Blackheart Page 10

  Together they cut through the mass of chattering, drinking people congregated amongst the overburdened town. Lochlanaire distinguished those men who clasped pistols slung in sashes buckled across their chests. His he’d buckled along his hip, a knife as well disguised in his boot’s inner scabbard. He was wary for trouble. They strolled toward where musical instruments lilted in the distance. He and Siren nodded to those couples who danced under the angelic sheen of moon light. Lochlanaire swept her within his arms but kept Siren at an obvious distance. They danced the length of the wooden floor of which was erected for just this extraordinary occasion. He couldn’t say where he’d learned to dance, however, Lochlanaire could honestly say he was proficient.

  A delicate tap on her shoulder announced someone cutting in. Siren came face-to-face with the sneering whore who so rudely snubbed her earlier in the day. Claressa now wore a low-dipping dress that lewdly depicted her breasts and hourglass form, hand-held mask clutched. When Lochlanaire unleashed her hand, Siren considered herself compelled to surrender him to the harlot. Siren trampled to the dance floor’s edge, her arms folded over her chest, she stared at Lochlanaire. He ignored her. Elegantly, he danced in the embrace of the immoral woman.

  “Do you remember us dancin’ on such a blissful eve?” Claressa asked, while they glided to the musicians and back.

  “My memory remains forsaken,” admitted Lochlanaire.

  “I shall remind…we danced the night, afterward you carried me to my bedchamber, where you loved me for the eve’s remainder ‘til dawn. Does this regain a memory?”

  Lochlanaire explored what fractured memories he’d gathered, piqued. “I proclaim regret, my lady. Nothin’ springs to mind.”

  “Perhaps this conjures a remembrance of our lusty nights.” Yanking the lacy shoulder of her gown, Claressa partially bared her rounded breast, revealing the birthmark that tarnished above her left nipple, it a clover’s shape. “Many a man has found fortune in my arms, Lochlanaire. You were one.”

  Lochlanaire heaved to standstill, smitten by the birthmark, and for a wisp of a moment; he relived the hallucination of him lying beneath this woman, she naked to his eyes, her body writhing atop his. The vision shattered. “For a moment, I beheld a phantom. It is lost.”

  Saddened, Claressa adjusted the gown’s shoulder. “I suppose we shall have to fashion fresh memories.” She slyly smiled.

  Lochlanaire was about to reject her, but Siren tapped Claressa’s shoulder, demanding that they halt their dance, for she’d witnessed Claressa’s bold baring of her breast and heard what she said to Lochlanaire. “The only memories of any woman’s body this man will fashion in the future will be at the behest of him loving me,” Siren growled, jealous.

  Claressa liberated Lochlanaire, huffed, lurched her head high and stomped off, stilling upon the dance floor’s rim. She glowered at Siren’s back.

  Siren threaded Lochlanaire’s fingers and he ensnared her in his bracing arm. “It was unnecessary to cause a fuss.” He chided, “I merely danced with her.”

  “Yes, but you did not you rebuke her for her indecency as chivalry necessitates. I heard what she said, Lochlanaire. You did not appear disgusted by what Claressa clearly offered you.”

  “The flirtation was bloody innocent. I simply sought to see if I could reclaim a memory. Care for it or not, Siren, I did possess a life prior to you, a life I cannot conjure to mind, yes. But there were others…obviously. These people are specters of my past. You cannot wish such away. That woman is acquainted with me and perhaps could have induced a remembrance that may have bridged the chasm to all the others which are exiled,” angrily he reprimanded.

  “Are you willing to lie in Claressa’s bed in order to stir those memories, Lochlanaire?”

  He stalled their dance in the middle of the floor and chastised, “You may consider us wed in a chaste union where I belong to only you, but I am not yoking myself to that morality, Siren. I will do whatever I must to retrieve my past.”

  “And bedding that immoral hag is something you’re prepared to do whether you hurt me in the doing…no matter that you took me for wife.” She reminded, “You spoke vows to me, Lochlanaire. You took my virginity. Is this meaningless? Am I so paltry that you can ravish me, and then writhe in the arms of a woman you know is an unfaithful strumpet?”

  Lochlanaire pitched Siren’s hand away and stomped off the dance floor in the direction of the wine casks. He choked a goblet and drank, admonishing his infuriated wife from afar.

  While she stood on the dance floor, those surrounding promenaded. Siren warred to squelch her fury. A knightly champion appeared before her feet. He was tall, lithely muscled, and wearing a blond wig, thus disguising his true hair color. Gray-eyed and handsome, he momentarily removed his mask. Bowing, he introduced himself, “My name is Wolf Larnon, the Earl of Lancer. I request a dance, my lady. You’ve been deprived of your chaperone, so grievous a creature malicious for abandoning you without chivalry.” He smiled his teeth perfectly white.

  Smiling beautifully, Siren introduced herself, curtsied, and accepted the hand he graciously offered, his other wafted around her waist. “The Earl of Lancer? What is a British earl doing walking a pirate-infested island, my lord?”

  Wolf glanced toward Lochlanaire but not so obvious as to ignite his curiosity. “I admit to being in a hunt, for nothing which ought to concern you, my lady. But woefully, our ship was struck by a most unfortunate gale, one mast fell, shattered in the storm. We were drawn to this isle of ill repute, needful of repairs. And yourself…where do you sail?”

  Siren became suspicious of his question, and he seemed oddly familiar. “We journey to the Americas…I meet my sister.”

  ‘Interesting’, Wolf thought. “Ah, a loving family reunion to forthwith be enjoyed by all in hearty celebration. If I may be bold, the man you were so exquisitely dancing in the arms of is…?”

  “My husband, Lochlanaire.”

  Ah, yes, this seductress is the wife of Lochlanaire. How intriguing, fortune sincerely reigned upon him. Wolf wondered, “It is mysterious that he would discard a bewitching creature such as you amidst the dance to be frightfully swallowed by lawless brigands.”

  Siren mused to herself that she was never without Lochlanaire’s attendance, but to Wolf she confessed, “He cares little for me. All Lochlanaire cares about is his reward and his sullied past,” she admonished, her glare reprimanding Lochlanaire.

  “His reward and past?” One dark eyebrow arched.

  Siren decided her captive stature was shrewdly left unspoken. “Lochlanaire’s memory is blackened. He only remembers splinters of his past. That woman, who danced with him, he once knew her, so she indelicately claims.” Siren left out Claressa’s defaming stature, although she believed any man would be aware of it upon seeing her, because of the harlot’s shameful dress.

  “Tragic. I imagine it must be quite a grave discomfort to not know who or what you are, or what you’ve reaped, good or sinister.” Wolf earlier questioned a number of the men drinking inside the tavern that day, those pirates off Satan’s Victory, and he discovered Lochlanaire’s supposed memory loss. He wondered now if Lochlanaire remembered the day on which he and Elias Larnon, Wolf’s brother, rendezvoused for their duel, with Lochlanaire massacring Elias over two years ago. But it did not matter. With his revenge achieved after swearing that Lochlanaire had unfairly fought Elias, Wolf received his desire, and Lochlanaire was imprisoned for his evil in the dungeons of Heathgate Castle, christened insane. Alas, recklessly that foppish king, William, released him. Wolf could not discover why, but what is important is that Lochlanaire acquire the vengeance his daring slaughter of Elias justified. Wolf swore to witness Lochlanaire’s end. In finding Lochlanaire’s pardon from his prison sentence, Wolf purchased a ship’s silence and hoisted sail. Having spoken to a herald who labored at the castle where Lochlanaire was lately prisoner, he was told that Lochlanaire sailed, beholding all haste, for he believed Virginia. However, the herald couldn’t be su
re, nothing else could he profess. Wolf trailed, days behind Satan’s Victory. It was pure fortune which ferried him to this isle of sin at the absolute moment Lochlanaire’s ship had anchored in the cove. He’d bide his time, then conjure a spell by which to bleed.

  The music faded. Lochlanaire challenged the rogue dancing between Siren’s arms. He glared at him.

  Wolf bowed and bid a skittish retreat, nary a word spoken.

  Lochlanaire questioned the man’s rude indiscretion and somewhere drowned in his mind he thought he should recognize the libertine. Instead, he shrugged off the warnings granted him and flicked his attention to Siren. She twirled on her heel, before he could speak, and approached the wine casks.

  Lochlanaire shrugged and was about to abandon the floor but a melody the musicians played roused biting memory. He froze. The dancing couples surrounding him bolted Lochlanaire to envision the phantasm of a masquerade that took place in a British palace long ago. He stared into his own eyes, which he saw reflected within a mirror outside a white marble ballroom’s door. Lochlanaire tied the red wisp of cloth circling his head, noting his ruby silk shirt, and the black mask disguising his face. His fingers lowered to the pistol where it hovered in a sash, which crossed his chest. Lochlanaire tugged himself from the mirror and crossed the ballroom. He eased along the mass of ornately garbed, gleeful people. The throng seemingly slowed before his scouring gaze. He advanced on the man dancing in the arms of the ebony-haired beauty he hunted. Lochlanaire tapped upon the man’s shoulder; cutting in for a dance. He bowed and was left to the smiling, curtsying woman. Outside the palace, cannon fire blared, enchanting the crowd to the eve’s celebration. As the woman lifted her fingers so she could lace his, a shot rang out but the sound was muffled by bunched cloth that her slayer positioned over the barrel’s end. The pistol ball jarred her heart. Lochlanaire holstered the smoking pistol ere anyone could witness the shooting and cradled the crumpling lady in his arms. She stammered to speak; her eyes began to fog while they captivated her assassin’s. He conducted her to a settee, feigning to those who took notice that she’d merely fainted under the eve’s excitement. Lochlanaire left her there to die; the woman’s blood faded into his shirt. He cloistered himself among the crowd, a scarcely seen, bloodthirsty specter…

  Upon the isle of Pirate Quay, swarmed by all those dancing couples, Lochlanaire recognized those ebony eyes of the woman he’d slain in front of hundreds of unsuspecting witnesses. Her name was Emerald Aiden Rain, she’s King James II’s mistress, a woman he’d obviously been hired to hunt. ‘My God,’ Lochlanaire muttered to himself, standing there, returned to the island, the ghost of Emerald’s murder vanished to his haggard mind. ‘I executed Siren’s mother.’

  Lochlanaire felt sickened to the depths of his soul. He stomped off the dance floor and trussed Siren’s wrist, yanking her from the masquerade. To the ship, he hurried, never speaking a word to her as he rowed the longboat. Aboard Satan’s Victory, he rushed to his cabin. Once inside, he dragged Siren to the bed, locking the iron around her wrist. Lochlanaire spun away; ignoring Siren’s questioning eyes, eyes that so devastatingly mirror her mother’s in exquisiteness.

  He ran.

  Slamming the cabin door, he locked it. Lochlanaire fell backward against the entry. His fingernails gashed his palms so brutally they bled.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Zore

  It was under the behest of a sorcerer’s twist of fate that Zore anchored alongside the very island where his brother’s ship swam, preparing to sail on its westerly venture. Hidden behind the island, where few knew of its presence, the Vengeance lay in wait. Only those who were highly compensated were aware of him skulking among the shadows. While the ship graced the harbor, a mast was restored, all the ship’s sails refurbished with newly sewn sheets, owing to Lochlanaire’s depraved cutting of his on the night that he’d boarded the Vengeance and stole Zore’s treasure -- the lovely Siren Rain.

  In scattering spies within Pirate Quay’s hamlet, Zore learned an immense lot of information with their return to his ship. His brother, Lochlanaire, he was told, kidnapped Siren for her eventual return to England, where he plotted to offer the lass to King William for ransom. The woman, Zore was enlightened, is the child bred during an illicit affair King James II had with Siren’s mother. Siren’s death would surely relinquish to a blood-hungry king full reign over his country, therefore gifting to Lochlanaire an exquisite pardon from his crimes of which Lochlanaire was unfairly jailed. Unfortunately, King William did not know… there’s another woman menacing his monarchy…Siren Rain’s sister, a woman who is masked somewhere distant of anyone’s reach. Zore was displeased that his pirate spies were unable to unbury the sister’s whereabouts, only informed that Lochlanaire hunted her somewhere near the Spanish Main. But that was unimportant. Zore would simply derive a wicked cat and mouse game, shadowing his brother along Satan’s Victory’s course, unseen, unsuspected.

  Zore deduced, months ago, that Siren was somehow linked to King James II. He’d recognized the ruby signet she wore as the rare jewel belonging to the ousted nobleman. Having sought a haven where he presumed that he could garner the truth, at Serpent Isle, he’d forced Siren to confront her accuser, the man who muttered while drunken that he could bear witness of a woman wanted for death by King William’s declaration. He, indeed, confirmed Zore’s suspicions. The accuser, coincidentally, was the painter of the portrait King William had commissioned of Siren Rain, which was later surrendered to Lochlanaire with his release from prison. This gent long ago was a servant in the cottage that King James II purchased for his mistress, Emerald Aiden.

  Now, with his ebony eyes scalding the antics of which proceeded in the hamlet that night at the masquerade, Zore took shelter behind a tree. He witnessed Lochlanaire’s displeasure with Siren, of whom he was told earlier that his brother married under the deceit gypsies waged. Of course, Zore couldn’t trust this tale, but upon listening to those who roamed about the masquerade, he discovered his spies indeed were correct. Siren and Lochlanaire had wed, although, Lochlanaire clearly was displeased, for Siren insisted that they were a truly wedded couple. Oh, what wizardry fate dealt against Lochlanaire. He must be wrenched apart, for he must surrender his seductress wife to a cruel king for the purpose of savagery.

  Zore considered. Perhaps he could alleviate Lochlanaire of his terrible burden, seizing in chains his wife and her sister. Thereafter, he would gift these two women to King William himself, retrieving handsome reward for his enormous troubles.

  Alas, there is the annoyance of Siren’s father’s plight to resolve. Zore, in truth, however, cared little about the charlatan Rain owed a vast fortune to. The man owed would probably slay Rain for not granting to him his daughter as compensation for Rain’s gaming losses. Zore’s conscious, he had to admit, remained untarnished. He’d merely confess that he was unable to track the lass and be done with the quest. He’d enfold a hearty treasure in his hands, discard Siren and her sister to their deaths, and then he’d see to Lochlanaire -- his demise wouldn’t be painless.

  Monstrous tortures blackened Zore’s mind. He snickered, backing amongst the secluding forest.

  Snaking toward where his ship eerily lay anchored, Zore Blackheart deviously laughed.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Confessions of an Assassin

  Lochlanaire trudged the ship’s lantern-misted deck to the stem where the carved figurehead of the skeletal reaper, Satan, wielded his arched sickle. He struggled for breath, desperate to reject the portrait of Emerald Aiden Rain as she’d died in his arms, pistol shot by his own hand at the masquerade.

  Guilt rankled.

  Grayson advanced on his brother. The two stood side by side. “What troubles, brother?”

  Lochlanaire cringed the ship’s brass railing. “At the masquerade, this eve, I was furnished a memory…it was regained from years ago. I remembered standing outside a ballroom, surrounded by a grand British palace where another masquerade occurred in celebration. I
peered into a mirror prior to entering the ballroom and situated my disguising mask. I was dressed as a pirate, ironically. Through the ballroom, I stepped, and threaded the crowd who danced and chatted, some supping, others partaking of drink. I saw the hunted and approached the couple who danced. Gently, I tapped the man’s shoulder, requesting a dance with his black-haired woman. She grasped a hand-held mask. It beheld the beauty of peacock feathers, so her face was completely revealed, I knew, therefore, she was the woman I pursued. At midnight precise, a celebration was to take place under the blaring of fired cannon -- such was to be the spark for me to engage so to disguise the pistol’s retort. Her escort removed to sight, my prey curtsied to me. Before she accepted my hand to resume the dance, I crimped the trigger on the pistol at exactly the second the cannons blasted. No one heard the shot. The woman crumpled in my arms. I swept her off the floor; my eyes assured the attendants all was ordinary. I feigned that she’d merely swooned with eve’s excitement. Upon a settee, I laid her down. She surrendered her fight to survive. I faded amongst the fold.”

  “You killed a woman? Lochlanaire it is the only rule you’ve never broken, or so I presumed. I must say…I hardly trust what you’ve attested.”

  Lochlanaire drew his mournful eyes to the darkness of the sea. “There’s more…the slain woman was King James II’s mistress. Her name was Emerald Aiden Rain, she’s Siren Rain’s mother,” he droned.

  Grayson lost his breath. “You assassinated Siren’s mother? Does the lass know?”

  Lochlanaire gravely admitted, “I did not acquire the knowledge myself until the memory struck me at the mask this eve. The music played…it spurred the remembrance to rise. I witnessed the depravity, Grayson. I relived every moment. I am the slayer of Siren’s mother, and, no, I’ve not told her.”