Devil’s Cove (Tortured Souls) by R.C. Matthews

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.”
    Her shoulders shook with laughter, and she feared he might reduce her to tears.
    He wrapped her tighter in his embrace. “I’m sorry, Grace. I didn’t mean to make you cry. You nearly took a palette knife to the chest. You’re entirely