Blackheart Page 30
At the dungeon’s door, on the stairs’ landing, Lochlanaire was jolted to halt under the guard’s thrash of the chain. Godly light shrouded the blinded prisoner. “You, Lochlanaire Blackheart, are summoned to chambers. Guard, escort the prisoner to the bath, prepare him, and, thereafter, usher him to the coach.”
Lochlanaire peered anxiously at the celestial creature of whom he never did fully see. “What’s to become of me?”
“Never ye mind. Guard.”
The pistol shoved against his gut, Lochlanaire was conducted to the same bedchamber where he’d bathed ages ago. His shackles were removed by the grumbling guard. He was left alone with a luxuriant oval tub that delighted, filled by cooling water, clothing hanging at his fingertips, alongside leather boots. Lochlanaire faltered with his bewildered conscious. Certainly, they wouldn’t want a man to bathe prior to his execution.
What, then, did all this mean?
Shrugging, Lochlanaire tossed the filthy, moth-riddled rags from his bruised body and noted his scarred shoulder where two shots once pierced his flesh. Lochlanaire’s glance drifted to the ragged scar blighting his thigh where Thorn’s sword skewered his flesh and from which Zore ripped the blade loose.
Silencing riveting memories of Siren’s teary eyes as she couldn’t save him from Zore’s cutthroat iniquities, Lochlanaire moved to the tub and washed the stench off his flesh. A food trencher adorned a table. Lochlanaire chomped on milky cheeses and succulent strawberries, his mind troubled, for he did not comprehend what occurred which presented such a noble deed. After he dried himself, using the sheer linen cloth provided, Lochlanaire tugged on the pale blue linen shirt and sable breeches, pulling on the boots that swathed to his knees.
The guard escorted Lochlanaire at pistol point along the castle to a coach, garnishing the bastion’s rear entrance. Signaling Lochlanaire to step within, the guard knocked on the carriage’s roof. The horse drawn coach rumbled on its journey, swaying throughout the crowded fiords of London. Convinced that he’d retrieve nothing from the bloodthirsty sentry, Lochlanaire surveyed the dust-smeared scene the window furnished, smitten that soon the carriage was lengthily away of London with no arrival at Execution Dock. After hours of sitting in the jostling coach, the carriage heaved to an abrupt standstill. Lochlanaire glanced at the guard for an answer. He scowled and simply threw to Lochlanaire a rolled parchment, and then he threw open the coach door and ordered Lochlanaire out. Shrugging, Lochlanaire stepped to the ground. The coach bolted away, leaving him bathed beneath a dusty cloud, and disappeared to sight. What spell bewitched him?
Multi-colored flower sprigs dotted a path and coerced Lochlanaire to walk along a lush green vale, bejeweled by a breeze-jittery forest. The flowers vanished central of the copse atop a slight hill. Lochlanaire dove outward his arms, palms up, thinking he’d been summoned here for treasonous purposes. He shouted, “I’m here. Show yourself, brigand!”
“Do you mean enchantress?” echoed a female voice, ferried on the wings of the angelic breeze.
Lochlanaire turned in the direction he thought the voice resonated from and chirped, “You’ve beckoned me for a reason. Who are you? What do you ask of me?”
“I ask for submission to your queen,” resonated the reply. Easing around a tree’s trunk, Siren leaned on its bark, her ebony eyes caressing the breath-wrenching rake who stole her heart. Lochlanaire whirled in her direction. “You’re correct, Lochlanaire, I have had you beckoned here for a purpose, for you to bow to my every lusty whim.” Siren glided toward Lochlanaire, who was enthralled, almost thinking her an enchantment of his dreams. “ ‘Til the sun will not shine, the moon hides, all life fades, the stars are fogged by darkness, and the rain refuses to fall, I swear, Lochlanaire, I’ll treasure every moment in your arms. Every kiss we share, I shall cradle amongst my soul until there’s no breath in my body.” Siren’s fingers wandered over his chest. She stood on her toes, kissing his lips. Lochlanaire’s bewildered eyes shut with her fiery touch.
Warring against the sorceress’ witchery, Lochlanaire sputtered, “Please, let this not be a dream. How, by God’s majesty, did you arrange this?”
“I’ve had an audience with King William, Lochlanaire. He bowed to my sovereignty. He’s pardoned you of your unjust imprisonment.” She nuzzled his throat, and felt his pulse dance. “You’re absolved of the death sentence and your assassin ties, as well as the treason you said you committed against him. You’re all mine, Lochlanaire.” One hand retrieved the parchment Lochlanaire gritted but dropped to the ground at her startling appearance. “This,” Siren rose skyward the candle-sealed parchment that King William’s crest branded, “This declaration grants your freedom, Lochlanaire. I’ve delivered you from evil.” She smiled.
Lochlanaire yanked Siren into his arms, kissing her savagely, and then remembered his child growing within her womb. Gently he lowered her, noting Siren’s swollen belly. His palm swathed the babe through her gown’s silk. “The babe?”
“Your child is anxious to arrive amidst our heathen realm.”
“Zore?”
Sullying the breeze the trees quivered, a chilling voice chimed, “Zore is alive, prepared to end your debauchery.” Swords clenched in hand, Zore parted the tree line and glared at his brother, who drew Siren to stand behind him. “I suspected that your lovely wife would arrange a scheme by which to liberate you of your malice, Lochlanaire.” Zore shook his head, his ominous gaze locking on Siren. “Pirates…they’re so bloody untrustworthy.” He insinuated that someone aboard one of the ships in her fleet mutinied, informing him of Siren’s plot for which to pardon Lochlanaire.
“And so?”
“I ought to be grateful to you, Siren, for the tremendous opportunity to duel my brother to the death. Catch.” Zore hurled to Lochlanaire the sword he held in his right hand and rose the weapon folded in his left, switching the lacy hilt to his right hand. He awaited Lochlanaire’s answer to his demand for a duel.
Lochlanaire forced Siren to back away. He and Zore sprung on each other, rage eclipsing them in a cutthroat war. Besieged, Siren feared she would lose Lochlanaire forever when she’d only just freed him. Desperately she rummaged her conscious for an answer in order to stall the contest.
Lochlanaire’s twirled sword caught Zore’s and both of their weapons flung away. They bashed each other using crimped fists, bloodying lips, knuckles and noses. Lochlanaire kicked the knife Zore unsheathed from his boot. The blade flipped the air and landed before Siren’s ruby-clad toe. Siren clenched the knife’s hilt and hurried to the glade where Zore and Lochlanaire clashed as starved lions ferocious for a last feast prior to death.
Siren riskily skirted between the infuriated brothers, for they wrenched apart. She brandished the knife on Zore, keeping him from reaching Lochlanaire. “Zore, what do you receive with this revenge?”
“Lochlanaire’s blood that I should have spilled at Simone’s death,” Zore spat, his teeth gnashed.
“Simone died for you, Zore.” Twirling, Siren turned to Lochlanaire but still brandished the knife on Zore. “And she died for you, Lochlanaire. She cared for both of you. She must have been devastatingly torn. Zore, it was not her fault that she fell for Lochlanaire, nor was it his. The heart aches for love. Simone stepped between you and Lochlanaire that night upon which you tried to shoot him, halting you, Zore, from slaying your brother. Why? Because he’s your brother. She was guilty for the offense that ripped you apart. After you shot her, Simone never swore out a warrant for your arrest, Zore. Why?”
Zore scowled at Siren unable to answer, his fists clenched by his sides.
“She couldn’t allow you to die because of your jealous rage that taunted you to try to slay your brother. Simone wanted Lochlanaire to live, that’s why she shielded Lochlanaire and took the pistol ball destined to end his life. She wanted you to live, too, Zore. It is why she feigned to kill herself, knowing you would be executed if she admitted to anyone of how she was shot. Simone died for you both.” Siren challenged Zore, he
r tearful eyes pleading. “I beg you to see the truth. Your rage and vengeance are unjust, Zore. If you kill Lochlanaire, you’ve seized a noblewoman’s honor, a woman whose only failing was that she loved two men. See the tragedy for the sacrifice it was. Please, let my husband live so his child may love him as he deserves. Lochlanaire’s death assuages nothing of the past. Simone is forever lost. But at her death, she wanted you and Lochlanaire to survive, as brothers, united. The beats of your hearts are her legacy. They were Simone’s final wish.” Siren implored for Zore to comprehend the truth.
Zore roamed his glance over Siren, who ridiculously wielded the knife on him, encumbered by the babe filling her womb. He staggeringly witnessed the love she enfolded for Lochlanaire. His rage dispersed, Zore’s fists unclenched.
Glancing around his brave wife, Lochlanaire looked sideways at Zore, who shook his head and smiled. “Well, brother, do we decree a truce or resume an eternal conquest as starved wolves?”
Zore laughed. Sauntering to Siren, he rose the palm of his right hand, slicing the flesh. Lochlanaire soldiered to Siren and slit his left hand. Smacking in mid-air, the bleeding palms of Zore and Lochlanaire locked in an everlasting bound with Siren standing between them, witness to the end of their bloodshed.
Zore removed his knife from Siren’s grip, her eyes spellbinding. He confessed, “It was the love of a woman that broke us apart. It is the love of a woman who has healed those festerin’ wounds. I bow to you, my princess. May you and Lochlanaire live as insatiable lovers evermore. I surrender.” Zore bowed and approached his tied horse, sheathing the knife. “Though you’ll not regain your title, Lochlanaire, or the manor,” chuckling, he amusingly shouted. “Or the gold…” his voice strayed off.
Lochlanaire yelled, “All I need is this woman’s love.”
“Which you possess,” Zore chirped, leaping astride his spirited horse. “Where’s Grayson?”
“If you wait, we’ll lead you to him,” Siren shouted.
While Zore slyly observed the couple, his horse pranced.
Lochlanaire whooshed Siren off her feet, and greedily kissed her lips. He whispered, “I love you, Siren Blackheart. God, I bless the day on which King William favored me with that painting of you for me to hunt. On that day, I drowned in love for you. I shall never love another. I swear by all that is just, holy, and wicked. You’re the reason for my heart to beat, the enchantress of my beastly soul.”
Siren smiled and admitted, “I’ll love you forever, Lochlanaire. I shall never love any but you. You’re my life, and my heart beats for only you. You’re my enslaver, my hunter, my love.”
Lochlanaire and Siren were only seduced from their savage kisses and lusty embrace when Zore admonished, “Bleedin’ pirates. Come on, you two. We’ve celebratin’ to embark upon.”
Lochlanaire lowered Siren to the ground, threaded her fingers between his, and together they strolled to Zore, their hands swinging as they were enamored by loving eyes, enchanted, beguiled, bewitched.
Epilogue
The child, a squawking baby boy named Lanaire by his parents’ accord, was delivered aboard the Royal days after Lochlanaire’s escape of King William’s death sentence. Aboard ship, Zore, Grayson, and Aynore impatiently awaited the birth while Shevaun attended Lochlanaire in delivering his own babe. Mother, father, and son were all immersed in a magical web of celestial bliss. The pirates aboard the anchored vessels celebrated for days, drinking, gaming, and dancing.
On the day at which word spread that Zore was proclaimed an outlaw hunted for treason procured against King William for his lies decreed regarding Lochlanaire and his sedition, Zore decided to abdicate the title Marquis of Braighton previously gifted to him. He cast his lot in with Grayson and Lochlanaire, enfolding himself in a pirate partnership of three. The blackguard brothers, thereafter, engaged their fleet into a piratical force few could dismiss, as their ships, the Royal, the Vengeance, and Satan’s Victory, magnificently bore down upon the countless conquests they’d pillaged thus far without burden of a bloody affront by the conquered vessels, warship, merchant or otherwise.
Months lapsed and upon capturing a merchant vessel off the African coast, Lochlanaire and Siren learned that King William’s quest for the holy grail of King James II’s fortune was all for naught. Neither William nor his indentured scholars could unravel the mystery behind the ruby signet Siren messengered to him. Siren giggled at the king’s folly, for, of course, she knew William would never unravel the secret. She’d only bestowed to him the one signet, the jewel her mother gave to her and, therefore, he never would unlock the treasure’s tomb. Even should he somehow untangle the riddle that half the signets paint, the gold-crested ship, the Royal, was already entrusted to villainous pirates. Her pirates.
King James II took sanctuary from William’s hunting sentries in France, where he was aided by King Louis XIV. With a paltry assemblage of troops, James landed, attempting to regain his British throne. But alas, he was defeated in the Battle of Boyne and scampered back to France. He remained in seclusion and exile until his death.
King William’s reign was tarnished by constant plots derived for which to restore King James II to the throne, and he was embroiled in numerous wars on the Continent. After a skillful alliance, and under the terms of a treaty, France’s Louis XIV surrendered, finally recognizing William as England’s rightful sovereign. At King William’s death in 1702, his wife’s sister, Anne, succeeded to the throne.
Shevaun Rain, much to her dismay, found herself falling for an extremely handsome pirate rogue, Grayson Blackheart. Lochlanaire married them aboard the bridge of the gold inlaid Royal weeks after its sailing from England. Soon, they were gleefully entrenched aboard Satan’s Victory.
***
This day, Lochlanaire stood aboard the Royal with his beloved wife, beside the falcon spirited in flight figurehead, their cooing son swaddled between his mother’s loving arms. Lochlanaire braced his arms around Siren and drew her to him, kissing her lustfully, grateful for the day on which he’d been pardoned of his death sentence and threaded in a hunt for this temptress who sprung him from Hell’s gates with her undying love. His lips teasing hers, Lochlanaire smiled, wanton to drown in her seductive raven black eyes as he said, “You spared me of my nightmarish Hell, healing a barbaric assassin’s wounds. No word I utter may ever prove my love for you, Siren. With your love, no longer am I a monstrous killer enduring a black heart.”
Smiling, Siren replied, “The day you captured me from Zore’s prison, I was yours. You surrendered to me love that I shall cherish forever, Lochlanaire. Our love can never be renounced by man, pirate, king, or god.”
Lochlanaire’s memory never fully regained its stronghold. Somehow he was not all that burdened by its desecration, although he suffered nightmares, phantoms which reigned bloody butchery. He felt remorse for those lives he must have destroyed at the ordaining of two kings. He accepted that his guilt would never be absolved, no matter how much time expired.
No longer was Lochlanaire’s conscious drowned in the death song sung in torment by Thorn. That lost, icy vacant gaze of a tortured stranger, beholding one black eye and one gray, possessing little memory of his vilified past, was vanquished. He knew exactly who he was. Captain Lochlanaire Blackheart, lover and husband to a vivacious sorceress named Siren Blackheart, proud father of a son, christened Lanaire, roguish brother to Zore, Grayson, and even Thorn Blackheart. Once he was an indentured assassin, now he is a cutthroat pirate.
The End
About the Author
Raelle Logan
Raelle Logan has been writing since she was very young, beginning around ten years old. Back then, her interest was Westerns. Long ago, her facination became pirates and their stories. She wanted to write about them in a more realistic fashion than is usually portrayed in books and film and became a voracious reader of their history. Today, she lives in Littleton, CO with her husband, Ron, and one spoiled cat, Ransom.
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Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONELochlanaire
CHAPTER TWOSatan’sVictory
CHAPTER THREESiren
CHAPTER FOURBeached
CHAPTER FIVEGypsy Wedding
CHAPTER SIX Truth and Mutiny
CHAPTER SEVENSurrender
CHAPTER EIGHTPistol Shot