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  She took a stride to the canopy and chastised, “My condition does not impair me in ability or judgment, Lochlanaire. You cannot sequester yourself forever. You must face your fears.”

  “Fears are not what I run from, Siren.” Lochlanaire’s glance slid down her body, gliding from her ebony hair that she’d tethered in a cut leather ribbon to the midnight blue silk shirt she’d left untied at her throat. His gaze wafted over her silhouetted breasts to the linen breeches Siren wore, stilling on the boots cuffing just below her knees. “Lord, have mercy on my plundered soul,” he whispered.

  “You insist that every man aboard your ship avail of a sword for which to batter you to the cusp of death so to crush your lust for me. Is this what you intend with your fights, Lochlanaire?” Siren reprimanded.

  “And in the doing, I spare your life and the child’s.”

  “Our lives are not threatened by you or your passion for me, Lochlanaire. My nearly losing the babe was because of the murderer and the distress he bridled me under. You have little to fear by touching me.”

  “Nevertheless…” Lochlanaire mischievously smirked.

  Siren interrupted, “Nevertheless, you propose to continue your treachery.”

  Lochlanaire strode to the far edge of the canopy and gathered the rope dangling there. Commandingly, he gestured for Siren to come to him.

  Siren threaded her arms around his neck as he stepped off the wood. Twirling, Lochlanaire and Siren eventually lowered aboard the main deck with a frail thump. Abruptly, Lochlanaire withdrew from her arms and advanced on his abandoned sword. He beckoned another sparing crusader forward. Lochlanaire and the pirate were twisted in a leviathan war. Siren observed the progress of the man Lochlanaire parried against, aware that the brigand could be slain if her husband continued in his ferocious quest.

  The pirate staggered backward. His sword was dispatched and flew in her direction. Siren caught the weapon’s blade under her boot’s toe. She seized the weapon. She sashayed to the pirate, who strained to breathe. Siren dismissed him and challenged her husband in the pirate’s vacated position.

  “You’ll only be wounded if you wield that sword, Siren.” Lochlanaire’s weapon’s tip dipped toward hers. “I cannot assure that I’ll not liberate my bloodlust on you.”

  Siren shrugged. “Lust, bloodlust. Do I appear distraught, Lochlanaire? No? Then deliver your wrath, for it is I that you seek to conquer with your tyranny.”

  Lochlanaire coveted to see her as only a pirate holding a sword, but the vision of loveliness who whooshed her blade to slam against his was too heart-wrenching. He faltered...gravely. His sword was thrown backward under Siren’s strike. She pondered him, while he recovered without losing the blade. They skulked in a circle. Lochlanaire bashed Siren’s weapon. The blade ripped from her grasp, lacerated the mainmast and deeply pierced the wood. Siren withdrew the knife concealed by her boot’s inner scabbard, pointed it aloft and advanced on Lochlanaire. Before he could deflect, Siren swiped the knife across his throat and declared, “I believe I’ve proven myself, Lochlanaire. I’m not weakened by my condition and will never permit you to silence your craving for me.” Siren glided to where her sword impaled the mainmast. She tugged the weapon loose and tossed the sword to Lochlanaire. He easily caught the blade. His seductress wife roved to the passage that would escort her to the captain’s quarters. She disappeared.

  Lochlanaire, of course, knew an invitation in hearing one. Discarding chivalry, Lochlanaire dropped the swords and hurried to his quarters, throwing open the door. Whatever he intended to say was immediately silenced from his lips. Jerked to a standstill upon the door’s threshold, Lochlanaire’s rankled gaze caressed the gorgeously curved body of the naked goddess who emblazoned his bed. Siren’s fingers thrummed the feather mattress. Her hourglass body was poised in such a poisonous seduction that he wouldn’t discover the strength to refuse her. “You impugn my honor.”

  “Damn your bloody honor to Hell, Lochlanaire. Take what’s surrendered to you.”

  Devastated by her skill to seduce, Lochlanaire rushed across the cabin. Ravenously he kissed Siren, his fingers scalding her body, igniting his lust and hers. His lips suckled her breasts. Siren arched her body, frantic for him to capture what both of them ached for, but his tortures continued. Siren nearly screamed, for he blazed a trail down her stomach to the juncture between her legs, and speared her there, drawing her to madness. Lochlanaire removed his clothes and his manhood raided her body, impaling inward and outward, firing them both to fracture.

  Late in the night, hours after his bedding of her, Siren listened to her husband’s crazed rants. Lochlanaire writhed on the bed, entrenched within nightmares. Siren was distraught by what he muttered in his sleep. When he lunged awake, Siren dawdled at his side, her head propped up by one hand.

  “What?”

  Her eyebrow jumped with his question. “You murmur while asleep.”

  Lochlanaire masked his distress at what he might have said. “And?” Standing, he cringed the wine decanter and poured a goblet full, offering her one. Siren refused the drink, her glance drifting over his godly sensual body that he never concealed. Moon light gloriously fondled his flesh.

  “You said something about an audience with King James, and that you accepted His Majesty’s rule and would attend the mask with his ordaining. You muttered about cannon fire, which was to be fired at midnight precise. Such would veil your destruction,” Siren portrayed.

  “I cannot imagine what the dream suggests.” Lochlanaire’s coy eyes fell.

  “Come, Lochlanaire, admit it, the mask you spoke of is the masquerade you attended in order to slay my mother. I heard you say the woman’s name that you were sworn to execute. Emerald. It is a rare name and you described her flawlessly.”

  Lochlanaire downed his wine. “I do not remember what you’re describing, Siren. Yes, I had an audience with King James. I remember that much, but I do not brandish a memory of what was spoken between us.”

  “Your nightmare suggests otherwise,” Siren attested.

  “Damn it to Hell!” Setting the chalice aside, Lochlanaire stomped to her. “You’re saying that I assassinated your mother at an alliance I invoked with King James, her lover? Does that witchery seem outlandish to you? Why would he seek her death?”

  “Perhaps she threatened his kingdom. You’re the king’s assassin…what reason would he require for his lover’s death other than to secret her existence or to unburden himself of the encumbrance she’d become to him as he’d tired of her?”

  “What of his children, Siren? Why not have me chase the both of you if he wanted to free his kingdom from all shame?” Lochlanaire suggested, one eyebrow flicking.

  “Perhaps, he couldn’t kill innocents or owing to our age we were no burden to him, for we had not aged sufficiently to exact reward for our disinheritance of the British crown. He may have thought to raise us as his own but mother rejected him, keeping us distant of his reach ere he could obtain guardianship over us.” Siren shrugged.

  “Your sister said that your mother danced with a man secretly on the night of the masquerade. If it was King James, so we assume, why dance with her clandestinely?” Lochlanaire inquired.

  “To throw her off guard, enticing her to accept that nothing bizarre existed between them so you could shoot her without burden. She’d be unwary.”

  Lochlanaire must admit it sounded plausible. “I can neither agree nor disagree, Siren. The memory remains clouded. I’m sorrowful.” He gathered his clothing and dressed. He wrenched his boots on and sat upon the bed beside his dejected wife.

  “I understand, Lochlanaire.” Her fingers cupped his back, feeling the muscles twitch under her temptation.

  “Do you, Siren?”

  “Yes. I cannot christen you guilty for your lack of memory.”

  “No, Siren, I suppose you cannot convict me for that dishonor. However, you may sentence me guilty for all my other grievances. I am a murderer, damned and doomed to Hell, a convict
ed titan who will never refute the crime. I’m clearly guilty of all sorts of titanic slaughters. Even my bloody dreams depict the depravity.” Lochlanaire fled to the door, never allowing her to object to his self-demoralizing declaration.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Legend

  The majestic ship plunged toward the eerie island heralded Legend beneath a waning sun, followed by the Ranger, the vessel swept through Satan’s Victory’s frothy wake. Siren had no further contact with the death dealer who secluded himself aboard the ship, despaired by Thorn’s silence. Lochlanaire resumed his isolation, only speaking to her after another crewman was hanged across a lesser mast’s yardarm, his body surging aflame, violating Lochlanaire that he’d warranted this death sentence against some unsuspecting soul in his past. Lochlanaire itched to trust that his slaughters were justified by his knightly accord afforded to the king. Nevertheless, he felt guilty, for if he’d never inflicted these executions, the present crewmen wouldn’t be webbed in a war to the death of which only the satanic faction waged and they were pawns of lunacy.

  Stalled, the ship’s anchor lanced whirling waves. Lochlanaire speculated on the ghostly island, which emerged before him dubbed Legend and wondered at its craggy rocks. Dead trees bearing grizzled, skeletal fingers clawed for a cloudless sky. He ordered a longboat lowered and Lochlanaire abandoned the tiller. He advanced on Grayson, who awaited him upon the main deck.

  “Do we go ashore?” Siren royally spoke, having paused near the quarterdeck stairs’ foot. From there, she observed her brooding husband.

  Dressed in a dark blue silk shirt untied at the throat and body-bracing sable linen breeches, black boots clasped to the thighs, Siren seduced Lochlanaire to starved for her. He silenced his obsession and gruffly announced, “Aye, Grayson and I go ashore. Not you.”

  “You’ll not be able to explore the island without Shevaun’s signet.” Siren approached Lochlanaire, her eyes contentious.

  “Yield the ring. Grayson and I will see to the treasure.”

  “No, Lochlanaire. If I do not depart with you, Shevaun’s signet stays in my protection. Your venture is hopeless,” Siren rebuked.

  Lochlanaire guided Siren to where they couldn’t be overheard. He berated, “Your condition, and the fact that you once suffered pains, compels me to conclude otherwise.”

  Siren dug in her heels and folded her arms over her chest. “I’m not submitting, Lochlanaire. Take me with you.”

  “I could easily drag that bloody signet from your finger, Siren. Do not tempt me,” grumbled Lochlanaire.

  Gnarled amidst a heated impasse, Lochlanaire and Siren refused to relent; each glowered at the other.

  Grayson stepped in, irritated by their quarrel. “Perhaps it is wise for Siren to accompany, Lochlanaire. She’s guarded the signet for years. Her assistance could hasten the expedition.”

  Infuriated by Lochlanaire’s lacerating eyes, Siren cocked her head to the side and fluttered the ruby before him. “Well?” She thumped her foot, waiting.

  Lochlanaire trudged to the ship’s starboard edge. “Come, Siren,” he muttered.

  Siren trotted to the ship’s ridge and descended the wood ladder dimpling the vessel’s flank. Effortlessly, she hopped to the moored longboat. Lochlanaire and Grayson followed. Grayson heaved two oars. Lochlanaire choked two oars nearest the boat’s stern behind Siren. All the way to Legend Island’s white shores, Lochlanaire’s glare scalded his wife’s back. Siren felt Lochlanaire’s feral eyes but she refused to be soured under his annoyance. She flagrantly ignored him.

  The longboat surged, squashing Legend Island’s pristine shore. Lochlanaire anchored the vessel by braided rope to a weathered tree stump. Grayson aided Siren to alight from the boat. Arms crisscrossing his broad chest, Lochlanaire’s scowl scoured Siren’s. She, of course, knew what the rogue wanted. She withdrew the signet and outstretched it to her husband, who cuddled the ring in his palm. Lochlanaire trampled the shore for the island’s inner reaches. Grayson soon employed a flint and lit the torches he’d carried with them, for darkness descended. He relinquished one of his torches to Siren. The two of them trailed Lochlanaire’s sunken footsteps. The enveloping trees spoke in spooky murmurs, for a breeze danced between those grim boughs frozen in death, the chants of sorcery chilled. Halting, Lochlanaire lowered Grayson’s torch, its luminescence skittered over the signets. Siren waited impatiently, for the men discussed the rings. Somehow, she bore the disturbing sensation that they were not alone upon this mysterious land. Siren shivered, searching tree to tree, but she did not see anyone. The haunting, however, persisted. Freshly, she mirrored Grayson and Lochlanaire, who broke through a heavy copse of ragged trees.

  A remarkable log cabin was mysteriously erected in the center of the dead forest. Cautious, they approached. Grayson and Lochlanaire un-holstered their loaded pistols, suspicious. Lochlanaire pitched open the screeching cabin door and skirted ahead of Grayson and Siren. No living soul defied in nefarious wait. Dusty furnishings greeted. Forefront of one wall was a single-sized bed. A hearth had been carved in a multi-colored stone crevasse, and a paltry table and rickety chair waited in somber repose mid room. Lowering his torch, Grayson sparked ablaze the logs where they cluttered the hearth as if guests were expected for the eve and a wealth of light speckled the dim structure. Lochlanaire rummaged about, looking for anything which might suggest that there could be some mystical explanation for the cabin, which could be applied to the signets. Why construct a cabin upon a deserted island?

  He sought the only window available. It peered to the east and Lochlanaire reviled the muted silhouettes of the ships while they swam in the distance, anchored. Icily, he announced, “We sleep here this night. I have the feeling there’s a reason for this cabin’s structure.” Raising the signets, he inspected their gold.

  “Perhaps the morn sun will shed light on its purpose,” Grayson concurred.

  Siren roamed to the bed and flipped its coverlet. Dust fogged the air. “I cannot imagine what semblance a cabin could provide.”

  “Nevertheless, morn light will accompany our venture. Darkness hinders.” Lochlanaire strolled across the wood porch and sat on rough planks. His eyes roved along the darkness to those trees, which ghostly whispered. He studied the signets anew, but he could no longer distinguish anything further of the chart. He slid both jewels to garnish his fingers.

  Siren wandered across the porch and stood by a slivery pillar that clawed a portion of the roof. Lochlanaire dragged his attention away from her.

  “You continue to shun me,” she said.

  Lochlanaire jeered, “I have thinking to do.”

  “Thinking?”

  “Aye.”

  “Of me?” His refusal to gaze at her with her question summoned Siren to recognize his rancor. “Questioning the future? Our future?”

  “Fate.”

  “And its devastating twist on throwing us together?”

  Lochlanaire nodded.

  “I believe it was webbed for you to pardon me of the depravities leveled against me,” Siren offered, wistful.

  “Your words are intriguing, since I am your cutthroat hunter,” Lochlanaire berated.

  “Yes, once you were my hunter. However, you’re now my savior.”

  Jaded, Lochlanaire stood, his arm rounded the pillar farthest distant. “It is peculiar that you’d hail me, an insane assassin, as your savior.”

  “Sometimes those you trust least in the position are precisely that.” Siren smiled.

  “I dishonor that sacred title.” Lochlanaire bowed his head, despondent.

  Siren rushed to him, her risen hand urged him to search her raven eyes. “You may have been unworthy in the past, Lochlanaire, but this day, you’re far more than worthy. You are my liberator, my only savior.”

  Lochlanaire’s burdened gaze enthralled hers. “I herald you gravely mistaken. You’re my savior, Siren.” His lips lowered to hers, the whisper soft kiss crushing to their shuddering souls. His arms laced around her
body and braced her to his heated form.

  “I’ve got somethin’,” thundered a distant shout.

  Lochlanaire broke Siren’s hold and raced around the cabin to its rear. Here, he and Siren found Grayson straddling a grave but no stone bore witness as to who was buried there. Lochlanaire glanced at his amused brother, who cleverly determined the same conclusion as Lochlanaire. Grayson ran back to the longboat for the shovels they’d left behind.

  Siren’s gaze sought her husband, mystified. “What is it?”

  Lochlanaire stepped amidst the cabin from its rear door and retrieved a lit torch. He spiked it in the sandy ground. “The grave faces an erroneous direction for a sincere burial, and no stone depicts a name. We, therefore, conclude it is a ruse employed for anyone who might stray along.”

  “The grave secludes mysteries other than someone who’s died?”

  “Precisely.”

  With Grayson’s return, he and Lochlanaire began to dig.

  Siren anxiously paced and still she was burdened by the feeling that someone scrutinized their every digging action.

  The shovels thudded against a barrier but delivered no coffin. Lochlanaire and Grayson dusted off the blockading wood and heaved. They swung open the entry. An extraordinary stone warren was displayed in front of dazzled eyes, for torch light swept the crypt that they discovered with entering baited them to journey along an underground cavern. It broadened beneath every footfall. Eventually, they crept to the cave’s mouth, which echoed the waves roaring at the dominate surge of the sea below. Bats squeaked above their heads. Unknowingly, they progressed upward of a hill. The lofty, domed cave opened before the sharp decline of a gnarled cliff. Lochlanaire wondered if their strenuous journey was simply a ruse pursued for the sake of trickery.

  Grayson ignited a pile of wood that stones mysteriously ringed, central of the cavern, and there he sat, cross-legged. “I presume, Lochlanaire, perhaps this wood was positioned here intentionally and the cause might be for awaitin’ the risin’ sun.”