Devil’s Cove (Tortured Souls) (8 page)

Devlin hid his smile behind his hand as Grace bent on one knee. Maribeth, scared? The notion was ridiculous. Her courage rivaled his most seasoned crewmembers, and it appeared she possessed a sweet tongue as well. The “beautiful” remark would mend any hurt feelings Grace might’ve felt at Maribeth’s original observation.

Grace allowed the child to inspect her glass eyes for a minute and then stood. “Well, what do you think?”

Maribeth reflected on her question for a long moment. “Were your eyes brown?” she asked, regarding Grace closely. “I mean, your real ones?”

Grace shook her head. “Oh, no, they were as blue as a cloudless sky.”

“Then why didn’t you buy blue eyes?” Maribeth scratched her head. “I’d like to see you as God made you.”

Devlin turned a stern eye to her. “That’s enough, Poppet.” The tone in his voice brooked no argument. “Now you’re being rude.”

Grace grabbed hold of Devlin’s arm, and he stared at her hand in astonishment. Her meaning was clear. Back off.

“Blue eyes are expensive. They must be custom-made. I’m afraid the brothers of the priory couldn’t afford that luxury. But it’s fine. The added cost would be a shameful waste of money since they are only for show, don’t you think?”

Maribeth seemed inclined to disagree, but she held her tongue when Devlin tossed another stern look her way.
Ah, the hell with it.
She was still a child, and he hated to tamp down her curiosity and naturally vibrant nature, so he tossed her a boon.

“
After
breakfast I plan to … ” He paused, catching himself before uttering the word
show
. A smug smile crept across his lips. “Introduce Grace to several new rooms. Would you like to join us?”

The girl’s green eyes lit up, and she nodded, only to bite down on her bottom lip. She glanced at Grace, and he understood her frustration. Maribeth had forgotten to speak her wishes for Grace’s benefit.

“Yes, I want to join you both,” Maribeth said, “but can we begin with the parlor in the east wing?”

Devlin nodded. “I think we can manage that.”

• • •

Breakfast was an interesting affair, as Grace insisted upon fixing her own plate. Devlin stared in fascination while she chose scrambled eggs, grilled tomatoes, and toast, arranging them in sections on her plate.

“It’s my sense of smell,” she said, taking her seat.

Devlin looked up. “Pardon me?”

She sighed and laid her napkin on her lap. “I rely on my sense of smell to select the food.”

How could she possibly know where his mind had wandered?

“You were quiet,” she said with a smirk. “People who are staring at me in rapt fascination are quiet.”

“My apologies,” he replied.

“Don’t be sorry.” She sipped her tea and then scooped a bite of eggs onto her fork. “I would be curious, too, if our roles were reversed.”

Would he manage to temper his frustration that well if he were in her shoes? A part of him wished to ask her when and how she’d lost her sight. But that would be incredibly rude. Yet she had opened the door to some questions.

“May I ask, then, how you know where to arrange the food and how much is enough or too much?”

“You may,” she said, resting her fork and knife on the edge of the plate. “Take this plate, for example. It is larger than the full length of my hand; the larger the plate, the more food I may pile on it.” She grinned and leaned toward him. “You have rather large plates. I shall become fat in your employ.”

He laughed, enchanted by her sense of humor. Her form was perfect in every way, so he didn’t believe for one second that she would indulge in too much food. His hand slid across the table, but he caught himself before laying it over hers. What was this draw he felt toward her? He did not chase after virgins, ever, and had no intention of starting now.

He yanked his hand back and took a bite of his eggs. “You’re forced to employ all of your senses to survive. I must admit, it is fascinating to watch you, but I’ll endeavor not to stare too much. I might scare you away, otherwise, and I cannot have that.”

“It takes more than a bit of staring to scare me,” she said, pressing her lips together as if suppressing a smile.

It was ungallant of him, but he couldn’t resist. “You mean something like slithering noises, perhaps.”

“You’re a scoundrel.” She screwed her lips into a disapproving pucker, though he could tell she was teasing him. Still, the reminder of their encounter the evening before rankled.

“So I’ve been told,” he bit out.

Her face fell, and he almost regretted the thoughtless comment. Did she regret her words from the night before? Not that it mattered. He didn’t give two whits what others thought of him. Except, for some inexplicable reason, her disapproval of his character cut deep. Perhaps ’twas because she reminded him of the little girl he’d rescued when he was still a lad. That young maiden had regarded him with sublime hero worship, a stark contrast to what he’d become. A dark, gaping hole had replaced his heart a long time ago.

He shifted in his seat and lifted his fork. It was futile to linger on such musings.

“So how does one go about exorcising spirits from one’s home?” he asked with genuine interest.

Grace gulped a mouthful of tea. “It depends.”

“On what?”

“Whether they’re friendly or hostile.”

His head snapped up, and he regarded her thoughtfully. She wasn’t jesting. How often had Grace dealt with hostile spirits in the past, and how in the devil did she manage to ward them off? She was nothing more than a slip of a girl, the top of her head reaching his shoulders.

“But first I need to explore the mansion. Find where they linger. Get a sense for their strength. And then I’ll consult Brother Anselm on the best approach.”

Satisfied with her response, he directed his attention at the food on his plate. “You had best eat now, Grace. Maribeth has the patience of a gnat and will be pestering us within the quarter hour.”

She lowered her face with a brief nod of acknowledgment. True to his prediction, Maribeth pushed through the dining-room door before Grace could finish the last bite of her toast.

“Are you ready to begin the tour? I cannot wait a moment longer.”

Devlin laid his napkin on his plate and stood, bearing down on the child. “How many times must I—”

“I’m ready,” Grace called out. She stood and pushed her chair back in toward the table. “Must you go on like that, Captain? The child is excited. Even I can
see
that.”

Devlin stopped dead in his tracks. He had stewed over their last exchange the entire meal, annoyed with himself for being such a cad, and he’d nearly taken it out on Maribeth.

Grace wore a smug look on her face, fully recovered and back to her mischievous self. She held out her hand. “Will you lead the way, Maribeth?”

The girl looked to Devlin for approval and then raced to Grace’s side when he gave a curt nod.

“Do not run,” he ordered, his warning falling on deaf ears. “If you’re tugging, then you’re going too fast.”

A fit of giggles and screams filled the air as Maribeth led her charge to the parlor. Devlin raced after them, regretting the moment of weakness that made him issue the invitation to Maribeth in the first place.

He skidded to a stop at the parlor door, prepared to tan Maribeth’s little hide, but became distracted by the sight before him. Grace heaved deep breaths, and her cheeks were flushed with color. But more than that, she wore a smile filled with unadulterated joy. He stood transfixed.

“Is that you, Captain?” Grace asked through ragged breaths. “We beat you. Didn’t we, Maribeth?”

“Yes,” the girl said with her hands planted on her hips in a sassy stance. “But why do you call him Captain? His name is Devlin.”

Grace raised an eyebrow in her direction. “It’s a matter of respect. He has earned the title, so he deserves to be addressed as such.”

Maribeth shrugged and plopped down on a chair, swinging her feet. “What do we do now?” She suddenly sat up straight, and the glee shining in her eyes sparked a flame of worry in Devlin’s gut. “Do you have a talking board?”

Her question startled him into action, and he strode to Grace’s side, where he might assist her in navigating the room. “Where do you learn about such things, Poppet? I swear your knowledge scares the wits out of me sometimes.”

Grace giggled and began walking the perimeter of the room with his aid, touching things along the way. “Talking boards … such nonsense. Mediums with a genuine gift of sight do not require fanciful tools—or should I say
tricks
of the trade.”

Grace’s fingers paused over a handcrafted pipe sitting on the fireplace mantel. Devlin’s gaze was glued to her every move, as was Maribeth’s.

“The previous owner loved this pipe,” Grace said, turning it over in her hands. “He placed it in the same spot exactly after his evening smoke.”

She spoke with such confidence that the hairs on Devlin’s neck prickled in a most unusual manner.

“How do you know that?” he asked.

Biting her bottom lip, she paused to consider his question. “Ghosts’ memories are like footprints on the things they held dear. Sometimes those memories come to life in my mind’s eye.”

“You have to put it back,” Maribeth whispered, her eyes darting to the place on the mantel where it belonged. “He doesn’t like his pipe to be moved.”

A full chill ran up Devlin’s spine. Maribeth was a jokester, but something told him she was dead serious this time.

“Why do you say that?” he asked, kneeling before the girl and taking her trembling hand in his.

“It’s a game I play,” she confessed, staring at their joined hands. “It started as a jest. What if I moved a picture frame from this table to that? Only the first time I tried it, the frame was back to its original location the next day. So I tried it a second time but with the pipe. The moment I touched it, a vase flew across the room and shattered at my feet. I don’t like him.” She looked up, and a weak smile spread across her lips. “Can Grace banish
him
first?”

Devlin let out his breath. Why hadn’t Maribeth confided in him earlier on the matter? He’d had the impression she was fond of all the ghosts. “Most definitely. Don’t you agree, Grace?”

She nodded and returned the pipe to its home.

“She’s right, you know,” Grace said. “The owner doesn’t like his pipe moved, or anything else for that matter. These are all his prized possessions, and he isn’t happy to have visitors. It appears he’s making his feelings known.”

Maribeth sat upright and curled her feet under her bottom. “Have you always had the sight, Grace?”

For once, Devlin questioned whether he had failed in her upbringing. When he reclaimed his title, she would never find her place in society with such open curiosity.

Grace shook her head. “It came to me at the age of seven, after I was blinded. God does, indeed, work in mysterious ways.”

“Tell me how you lost your sight,” Maribeth said, oblivious to the impropriety of her request.

“I’m afraid it isn’t a story for young ears.” Grace hesitated, her hands twisting before her. “I shouldn’t care to upset you.”

Maribeth slashed her hand through the air. “Bother that! I’ve lived on a pirate ship. Got ten lashings of the whip, even, and not a single tear shed,” she boasted. “Would you like to feel the scars on my back?” She hopped to her feet but then seemed to rethink her offer. “I mean … you showed me your glass eyes, and all. You may feel the welts if you wish, or is that too scary?”

The horrified expression on Grace’s face confirmed she’d jumped to her own conclusions about which murdering scoundrel had doled out the ten lashings. A red-hot fury filled Devlin’s gut. What right did she have to malign his character that way? For Christ’s sake, Maribeth was a child. He might be an unforgiving bastard who doled out deserving punishments to adults without a modicum of remorse, but he didn’t mutilate children. Still, he read the intent on her face.

Grace was preparing to bolt, and he must put a stop to it. He desperately needed her to unearth the gatekeeper to Hell and negotiate the terms of his deal. Josephine eluded him … but Grace … she could
see
in ways that he could not. She would find the viperous bitch; he just knew it.

Devlin grasped Grace’s shoulders, and she flinched under his touch.

“It’s not what you think,” he said, holding her firmly in place. “Maribeth was a child slave in the coal mines, but the man in charge sold her for a handsome price to a ship’s captain bound for South Africa. We came upon them unexpectedly and took her on board. You must believe I would never hurt her.”

Grace held her hand to her mouth, as if she might retch. “Human trafficking? Please tell me … ” Her voice trailed off as she fought to utter the rest of her sentence.

“You needn’t fret,” Maribeth said, her tone matter-of-fact. “Devlin saved me.”

Grace took an audible breath. “I think I need to sit for a moment, if you please.”

He led her to the couch, and she sat on the edge.

“Can I offer you a drink?” he asked, taking in her pale countenance.

“No.” She pressed her fingertips to her temples. “Give me a moment to recover. That’s quite a story, Maribeth. You’ve suffered so horribly in your young life, and it saddens me. I’m afraid my story pales in comparison.”

Maribeth shrugged. “I should like to hear it all the same, if you don’t mind.”

“That is, if you feel up to it,” Devlin said, offering his encouragement. He’d never met a person who’d lost their sight from an eye infection, although he’d heard of several cases.

Grace worried at her bottom lip, and he thought she might beg off with a headache. However, she gathered herself and launched into her story, mesmerizing him with the soulless tone of her voice. The recollection must be painful, indeed, to require her to disengage so wholly from the event.

But when she described her attacker, how he’d smashed her face into the sand, when her voice faltered as she relayed the near drowning, all because she’d defended her mother’s honor, the floor fell from under Devlin and he was forced to sit back on the couch.