaming in the other direction.

Willie had blinded her. Perhaps it was unfair to lay that charge at his feet. An infection had taken her sight, but he had held her face down in the sand and rubbed it into her eyes. She should’ve ignored his disparaging comments about her mother. But he wouldn’t stop taunting her, screaming over and over that her mother belonged in the nuthouse. After years of listening to the whispers and jabs at her beloved mother, she’d lost control and attacked him with her ineffectual fists. And how Willie had reciprocated would forever plague her mind.