Blackheart Page 26

  Possessing no other recourse, Lochlanaire sat next to him, disturbed by the curly plume of smoke the flame sputtered, shadows skipped as serpents over the stone edifice’s walls. “We wait.”

  The morn sun eventually cracked the horizon.

  Siren was lolled awake, lying next to Lochlanaire, who soundly slept. His arm he’d wrapped around her body, and he caressed her stomach.

  The flame-red sun spiked the cave’s mouth as a celestial angel the Heavens directed. Its radiance flared over the wall behind.

  Curious, Siren unwound Lochlanaire’s arm and tiptoed to the stone where the sunlight tickled. The light splashed a lock, beautifully carved in its midst. Siren studied the carving and suddenly she realized it reflects the image the signets revealed. Running to Lochlanaire, she gently removed the rubies from his slackened fingers and ran to the stone wall. Siren anchored the signets in the fashion they first appeared to her and positioned them in the wall’s crevice. Light brilliantly streaked, akin to the brooking of Heaven’s gates. Siren sheltered her eyes. The stone wall lazily fractured and opened. Lochlanaire and Grayson awoke with the thunderous rumble. Siren was beguiled, standing as witness to the orifice of another breath-wrenching cave that the signets are the key to exposing. The men leapt to their feet, grabbed the torches and the shovels and trailed Siren’s footsteps after she withdrew the signets from the cave wall. Immersed within, they skirted cramped fissures until the cave sloped substantially.

  What appeared in front of them was absolutely astonishing…

  Glorifying the cavern that seawater splattered, teetered a magnificent three-masted frigate, anchored in an arched slip, encircled by a disguised harbor, the ship held just shy of launching into the ocean. Patiently the vessel waited for its captain and crew to board.

  “My God,” Lochlanaire muttered.

  Trampling to the shoreline, Grayson and Lochlanaire stared, awestruck by the titanic vessel. “It is the bloody Royal, a notorious ghost ship. It was thought to be sunk in a gale years ago. All hands were assumed dead. Numerous seafarers supposedly have seen it sailin’ the seas. All were christened daft at their heathen oaths that could not be substantiated.”

  Straying closer to the infamous vessel, Grayson, Lochlanaire and Siren ascended the wood ladder piercing the ship’s hull and boarded the main deck. The ship lay frozen in time as if prepared for its first launch, missing its crew, enchanted or cursed.

  They explored closer and spread out around the vessel. Siren noticed a golden lilt sprinkling nearly every object seducing her speculating eye. She caressed the ship’s rail and realized it was not brass, which is the custom. “Gold! It is gold!”

  Perplexed, Lochlanaire took a stride, approaching her. “What?”

  Siren pointed, whirling in a tight circle. “The ship does not carry a treasure. The ship is treasure, Lochlanaire. The ship is gilded gold.”

  Chilled, Lochlanaire staggered his glance to Grayson and he appeared as baffled, for indeed the ship was formed of gold that someone melted, etching the vessel’s hull, masts, quarterdecks, everything, with jewels glittering.

  “Mother of God,” Grayson stammered. “The ship is King James II’s bloody fortune.”

  “Aye, it is. How fortunate for me that you’ve recovered the treasure,” these disembodied words hove above them at the quarterdeck bridge.

  Twirling toward the voice, Lochlanaire, Siren and Grayson stared. A man stood in challenge. He grasped pistols in both hands, two others he’d stowed in a leather brace, buckled across his chest.

  “He’s the reaper who murders aboard your ship, Lochlanaire,” Siren stuttered, shaken.

  “Him?” Lochlanaire questioned.

  Siren nodded.

  Disgruntled, Grayson glanced from Siren to Lochlanaire. “No, it cannot be. That’s Thorn.”

  “Thorn?” Lochlanaire asked, muddled.

  Siren shook her head. “He’s the man I danced with at Pirate Quay. I swear he’s the same man. He said his name was Wolf Larnon then. He is the man who’s been massacring the crew.”

  Grayson confirmed, “He’s our brother, Thorn Blackheart.”

  Siren almost swooned. “But you’re…you’re…”

  Thorn leered. “Aye, Siren, I’m Thorn Blackheart.” Wolfish gray eyes trounced Lochlanaire and as ghoulishly Grayson. “And, yes, my name is also Wolf Larnon.”

  Grayson nearly fainted himself. “What? No, Wolf Larnon. This cannot be. You’re our brother.”

  Thorn shook his head. “Aye, Grayson, I am your brother, but only by half. Our mother was married previously. She never confided this to anyone, except to your father. Blackheart adopted me when I was a wee babe. Elias, sadly, was already cradled in the arms of another family, although, he applied his blood name when older. I always hoped for an opportunity to present itself for me to disown my Blackheart brothers. It was a matter of time and here it is.”

  “All these years, you lied to us,” Grayson pronounced, stunned.

  “No, our villainous mother lied. She did not wish to admit to weddin’ Larnon, a beastly devil by whom she was beaten every day of her pitiful life. After he was slain by her bloodied knife-thrust in a rage, the crown declared it self-defense. Mother, unfortunately, couldn’t support us alone, therefore, she wed Blackheart. I was so young, he thought to raise me as his own child. Mother felt riddled by guilt because she lost Elias, and eventually she spilled her treasonous secret to me. She confessed that I was never a Blackheart. Once aged sufficiently, I traced my brother’s footsteps and found Elias, kindlin’ our brotherhood. I sensed Blackheart despised me for not being his full-blooded son. He spoiled you three: Lochlanaire, Grayson and even Zore, you all were the lights of his eyes, for you were spawns conceived by his seed. Not me. He must have witnessed my displeasure. Still, he never conveyed to any of you ‘bout how I became a Blackheart. I was insulted. I despised you all, but I especially abhor Lochlanaire.” His lightning silver scowl wandered to Lochlanaire. “You killed my brother, my only true brother of which none of you ever were.”

  “The duel. You testified in the name of Wolf Larnon that Lochlanaire cold-bloodedly stabbed Elias, knowin’ your words false so you could…”

  Thorn interrupted Grayson, “So Lochlanaire would be imprisoned, flogged bloody, tortured unmercifully every day and would eventually die at my oath for slayin’ Elias. Yes, I swore out the death warrant for Lochlanaire murderin’ Elias. He is a murderer. Everythin’ was perfect ‘til that milksop King William released Lochlanaire from his prison cage. He ruined everthin’.” Thorn stared into Lochlanaire’s eyes and ominously he sang, “Evil’s cast ye here. Hell has spat ye out. Heaven will not weather ye, prisoner shall ye be. Crazy, crazy, were Satan’s whispers, hang, hang, hang ye, dead, dead, dead ye be. Sound familiar, Lochlanaire?” he leered.

  Lochlanaire’s skin crawled. “The death dirge… you…”

  “I sang it to you every day of your imprisonment to mire you deeper amidst insanity’s fiords. Your memory loss, Lochlanaire, lies under my request. I ached for you to be destroyed. Each day you faltered lower, drownin’ in the cavernous pit of Hell where you belong.” Thorn maniacally chuckled.

  “My God,” Lochlanaire murmured.

  “How… have you been killin’ aboard our ship?” Grayson stammered.

  “Aynore. I compensated the pirate for her sinful alliance, enslavin’ her, just as I did Siren. Women are easily menaced into submission,” Thorn quipped.

  “I blamed Zore for Lochlanaire’s death sentence, all this time it was you. Zore’s innocent,” Grayson said, mortified.

  “Zore’s hardly innocent,” Thorn grumbled. “You, however, are a fool, Grayson. It was effortless to spread the rumor that Zore was guilty of the shame, which defiled Lochlanaire. They had been locked in a clash to the death anyway. I, certainly, would never be suspect of such heinousness.”

  “The brawl Lochlanaire fought in the tavern with Elias?” Grayson questioned.

  “Was ignited for the spoiled honor of an insi
gnificant tart. Lochlanaire slaughtered her husband for the bloody king at some triflin’ transgression. Learnin’ her husband’s fate, Elias thought he’d have a bit of frippery with her, since she now couldn’t resist his lusty advances. She was nothin’ but a paltry amusement. Lochlanaire discovered that Elias raped her, and he rode to the tavern to restore her violated honor, which, of course, he couldn’t. The tussle fractured Elias’ sanity. He challenged Lochlanaire to a duel that he could never win. I hired my own assassin to shoot Lochlanaire ere the duel could even be begun. Lochlanaire heard the fop while he warred to capture the tree branch he lay upon, and he was shot. Lochlanaire then stabbed Elias’ heart, thinkin’ he’d spun the duel in his favor without chivalry.”

  “It was self-defense, Thorn,” Lochlanaire recanted, suddenly remembering everything of the duel against Elias, the brawl beforehand and the assassination of the woman’s husband.

  “Lochlanaire, I care nothin’ if it was in defense of your repugnant life. You’re worthless to me. Elias was all I had. You took his life and the lives of so many others, heartless assassin.”

  “Others who justified that fate,” Grayson chided, watching Thorn, who slowly began to descend the Royal’s stairs toward them.

  “Oh? What ‘bout Emerald Rain, Grayson? Siren says her mother was slaughtered only for love. That is not deservin’.”

  “Lochlanaire’s soul belongs to the king so honor dictates, Thorn. He must accept that godly alliance,” Grayson reconciled.

  “Lochlanaire’s soul is cursed by Satan. Honor is a sacrilege, a trap by which to chain a man to a diabolical king’s barbarism. Evil spawns evil. Lochlanaire is evil,” Thorn barked, never recognizing the contradiction spoiling his declaration.

  Dread eclipsed Siren. She saw sparking in Thorn’s merciless glare something she was frightened to witness. “Thorn, please, Lochlanaire did what he was under allegiance to ordain. Even I must accept the truth.”

  “Do you, Siren, actually believe your preposterous confession, knowin’ what wickedness this cutthroat’s reaped?” Thorn reprimanded.

  As he crept to within inches of reaching her, Siren drew her head high. “Yes, Thorn. I uphold my words.”

  “What of your guiltless mother? Do you renounce her so effortlessly?”

  “I’m not renouncing her, Thorn. I’m saying that Lochlanaire was prisoner of another’s rule. He must obey the king.”

  “And what of his treacherous rewards that your death decrees, surrendered by King William, Siren?” Thorn’s bemused glance crawled to Lochlanaire, seeking his disgruntled reaction.

  Siren surged her attention to Lochlanaire. “What…what rewards? He said his ransom for my life is the ship he captains and another fleet.”

  “Oh, yes, Siren, Lochlanaire would only enlighten you of what he bore no choice,” Thorn disclosed. “He lied. Lochlanaire gains his repugnant life, along with a manor house with everlastin’ funds for which to preserve it and his title, the Marquis of Braighton. He’s granted a pardon of Elias’ murder, and given the captaincy of three vessels by which to reign as supreme Privateer for the Crown. Oh, yes, and he’ll never be tried for any offense, murder or otherwise. He’s loosed upon the world. He can prey on the seas and he’s to be highly compensated for his future assassinations. Oh, and, of course, his freedom. Ah, but this blood-tarnished ransom shall only be gifted to Lochlanaire if you, Siren, lie captive in King William’s deadly trusses. If not, everythin’ decreed to Lochlanaire heretofore is abolished. Am I incorrect, Lochlanaire?”

  Lochlanaire withdrew his crestfallen eyes from Siren’s and bowed his head.

  “Lochlanaire?” Siren broached, wounded by his lack of response. “Is what he says true?”

  Somberly he spoke, “Yes.”

  “You lied. All along, you…you had every intention of relinquishing me to King William, even with the child you sired?” Tears stung Siren’s eyes.

  “Siren, listen…”

  Lightning quick, Thorn grabbed Siren and held her for shield, his pistol he cocked and aimed at Lochlanaire. “Drop your weapons or die,” he snarled.

  Grayson and Lochlanaire dumped their pistols on the ship’s hull.

  Siren explored Lochlanaire’s eyes. She charged her elbow backward, bludgeoning Thorn’s chin. His pistol jarred. The ball released a blaring blast, shooting Lochlanaire. He collapsed upon the ship’s hull, cradling his bloodying shoulder.

  Siren screamed.

  Raising his other pistol, Thorn whirled to shoot Grayson, who vaulted for shelter but, he, too, fell, shot.

  Siren scrambled to run. Thorn slung off his spent pistols. He lunged forward and his arm ringed her stomach. He dragged her to the mainmast, where he tied her and then he skipped to Lochlanaire. Sneering, Thorn hauled Lochlanaire to the ship’s edge and kicked him overboard, laughing devilishly. Afterward, he imprisoned Grayson and threw him overboard, never listening to Siren’s crazed screeches. Thorn unsheathed the two remaining pistols from the leather sash brandishing his chest and he strutted aboard the ship’s quarterdeck stern. He braced himself and shot both weapons, severing the mooring chains. The Royal cryptically howled, launching down its arced slip amidst a ferocious heave and splashed the sea.

  Thorn loped to its helm. Peeking over the Royal’s flank, Thorn yelled at Grayson and Lochlanaire, whose bodies flipped within his vessel’s diving tidal wave, “If you survive, brothers, you’ll find me in a hunt for Zore. Join us, if you dare. I’ll slay you all at Satan’s Labyrinth.”

  Desperate to loosen her bindings, Siren screeched for Lochlanaire, tears sullied her wild eyes as they scampered to Thorn, who strutted aboard the helm, uncaring.

  Unimpeded, Thorn laughed.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Trickery

  The tide dragged Grayson ashore. He clasped his bleeding shoulder, his breath labored. He observed the Royal’s morbid departure and searched for his wounded brother in churning ocean waves. Lochlanaire bravely swam, flanking the Royal’s starboard side, frantic to keep from drowning in its deep trench. The severed mooring chains swept behind the ship. Lochlanaire groped for a link and began to hoist himself upward. He climbed over the ship’s rim, and dropped aboard the Royal’s quarterdeck at its stern. Thorn never saw him, for he faced forward, trusting in his escape. Lochlanaire knew he must hide and nurse his shoulder. Currently, he was too drained to duel Thorn because of his pistol wound. Without a sound, Lochlanaire tossed his boots to the sea and inched down the stairs. He ignored Siren’s gutting screeches for him and snuck away, veiled by the ship’s cavernous abyss.

  Thorn steered close enough to the Ranger for several of its men to jump aboard his ship. He grabbed a jeweled sword, and chopped the Ranger’s anchor cable, applying one vicious swipe. Both ships heaved sail and faded amongst the distance to the baffled eyes of those witnessing aboard Satan’s Victory.

  Below decks, mindful to heed his footfalls of the men who boarded the Royal as it shadowed the Ranger, Lochlanaire crimped bedclothes and staunched the blood flow. He was aware, all the while, that the shot must be removed of his arm. He bandaged the wound, using linen strips, and prowled among the darkness for hours, eventually finding, in the crew’s quarters, a porthole by which to peer through. Lochlanaire realized then that the Royal had discarded Satan’s Victory, but the Ranger reflected the Royal’s stature. Both ships lay currently stalled, for the wind died with moonrise. Lochlanaire speculated on where Thorn would encage his captive, leaving Siren to seethe, certain Thorn will keep her alive for her eventual return to England. Lochlanaire’s shrewdest course, he believed, would be to see if he could sway Aynore into an alliance. They’d had a rapport once. Lochlanaire prayed that their past might alter her to his allegiance. As a solitary militant in the mutiny, he’d never wage victory against his insane brothers.

  Waiting for almost all hands to seclude themselves inside the ship’s hull for the night, Lochlanaire kept a weather eye on Thorn. The bloody blighter stood aboard the Royal’s bridge, looking through the go
ld and jewel-embedded spyglass, surveying the waters for foes. He did not see Siren anywhere. Lochlanaire concluded that Thorn had her removed. He broke the dim lantern light, and tiptoed to the ship’s ridge where it was anchored under grappling hooks thrown off the Royal and the Ranger. Lochlanaire vaulted from the Royal to the Ranger’s main deck, seen by no one, and snuck across the ship to the captain’s quarters, hopeful Aynore would be in attendance. As a goblin, Lochlanaire tried Aynore’s door, and shoved it open without startling his unguarded quarry. She stood, her back presented, by the desk, writing in her logbook.

  Lochlanaire’s palm gagged Aynore’s mouth from behind, her screeches unheard. His voice snarled venomously, “Scribing of your dastardly mutiny, Aynore Lacy?”

  Aynore struggled to free herself but was unsuccessful. She dropped the quill and log she’d held to the desk.

  “If I free your mouth so you may speak, you shall not scream, Aynore, or I’ll break your bloody neck ere the screech leaves your throat. Understood?” Lochlanaire tightened his grip, proving his power over her.

  Aynore nodded her agreement.

  Lochlanaire released her mouth, but his fingers cringed around her throat. He forced her to confront him. “You’re a traitor, Aynore. All this time you’ve allied with Thorn, spouting lies, granting him the ability to butcher aboard my ship in his quest for my blood.” Lochlanaire’s hand squeezed tighter.

  “I was offered no choice, Lochlanaire. Foolishly, I trusted Thorn. I was in love with him.” Tears filled Aynore’s despaired eyes.

  “You were in love with him…and now?”

  “I detest him to my brutalized soul. I swear, I knew nothin’ of Thorn’s satanic intentions until we caught up to your ship, Lochlanaire.”

  “Where does your alliance lay now, Aynore?”

  “I avow, Lochlanaire, I wanted to halt Thorn’s travesties, but he threatened to slay me. My allegiance belongs to you if you’ll help me destroy him.”

  “How do I trust you? You’ve lied since our meeting aboard Satan’s Victory,” Lochlanaire grumbled, suspicious.