Devil’s Cove (Tortured Souls) (19 page)

Maribeth grabbed a spoon and ladled a heaping bite of apple cobbler from Grace’s plate, quiet as a mouse. But before she could enjoy her stolen treasure, Grace snatched her tiny wrist with her free hand.

“Not so fast,” Grace said, admonishing the little thief. “That’s my cobbler.”

She guided the spoon to her mouth and gobbled it down. Maribeth giggled as she tried to squirm free.

“How did you catch me?” the child asked before bussing Grace on the cheek. “Even Cook cannot see me pluck one of her cookies from the dish in plain sight.”

Grace smiled and shook her head. “Do you think me daft? I’ll not reveal my secrets to you lest you rob me blind in the future, but perhaps I will share my secret with Abigail.”

“I beg you, do not!” Maribeth said, jumping from her seat. “I’ll not steal from you again, I promise.” She pulled on Grace’s arm. “Can we relax in the parlor now? Devlin promised to play a tune on his guitar tonight. It’s great fun to hear him play. Come.”

Grace pressed her lips together and seemed ready to decline the offer. But Maribeth tugged on her arm again and pleaded in her sweetest voice, the one that captured Devlin’s heart each and every time. “I’ve missed you. And you didn’t keep your promise to play with me after you tumbled down the stairs. You said we could do anything I wished that afternoon. Did you not?”

Devlin contained his smirk. Maribeth could cajole anyone into doing her bidding. Grace didn’t stand a chance, and well he knew it. Perhaps it was beneath him to solicit the child’s help in mending broken fences with Grace, but he wouldn’t feel sorry about it. He was astute enough to know she wouldn’t stay in his company of her own accord.

All was fair in war.

“You’re quite right, Poppet,” Grace said, standing. “Very well, if that’s what you wish, then lead the way. But no running this time.”

Devlin stood to follow close behind them with smug satisfaction burgeoning in his breast. Maribeth took her hand, holding it tightly the entire way. The first thing Grace did when they entered the parlor was run her fingers along the piano keys and snatch the sheet music from the stand, placing it on the side table next to her seat on the settee.

“That’s quite all right,” Maribeth whispered. “The piano-playing ghost plays from memory.”

Devlin narrowed his gaze on her. “Is that so?”

The girl lifted her chin. “Yes, it is.”

“Well,” Devlin said, taking a seat on the piano bench and settling his guitar on his lap. “I can’t be outdone by a ghost. Allow me to play from memory as well. What would you care to hear tonight, Poppet?”

She kneeled on the settee and turned to face him. “My favorite, of course: ‘The Pirate King.’”

Victor roared with laughter and took a seat in the chair closest to the fireplace. “Excellent choice!
The Pirates of Penzance
is a comic opera, and all the rage in the Americas, Grace. It recently came to England. Have you heard of it?”

“Yes,” she said, directing her response to Victor. “But we haven’t had the pleasure of hearing the music yet. The captain must be talented, indeed, if he has memorized the melody and can play it from sound alone. Or perhaps he feels a special affinity with the tune?”

Brother Anselm’s chuckle was joined by Maribeth’s fit of giggles; Devlin, however, was not amused. The little termagant was going off their carefully practiced script. That wasn’t the music he’d carefully selected. She was a traitor.

“I’ll have you know that the official title is ‘Oh, Better Far to Live and Die,’” he said, darting a quelling look Victor’s way. “Another time, perhaps. Maribeth would much prefer to hear ‘Married to a Mermaid,’ wouldn’t you?”

She stuck out her tongue and smiled. “No, I wouldn’t.”

“Come, Devlin, play it for us,” Grace said, smiling. “Brother Anselm can hardly contain himself. We never have cause to visit London for the theatre.”

Devlin.
Taking more pleasure than he ought to from one simple word, he grinned and positioned his fingers over the frets.

“Far be it from me to disappoint our esteemed guest,” he said, arching his brow at the monk. “This one is for you, Brother. Victor, Maribeth, chorus, please.”

His fingers flew over the frets, and by the end of the first chorus, Devlin was well and good into the song, bellowing it out as was befitting the boisterous tune. By the end of the second chorus, Abigail, Emma, and Hatchet gathered in the doorway, listening intently while tapping their feet along to the music. But it was the rosy flush of pleasure rising in Grace’s cheeks that filled him with the most satisfaction. He strummed the last chord, and the room broke out in a round of cheers.

“Bravo!” Emma squealed and clapped vigorously. “Such fun, it was.”

Maribeth bounced onto the seat beside Grace. “Did you like it? Oh, please, say it is so.”

“Very much,” Grace said, laughing. “Are all the tunes from the opera so much fun?”

“Yes, they’re all good fun, but that will always be my favorite.” Maribeth ran to Devlin’s side again. “More, please.”

He ruffled her hair and started the next tune, playing through four consecutive songs without stopping before demanding a break. Taking the empty chair across from Victor, he settled in and accepted a glass of ale.

“Where did you learn to play guitar?” Brother Anselm asked as he plucked a cookie from the dish Abigail passed around. “Delightful instrument.”

“One of my passengers taught me on a voyage to America several years ago,” Devlin said. “He said I’ve a knack for it, and I have an ear for music.”

“You’ve been to America often, then?” Grace asked, the interest ripe in her tone and the angle of her body. She was opening up to him again, maybe even without her awareness.

“Many times, in fact,” he said. “Poppet has, too. New York, Boston, even New Orleans once. Would you like to hear more about it?”

Grace nodded. “All of it. The styles, the people, the dances and music. The towns and cities. Is it so very different from England?”

Victor and Devlin took turns sharing their impressions, and Maribeth offered her opinions of the bakeries and restaurants. Grace clung to every word and seemed most fascinated by the dances: square dances, round dances, two-step, and the quadrille. The wistful look on her face stole Devlin’s breath.

When the hour grew late, Devlin stood and ordered Maribeth up to her bed. She hugged him tightly and then bade Victor to see her to her door in case any ghosts were of a mind to chase after her tonight. He chuckled and charged after her, filling the hallways with her fit of giggles as she raced up the stairwell.

Devlin glanced at Brother Anselm and ran a hand through his hair, debating the wisdom of seeking time alone so soon with Grace. But, damn it all, he had made great strides in the past few hours and wished to continue the momentum.

“Would you allow me a moment in private, Grace? I promise to remain on my best behavior.”

Brother Anselm strode to her side, placing her hand on his arm. “You needn’t—”

“I’ll be fine,” she said. “Good night, Brother. I’ll see you at breakfast, and then we’ll begin exorcising the ballroom of spirits.”

He turned a mutinous glare on Devlin before departing, his meaning quite clear. Devlin dipped his head curtly and took Grace’s hand in his own as all the others departed. Her fingers curled around his in a display of trust he most certainly did not deserve.

“I’m sorry I lost my temper with you,” he whispered through the tight knot at the base of his throat.

She sucked her bottom lip into her mouth and lowered her gaze. The gesture was both innocent and erotic, and he longed to draw her mouth to his for another taste. His breathing accelerated, and he inhaled through his nose, attempting to regulate the rapid fluttering of his heart.

“My history with my mother is painful. But that doesn’t give me the right to treat you as I did. I won’t burden you with the particulars, but I beg you to try to understand that I have my reasons for seeking justice. Can you try to understand? For me.”

“Devlin, please. Let me share your burden.” She grabbed his left hand and ran her fingers over the nubby end. “It has to do with this.” Her fingers traveled over his jawline, narrowing in on the jagged scar tissue. “And this. How many scars will I find if I continue to search? Talk to me. I promise I won’t judge you. Whatever it is, it doesn’t matter to me.”

“But it matters to me,” he said, leaning his forehead against hers. “I can’t bear to see your reaction. Spare me that pain. Please help me, Grace. Not because I’m forcing you, but because I’m begging you. And you care.”

He closed his eyes and listened to her intake of breath. Felt the rapid beat of her heart, marching in time to his. Breathed her lavender scent. And melted into her embrace, lost in the heat of her mouth as his closed over hers, arousing a burning need in him to claim everything that was her.

She pressed her hands gently against his chest and pushed him away, ending the kiss. He had expected too much after the way he’d treated her, but she hadn’t slapped him. It was a start.

“Don’t answer now,” he said with renewed hope. “Take your time and think on it. And in the meantime, come explore the grounds and mansion with me. Let me be your eyes.”

Her lips curled up in a tentative smile. “What will you show me?”

“Have you been to the stables or ridden a horse?”

“No.”

“Climbed a sturdy tree?”

“Not in years.”

“Danced the waltz?”

“Never.”

“Then we’ll do it all and more.” He kissed the top of her head. “I’ve a mind to restore the ballroom to its former glory. It must’ve been breathtaking. It shouldn’t take long, just a deep cleaning and new coat of paint. Then I can teach you to dance properly.”

“I thought you didn’t care to dance,” she said, poking him in the rib.

He jerked out of her reach and laughed. “Ah, but for you I will do anything.”

Her smile faded until she stood before him, sobered.

“You mean a
lmost
anything,” she said. “Anything except repent.”

Early the next morning, Grace and Brother Anselm prayed together in the chapel. A daunting task lay ahead of them. Grace’s hands trembled as she gathered the Lord’s instruments that would deliver the ballroom from darkness, but she placed her trust in God’s hands, confident he would protect her from evil. Armed with holy water, a crucifix, and a book of prayers, they headed to the lake, where Devlin and Victor awaited them near the statue of Neptune.

A blustery wind whipped at the hem of Grace’s skirt and tangled around her legs, as if warding her off from their venture. Brother Anselm steadied her, and she hunkered down against the bitter cold, leaning into him when the sun disappeared behind a cloud. Moisture clung to the air and filled her nostrils with the sweet scent of the earth.

“Good morning!” Devlin shouted over the howling wind. “A storm is brewing. We’d best hurry.”

“An omen,” Grace said with a hint of a smile curving her lips. “But we won’t be deterred, will we, Brother?”

He patted her hand. “Certainly not. After I bless the lake, we’ll proceed to the ballroom. It’s time to put the tortured souls to rest.”

Devlin clasped Grace’s arm and guided her several steps away. His body blocked the worst of the wind, but it seemed to assault them from all directions. Brother Anselm’s booming voice sliced through the wails, calling forth the soothing balm of the Lord’s grace to guide them in their quest to rid Devil’s Cove Manor of all malevolent beings.

“Almighty God, we ask that you cleanse and purify this lake, restoring its natural calming water and beauty. Guide us in carrying out your work and give us the courage to prevail. Hear us, O’ Lord. Amen.”

She held the carafe of holy water steady for the monk and breathed in the fresh scent of the pine branch he dipped inside. The wind caught the holy water, and it spritzed Grace’s face. She wiped the droplets away, smiling as the wind settled more and more with every shake of the pine branch. The sun broke through the clouds and shone down on them, offering warmth.

Grace laughed in delight and squeezed Devlin’s arm. “He has heard our prayers!”

“I’m not certain which is more unnerving,” Victor said, exhaling warily. “The evil lurking in the manor or the possibility that God truly exists.”

Grace lifted an eyebrow as she placed a stopper in the carafe. It amazed her that these enlightened men could allow for the existence of Hell, yet fail to accept the existence of Heaven. But given more time, she might be able to guide them to the light. “I assure you God exists, and He welcomes both of you to come pray in his house. I would enjoy your company each morning walking to the chapel should you care to join me.”

Devlin grunted, the sound hinting at both amusement and annoyance. “Shall we go in now?” he asked.

Brother Anselm took the lead, and before long they entered the conservatory and descended the stairs. He spritzed holy water with each step and recited the Hail Mary in a continuous cycle. Although the air was still cool, it was tolerable without a cloak.

“The temperature has improved significantly,” Devlin said as they proceeded down the corridor. “It’s remarkable. But you’re certain you’ll be fine, Grace?”

The captain was full of contradictions; one minute he was issuing harrowing threats at her and the next he was more protective than a shepherd with his sheep. She didn’t know what to make of him, yet she still trusted him to evacuate her swiftly should the need arise.

“Yes, I’m certain,” she replied. “I’ll be tired afterward, but not completely drained. The skeletal remains have been removed, we prayed beforehand, and Brother Anselm has blessed this area daily since our last visit. I also ordered the floors scrubbed with vinegar.”

Victor sniffed the air. “That’s what I smell. It’ll ruin the marble floors. Why would you do that?”

“Because vinegar seeps into crevices and destroys all traces of germs or residue. A lot of blood spilled on these floors years ago. But not to worry, a single washing with vinegar won’t harm the marble, and you must admit the difference in the atmosphere is astounding.”

“Quite,” Devlin said.