Blackheart Page 12

  One truth she did find interesting of which Grayson said…blood demands enslavement. If she were to become with child at her seduction of Lochlanaire, would this be sufficient to thwart her husband’s slaughter? Blood demands enslavement. The blood of Lochlanaire’s child growing within her womb would surely insist that he not sacrifice her.

  Seditious, Siren strolled to her husband.

  One hand wrenching her to him, Lochlanaire’s arms ringed around her while he commanded the ship, both hands then cuffed the tiller. Siren stood in front of him, intoxicated by his body, which shielded her back. Oh, how she was desperate to writhe in his arms, her naked body loved to ecstasy. Siren’s fingers caressed his. Facing Lochlanaire, who attempted to keep his concentration engrained on the ship, Siren’s hand crept over his chest to his lightning-throbbing pulse. She lured his lips to hers, kissing him lustfully, uncaring that the world witnessed her passion for this pirate slayer.

  Lochlanaire freed one hand of the tiller and braced Siren against his body, aching to ravage her. “God, woman, do you bear any clue of what you’re doin’ to me?” he asked.

  Siren smiled. “I want you, Lochlanaire, regardless of the fact that you instill the power to have me slain. To my very soul, I lust for you.” Siren ducked under his arm and strutted to the stairs. On the landing, she gestured for him to come to her, tweaking one finger.

  Lochlanaire couldn’t harvest the strength to defy her. He ordered the man standing near to seize the helm. Bewitched, he followed Siren down the stairs to his cabin, aware that this untamed enchantress could be his fatal downfall.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Indecent Quest

  Once sheltered inside his quarters, Lochlanaire blistered to squelch his passion for Siren, but she glided to him, flipping aside his shirtfront, fingertips roaming the muscles of his chest. No knifing wrecked by his fingernails could defeat the lust. He kissed her lips, and Siren’s provocative body scorched his to famished. Lochlanaire eased the laces of her shirt wide. His lips fell to her throat, which arched for his seduction. It was in this heart-wrenching moment that Lochlanaire realized -- Siren was beginning to tangle him in her web. He fled to the window, frantic for sanity.

  “You will not refuse me, Lochlanaire. I’ll never allow you that victory,” Siren attested.

  “You’ll not rule me with this seduction, Siren,” he promised.

  Siren countered, “I do not want to rule you, Lochlanaire. I seek for you to love me obsessively. I covet your child.”

  Intrigued, Lochlanaire challenged, “Why?”

  “Blood delivers your absolute enslavement. Grayson said that blood rejects a king’s dominance. If I conceive your babe, you cannot let me die. You’ll never wield the power to crucify your own flesh and blood. Our marriage, then, cannot be contested by either king or god.”

  Lochlanaire feared Siren was correct. If indeed she did become with child, he wouldn’t permit her to be slain. Still, he battled to crush his lust. When she shifted to stand in confrontation, Lochlanaire knew he was nowhere near strong enough to deny her of this indecent pursuit.

  Her hand lowered to her shirt’s hem, and Siren drew the mantle over head, dropping it to the floor, baring her upper body. Lochlanaire moaned, eyes drifting over taunting breasts, skimming to her lips that Siren licked.

  “You’re killin’ me,” painfully vowed Lochlanaire.

  A wicked smile twitched her lips. Siren withdrew the breeches bracing her legs, stepping from them. Lowering her hand, she grasped his, and raised it to cup her breast. Siren’s eyes wafted closed.

  Lochlanaire’s craving for the battle was cursed in that blink of an eye. She stood here, seducing him, why continue the war? This is what he was starved for, this is what she demanded of him, why not surrender to the ecstasy? Lochlanaire shoved Siren against the cold window, his body baiting, lips possessive, savage.

  Siren clutched the hand of which King James II’s ring adorned and withdrew the signet off Lochlanaire’s pinky. He lifted his lips from hers. She tossed the ring to the desk behind Lochlanaire. His gaze questioned why. “This day, I am yours. You are mine, Lochlanaire. No king reigns over either of us.”

  Lochlanaire swept Siren into his arms and carried her to the bed. There he loosened his shirt and pitched it away, his breeches and boots followed. Between her parted legs, he lay, his lips sizzling the silken flesh of hers. His fingers slid from Siren’s peaked breast to her satiny hip. Lochlanaire raised her body for the impaling pierce of his manhood. Siren’s legs manacled his body as he seized hers, fiercely. Siren clenched his hair. The mass cascaded from Lochlanaire’s shoulders, tickling her chest; tendrils slithered with his rocking body. Siren shoved Lochlanaire upon his back and straddled him. She took full possession of his lust, feeling him swell deep within her. At the juncture of her legs, starlit splashes blazed. Siren flung her head backwards and groaned. Lightning splintered Lochlanaire, who moaned, drowning in his own intoxicating release.

  Sated, Siren draped his body, listening to Lochlanaire’s heart pound in his chest. He closed his eyes, aware of the betrayal if she should receive her longing for his seed to root in her womb. Jarred to make his escape, Lochlanaire was compelled to relent. Siren pushed him backward, refusing to free him from her body. She began to rock, seducing his swelling manhood to take her again. Lochlanaire couldn’t resist, so he submitted to the temptress’ sweet enslavement. His lips suckled her breasts, tugging a moan from her. Siren’s body moved quicker and in moments, he pierced hard into her flesh, flinging her beneath him, spilling his seed.

  Lochlanaire toppled upon Siren’s flesh. “God, you are my fatal end,” he whispered.

  Siren grinned, drawing her fingers through his disheveled hair. All the while, a voice echoed in her mind, “Blood demands enslavement. Lochlanaire, you’re my captive.”

  After ravaging her flesh two more times, Lochlanaire drifted asleep. Siren withdrew of his sweaty body, praying for a babe to fill her barren womb this day. Aware that it could take time for her to become with child, she intended to bed this man as often as Lochlanaire couldn’t withstand her seduction. Kissing his lips of which did not respond to her touch, Siren grabbed Lochlanaire’s shirt. She glided to the window; the lengthy mantle enveloped her flesh. With twilight swaddling the ship, she murmured, “Please, God, if you are to spare my life, let Lochlanaire’s child grow in my womb. Our blood must unite. I beg for a reprieve of death.” Siren fondled her slender stomach and turned toward where her husband slept. Tears trickled from saddened eyes, but she swiped them away, striding to the bed. Siren lay beside her captor, her hand wafted along Lochlanaire’s chest. Her lips teased his. “There is no sleep for the wicked, Lochlanaire,” she whispered.

  Waking, Lochlanaire replied, “Siren…damn…this is lunacy.”

  Siren nuzzled his cheek and kissed his lips, her fingers roved toward his stomach.

  Lochlanaire captured her arm. “You’ll kill me if you continue the agony.”

  “What a sweet, sultry death.”

  He couldn’t agree more. Lochlanaire denied her the victory, however. Sitting, he throttled his breeches, and tugged them on, withdrawing to the window where he gathered a fragment of sanity.

  A knock on the door disturbed the tenuous silence. Lochlanaire walked to the cabin threshold. A crewman appeared amid the passage, “Aye?”

  “Grayson seeks word, Captain.”

  Lochlanaire was grateful for the distraction. “I return to the helm posthaste.” Shutting the door, he recovered his boots and sat on the bed where Siren languished, wearing only his tousled shirt. Lochlanaire wrestled for his composure. He yanked on each boot, ignoring the temptress.

  “You’re not triumphant, Lochlanaire.”

  “That, Siren, is gravely clear.” He glanced upon the beauty who graced his bed and regretted the infraction, for he couldn’t resist. His lips captured hers, he cupped Siren’s breast through the sheer silk of his shirt. “God, have mercy,” he murmured, divesting himself of her em
brace. Lochlanaire bolted to the shelf where his shirts lay piled. He removed one. Never looking at Siren again, he trounced the door’s threshold; otherwise, he would never wage a step.

  “Mercy has abandoned you, Lochlanaire,” Siren murmured.

  Sleep finally consumed her, but haunting Siren’s mind a depraved voice resonated, “Blood demands enslavement…our blood shall mingle as one, Lochlanaire. Resistance of me is futile.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Blood Tarnishes

  With moon rise, Grayson’s exploration under the use of the spyglass delivered a ship’s lanterns grimacing in the distance. Lochlanaire primed cannons on the approaching frigate until, at Satan’s Victory’s shouted stand and deliver, cannon fire was met with cannon fire but not in a hunt for death and destruction, no, it was an ignited welcome. The vessel was the Ranger, an ally of the brothers Blackheart. Sincere to their alliance, the captain of the ship did not command a shot fired by which to wound Satan’s Victory.

  ***

  Below stairs, while the ships stood defiantly, not yet aware if friend or foe were in the offing, Siren slept, unaware of any treachery ‘til cannon fire bolted her awake. Stricken of sleep, she dressed, retrieved the saber that swayed across the wall and raced for the door. Here, she found no sentry brandishing pistol or sword. Siren ran the corridor’s length, boarding the ship’s main deck, peering at the ship that prowled, akin to a breath-stealing leviathan. She rushed to the stairs and ascended them to the helm.

  To Lochlanaire, Siren scurried. “Who are they?”

  Grayson gravely answered, “They are allies.”

  “Allies?” Siren’s glance sought Lochlanaire. He did not appear convinced that the ship employed their allegiance, for he cuffed the tiller, his knuckles bloodless.

  “Captain Lacy has never been a rival, though the ship is a pirate,” Grayson proudly claimed.

  Lacy? Why did Lochlanaire upon hearing the captain’s name trust that something about it is of gravest importance? Bludgeoning his memory, he could arise no cause for the name to be memorable. This circumstance, however, was hardly unusual, for the voids were still nowhere near filled. He sought Grayson for an explanation, “The name Lacy. It is familiar, why?”

  “You and Captain Lacy possess a bit of a past. I’ll allow the captain to remind, Lock.” Grayson smiled and soldiered to the ship’s port flank. The Ranger tossed grappling hooks, along with those off Satan’s Victory, chaining the ships together as one vessel.

  Captain Aynore Lacy stood tall aboard the quarterdeck rim of her ship, holding a rigging rope, and then the beauty jumped aboard Satan’s Victory, striding to where Lochlanaire, Grayson and a mysterious woman waited. Skirting around the unknown woman, Aynore scampered to challenge Lochlanaire directly. She slapped him across the cheek.

  Lochlanaire’s head jerked sideways. Before she could cuff him again, he grabbed her wrist.

  Aynore jerked on her arm but failed to free the limb. “Blackguard thief. Release me, you bloody blighter,” she seethed, her straight teeth gnarled.

  “I’ll unshackle you, Captain, when you explain your unwarranted brutality.”

  Aynore roared at Lochlanaire, “Explain? You know precisely why you deserve my wrath!”

  Grayson leered throughout Aynore’s conflict with his disgruntled brother. Finally, he interjected, “I fear, Captain Lacy, Lochlanaire secrets no memory of any transgression he may have engaged against you.”

  Her freezing blue eyes pitched toward Grayson and Aynore’s waist length blond hair streaked across her perfect oval face; angrily she brushed it aside. “Such is a ridiculous falsehood, Grayson.”

  Grayson shrugged. “Nevertheless, Lochlanaire’s memory is barren of you or any tryst he may have incited in the past.”

  The captain’s sea blue eyes propelled to Lochlanaire, suspicious. “Is what he professes true?”

  Lochlanaire liberated Aynore’s fisted hand. “Aye, my memory is frozen to my reach.”

  Aynore twirled away, then she studied Lochlanaire, her head cocked sideways. “You do not remember pillagin’ the plunder we seized from a shipwreck or your deceitful beddin’ of me so you could seduce me into trustin’ you for the purpose of your wicked thievery?”

  Lochlanaire’s cheeks flushed. “No, Captain. I do not remember anything of what you’ve described.”

  Aynore’s confused glance explored Grayson’s.

  Grayson reiterated, “So I said, Lochlanaire’s memory has been shackled in chasms of darkness.”

  “How is this possible?”

  Lochlanaire could see that Siren was curious about his lapse in memory, too. She relinquished the saber beside the ship’s helm. He could see jealousy ignite in her. Approaching Aynore, Lochlanaire clasped her arm and he ushered her to the ship’s edge. “Perhaps we ought to discuss the situation amid a private chamber.”

  Aynore nodded her agreement.

  Siren rashly declared, “Pardon my rudeness, Captain Lacy. Lochlanaire’s present memory appears faulty as well. He’s forgotten to introduce me. My name is Siren Rain Blackheart. Lochlanaire is married to me.”

  Aynore laughed. “You married, Lochlanaire? How absurd.”

  Lochlanaire understood. Apparently this is the consensus heralded by every woman who was acquainted with him as a scoundrel.

  Piqued, Siren chastised, “Nevertheless, Lochlanaire is wedded to me. Anything you seek to address ought to be said with me in attendance.”

  Lochlanaire wolfishly spun on Siren, baring his viperous teeth. “You do not reign over me, Siren. You forget your position aboard this ship, which is prisoner, not sovereign queen!”

  Fury spiked to the depths of her soul. Siren twirled on her heel and stomped down the stairs. She cut between the ranks of startled crewmen and darted inside the ship’s inner sanctum, disappearing before everyone’s sight.

  “Damn it to bloody Hell,” Lochlanaire ranted, having observed his wife’s escape. He gazed at Aynore, composed. “Pardon me, Captain Lacy. I scurry in a hunt for my captive wife.” Lochlanaire loped down the stairs and left Grayson to explain the plight he wallowed amongst.

  Grayson boyishly smirked.

  Trampling amid the ship in a downward spiral, Siren descended labyrinths of lantern-frothy stairs until she reached the vessel’s bottom, halting outside its cargo hold. Oh, Siren was aware that her husband would simply trail her so she decided to not be such easily captured prey. She searched for a suitable sanctuary by which to hide, but unable to unmask a faultless haven, she retreated into a refuge within which she heard a cow scuffle and chickens cackling. Intrigued, she approached the milking cow that pawed its cage and she rubbed its chin. The animal’s innocent brown eyes hazed. Squawking chickens bustled in the opposite direction of her footfalls. Seeing a black cat slinking along the edge, Siren sat on the floor and cooed for the cat to come to her. The feline crept forward, suspicious at first, then curled up in her lap, lavishing in glory, for her fingers slithered down its satiny fur.

  Lochlanaire heaved to a standstill near the cargo door, frozen still by Siren, who soothed the untamed feline. There he leaned, arms folded across his chest. He admired the feral goddess. “A temptress of animals and men, I see.”

  Siren struggled to not be seduced by him, regaling her attention upon the purring cat. “Why are you here, Lochlanaire? It is quite obvious -- you christen me distasteful.”

  He shoved off from the doorway and sauntered toward her. “I find you absolutely delectable, Siren. However, your insidious desire to bind me to you is distasteful.”

  “It is my only salvation.” Her sober eyes faltered down the cat’s black fur. “Is being wedded to me horrific, Lochlanaire?”

  He slouched against an intricately carved column, his right arm hugging the wood. “No, it is not horrific. However, because of the circumstances surrounding our forced union, I cannot say it’s just for either of us. Can you?”

  The cat scampered in want of mice to chase. Siren stood. “Would remaining married to
me be such a heartache that you could not suffer the agony?” She strolled, halting footfalls shy of his reach.

  “I’ll admit…being wedded to such a beauty as you is no heartache. Devastating, aye, definitely that, but no heartache. However, with your prisoner status and my deposition bequeathed to King William, our plight is undeniably flawed.”

  “Flawed, yes, but not so dreadfully that our quandary cannot be remedied should you wish for it, Lochlanaire. You’ve merely to insist that you’ll not leave me to be unjustly slain. No rational man would expect you to allow your wife to die, surely. If you swear to King William that I’m no threat to his wretched kingdom, since I lay in your arms, perhaps he’ll absolve my heresy.”

  Lochlanaire chuckled. “Come, I return to Captain Lacy. I bear questions for her.”

  Jealousy tinged Siren’s heart. “I would rather not confront Captain Lacy.”

  Lochlanaire forced her to acquiesce, for he strolled to the threshold, her in tow. “As I’ve stated, Siren, these people are portholes for which to open my fractured past. I must salvage the answers to who I am. Can you see I’ll never unbury my future should I not unlock what I’ve done in the past?”

  Siren strained to remove her arm from his command but failed. “And if you discover that your past depicts horrendous crimes which are much worse than those you’ve presently gained, what shall you do?”