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  Siren wondered about Lochlanaire’s vague eyes, yearning to awaken him of his phantasm. But he still gritted his bloodied sword. She knew he did not have possession of his actions when tangled in this condition of agony. Lochlanaire motioned for her to assist him onward. Footfalls shaky, he stood under her guidance.

  Inside the captain’s quarters, Lochlanaire sat on his bed. Siren retrieved what she’d require in order to tend his wound. Moving to the bed, she dipped cloth in water drawn from the pitcher to a basin and untied the throat of Lochlanaire’s shirt. She withdrew the shirt from his body so she could surmise the tear violating his flesh. With difficulty, Siren rejected the seduction of his sinewy body that was bared to her famished eyes.

  Lochlanaire quipped, “Why is it, Siren Blackheart, that I cannot keep you prisoner where I chain you?”

  Siren plied pressure against the wound, wheedling a yelp from him and grumbled, “Perhaps if you did not chain me at all, then I would never possess the yearning to escape.” Rinsing the bloodied cloth and wringing water, she inquired, “Lochlanaire, those are your men, why did they duel you and Grayson?”

  Lochlanaire thought to lie, “They hungered for you.”

  “Me?” Stunned, Siren froze. “Why would they…” horridly she understood. “You fought them so that they could not seize me?”

  “No.” Lochlanaire shook his head. “I fought them so they would not acquire the chance to ravage you.”

  “They could have killed you…”

  “Grayson says the four were raw to the ship, unaware of my assassin stature, or suspect of my abilities. They thought to see if I am capable of defending your honor. Then they might capture you and the ship for themselves. Fools.”

  “You killed them for me?”

  “Justly.” A leer engaged his lips. Looking at his injury, for he couldn’t peer into her baiting eyes, Lochlanaire confessed, “The bleeding’s halted. I shall live to resume my evils.”

  Siren clasped Lochlanaire’s chin and kissed him passionately, then she freed him, searching his intrigued glance. “A kiss is meager reward for your chivalrous protection.”

  Lochlanaire silenced the need to toss her across his bed. He struggled with a lengthy cloth and drew it around his arm. Disastrously, he fumbled. “Protecting you is the least I may do…your prisoner stature lies at my feet.”

  Siren righted the cloth and tied it. Blood droplets stained the linen. “Not entirely.” Siren reminded him of Zore’s position in her imprisonment.

  Lochlanaire roamed to the window.

  Seeing the slashes of which scar his broad back, she asked, “What does the song…or the words ‘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’…mean?”

  Lochlanaire faced her and angrily asked, “Where did you hear that song?”

  Siren was so arrested by his glare she stuttered, “You…sang it while lost in slumber.”

  Lochlanaire heard the death chant echo, feeling beaten to his soul. “It is nothing…a blasphemous memory.”

  “Why, Lochlanaire, did someone flog you? I see the lashes crossing your chest and back. I’ve felt them beneath my fingertips. They are no fable. They scar your flesh cruelly, why? What demanded for you to be cut so venomously?”

  Lochlanaire denied her the true answer, “They were conjured punishment for a cause you bear little to do with, Siren. Let it go.”

  Lochlanaire recovered from her questions. Gathering her chain, he speared the key dangling at his throat, unlocking the iron and wiped off the smeared salve she’d used to free herself. He eased the cuff around her ankle. “You seek to duel? You shall be taught, so if you are commanded to it again in future, you will possess the advantage of learning at the tyranny of an assassin. Lessons begin with sunrise.” Lochlanaire withdrew the salve, waged courage, and left his captive to her discontentment, this time locking the door.

  ***

  Siren wondered why he wouldn’t surrender to her anything of his past. She understood that much of his memory remains clouded. However, somehow she sensed that he was not telling her everything.

  Gracing her bed, Siren murmured the bizarre song she’d heard Lochlanaire singing while asleep…“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.”

  What could be the significance behind this sinister song and why was her husband enveloped in agony when he sang it? Lochlanaire apparently sheltered secrets, those he guarded for a purpose, in protection of himself, or with malice waged that she ought to fear

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Surrender

  Under brilliant sun that morn, Siren held a saber of shortened length, clad in similar garments as those pirates manning the ship, sable breeches hugged her legs, and Lochlanaire’s midnight blue silk shirt was tucked into the breeches. The shirt silhouetted her breasts, with the laces tied ‘round her throat. She was bare footed, for Lochlanaire declared her ability to escape further impaired if she possessed no shoes. Liberated of the iron that day, Lochlanaire had offered to Siren the saber, stating that should she attempt to slit his throat, he’d conjure a torture for her treason that she did not wish to spell. Siren agreed to his decree. She now stood aboard the main deck near the tallest mast, which flapped broad white sails flying unfurled. The ship splashed a majestic trench.

  Dueling her arrogant teacher, Siren heaved the weapon clasped in her fist. Lochlanaire deflected and his blade flipped skyward. Ripped loose, the saber flew across the ship, and became snagged by a cannon where it clinked to a standstill. Siren stomped to the frustrating weapon, under her breath she damned her abductor for his sovereignty to draw the blade from her time and again. Lochlanaire had flaunted this power relentlessly, enticing her to long to abandon the endeavor. But aware that his teachings might present an advantage in the future, she resumed the labor.

  Having studied Siren’s magnificent body while she regained her saber, Lochlanaire recaptured his composure.

  Siren resumed her position of opposition, defiant. “I’ll never gain the bloody knowledge of how to sense where my foe will thrust his weapon,” admitted Siren.

  “His eyes give way. Those mirrors reflect his soul.”

  “Your eyes tell me nothing, Lochlanaire.” Nothing except that she’s starved to drown in those rakish pools of his and never be rescued. Uncomfortable with those bawdy thoughts, Siren broached, “How do I fight you? I know little of to how to defend your sword’s brutish strike. It is too difficult. A woman cannot duel a man and conquer him.”

  “You yield too easily.” Stepping to her, he relinquished the sword he held, removing her saber. “Fight me.” Lochlanaire regained his position.

  Siren flicked ebony hair backward and swished the blade he’d given to her -- viperously the weapon struck Lochlanaire’s saber. He swept in a circle. Siren prowled in the opposing direction, but was so enamored by his feral gaze she never saw the pile of twisted rope dispatched alongside her foot. She tripped, screeched as if Satan grabbed her ankle and warred for her balance. As the plank was shoved aside earlier at their departure of No Man’s Island, the cavity from where it drew downward was left unguarded as if an enormous fang lay missing from a hound’s mouth. Siren ended up flopping through the void, shrieked for her life, and dropped amidst swallowing waves.

  Lochlanaire threw off his saber, lurched to grab her before Siren took her disastrous plunge, but was unsuccessful. Unthinking, he dove in after her. The ocean swallowed both of its sacrifices.

  Manning the helm, Grayson witnessed the plunge Siren took and afterward his brother’s. He shouted for the ship’s sails to furl, turning the sluggish vessel.

  Lochlanaire faltered against rancorous waves, swimming to Siren, who floundered behind the ship. She slithered away, lost to the dark blue abyss. Lochlanaire dove and fought to see her within
the water’s rush churned by the ship’s wake. Barely strangling her fingertips, and then her wrist, he heaved them both to break the angry surface. Lochlanaire glanced at Satan’s Victory. The ship now was almost stalled. Lochlanaire swam toward the vessel. Siren lay unconscious, his arm ringing her shoulder. He dragged her alongside him. Heavy rope whooshed off the ship. Lochlanaire caught its end; the men tugged him and Siren aboard. With her lying unresponsive next to him, Lochlanaire looked over her pale face, a cut darkened from her hairline, bleeding. Lochlanaire crawled closer to Siren, she breathed, but he couldn’t say if she was wounded within her body. The men resumed their tasks, bringing the ship to speed, leaving Lochlanaire and Grayson to mind the injured lass. Grayson hunched beside both and glanced at Lochlanaire, uneasy. Standing, Lochlanaire embraced Siren’s limp form and he carried her below stairs to the cabin. He kicked in the door and lowered her to his bed, brushing aside Siren’s wet hair. Lochlanaire gathered the basin, water pitcher, and cloths, then moved to the bed and sat next to his wife. He dabbed at the blood soiling her hair, the cut raw and deep, but he hoped not mortal. One hand gently covered her heart. Lochlanaire found it beat steady and strong. His fingers skimmed her ribs. Siren cringed but she did not awaken. He untied the shirt she wore and lifted its hem, considering the bruises that darkened her flesh above her ribs. Lochlanaire caressed each. He did not believe any were broken, although, she’d be sore for days.

  Beneath the moon rise that night, Siren awoke upon Lochlanaire’s bed, unchained. She glanced throughout her surroundings and found him standing by the lantern-brightened window, unstirred in observing the ocean waves. A yelp chirped from her lips, and Siren’s hand fell to her ribs.

  Lochlanaire sat next to Siren on the bed. “You jumped ship…unintentionally, I assume,” he jeered impishly.

  Not bemused, Siren solemnly confirmed, “I fell overboard.”

  “Aye, you did, ending our lessons for the day.”

  “My ribs?”

  “Are bruised. You’ll survive, Highness.”

  Siren detested the name he christened her. “Do not address me as royal. I am not, no matter that my sire is.”

  Lochlanaire gripped the wine beside the bed, offering the uncorked decanter to her, gesturing for Siren to drink. “It should be your title.”

  “No. My mother was a commoner, so am I.” Lifting the wine, she took a hearty guzzle. She raised her fingers to her cut. “My head was sliced?”

  “Aye, it is, unquestionably, the cause of your lingering unconscious for hours. However, no scar shall be seen. Your beauty remains unmarred and unequalled by any woman, alive or not.” He smiled.

  Siren eased her head, dimpling his pillow. “I love your smile, Lochlanaire.”

  “You, lass, are inebriated by drink.”

  She shook her head and regretted the infraction. “No, I’m not, Lochlanaire.”

  “Say my name again.”

  Curiously she pondered him. “Lochlanaire.”

  “I’d love to die hearing you say my name. Your voice is angelic.” Aggrieved by the feeling of vulnerability, Lochlanaire shunned her.

  Siren gingerly glided, stilling behind him, she cupped his back under an exquisite caress.

  He drew inward a ragged breath. Lochlanaire’s eyes shut, just feeling her soothing touch.

  When she faced him, Siren saw the resistance he waged in order to prevent her seduction and, clasping his chin, she commanded him to stare into her eyes.

  His glance caressed her lips, then dipped to her throat, gliding to where the laces of her shirt bared shadowy breasts. Lochlanaire wanted her to the blackened reaches of his heart. He groaned.

  Siren laced his fingers, for he meant to tear himself away, and then she lifted his shirt’s hem and withdrew it over his head. She circled, halting at his back, aware that he did not want her to see or touch the villainous scars disfiguring his flesh. She skimmed each deep slash, tempting a pleasured sigh from him. She kissed his lips, craving for him to love her more than she coveted breath.

  Lochlanaire was nearly defeated by her seduction, but he forced himself away. “You’re wounded, Siren.”

  “My wounds do not silence my lust for you, Lochlanaire.”

  “How…do you long for the touch of an assassin…a pirate scoundrel that’s kidnapped you?”

  “Your touch shatters to my soul, Lochlanaire. Do not refuse me.”

  Denying his urge to take what she offered him, Lochlanaire left them both unsatisfied. He withdrew to the bridge, where he assumed the captaincy. Instead of seeing the blackened night eclipsing the ship, he saw the glorious eyes of his enchantress wife. Siren had twisted him in her web of sensual anguish.

  ***

  Siren sat on the bed and drank wine until every drop vanished. She wondered why she was ensnared in her captor’s lusty trap. Why ache for him? She ought to scorn him. Yes, Lochlanaire was a huntsman, but he is also her husband. True, he’d married her. Sadly, it is no sacred marriage. Why, then, did she honestly think of herself as wed to Lochlanaire Blackheart, a man who insisted that he’s a malicious slayer? What treachery would be summoned if she sincerely wanted this man, a charlatan who could sail her to death at the rule of King William at any time? Dare she trust him? Could she even trust herself when she’s so passionate for Lochlanaire, her hunter? Disturbed by those unanswered questions, Siren lay on her assailant’s bed and, staring upon the door to her prison, she was lolled asleep. Her dreams became immersed by moments spent in Lochlanaire’s arms. She saw his glacial eyes, felt his muscled body, she itched for his fiery touch. Siren moaned.

  ***

  Returning to Siren late that night, Lochlanaire sighed, seeing that she was soundly lost to sleep. He must admit he was grateful, for he’d not have to contend with her damning eyes. He blew out all the lanterns except the one closest to the bed and sat next to her on the furnishing. He removed only his boots and the sword dangling beside his hip, and lay each alongside the bed. Lochlanaire blew out the remaining lantern and crumpled next to her.

  “You shirk what you cannot run from, Lochlanaire.”

  Condemned by her taunting whisper, he admonished, “I shirk nothing. Sleep, Siren.”

  “Are you acquainted with my name, Lochlanaire?”

  “Can you just sleep instead of tormenting me?”

  “No. My name is derived from ancient legends that whisper of enchantresses who were marooned upon an island. When a ship would sail into their midst, these beauties would sing, their voices were so enthralling that the men aboard ship became webbed by the witches’ spell. They fell, beguiled to a seduction that was too torturous to resist. Their ship sank under the tempest. I’m a temptress, Lochlanaire.”

  “That I do believe, Siren. Sleep.”

  Siren turned on her side and snaked her arm along his broad chest. She felt his pulse thump at his throat. His breathing fell strained, seducing her to awareness of his desire. Siren’s hand wafted underneath his shirt -- the ties spread, she feathered his flinching chest. Lochlanaire captured her hand. Siren slithered it away and toward his stomach; her lips touched his in a fiery kiss, then wandered to his throat, which arced under her caress.

  “Surrender,” Siren whispered, kissing him, her naked body mounting his. “Surrender, Lochlanaire, surrender to my lusty possession.” Her fingers lowered to the laces tied at his breeches. Siren parted the ties, freeing his rigid manhood. Taking him in hand, she rose above Lochlanaire’s body, impaling herself with his flesh. Her body captivatingly swayed atop his. Lochlanaire cupped Siren’s breasts; she lowered her body, aching for him to suckle. Siren craved to scream, for torrents of ecstasy cascaded from the juncture of her thighs as she met her release, commanding him to his, the tempest viperous.

  Upon Lochlanaire’s sweaty chest, Siren lay, wafting asleep in his embrace. Unfortunately, for him, Lochlanaire remained stubbornly awake beneath her, enthralled by this sorceress’ power to seduce. He combed Siren’s hair and wondered who is captor of whom? He despised the darkn
ess, questioning if he’d ever salvage the ability to forsake this enchantress who besieged his days and raided his dreams.

  Ghostly her voice echoed…“Surrender…

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Pistol Shot

  Ribs still sore, Siren awoke that morn alone. Lochlanaire had eased from her embrace sometime in the night, and the iron lay swept aside. Siren mulled on where her kidnapper could be and why he’d not chained her. Perhaps she’d seduced him to see that the threat of her running was impossible…she realized this now, surely he must. Siren then remembered how she’d loved Lochlanaire’s body the night before. She blushed and dressed in one of his billowy shirts, cuffing the sleeves ‘round her delicate wrists, then tugged on the breeches of which Lochlanaire procured from a younger crewman.

  Grisly shadow glided along the ship at starboard.

  Siren jumped for the window, realizing that Satan’s Victory was not swaying sharply as the ship did when they sailed quickly. What mutiny curses the vessel? Removing the saber that swished the wall where it had been pegged, Siren ran to the door, and turned the knob. The door easily opened. Cautiously, Siren peeped into the corridor. No guard restricted her leave-taking with his formidable stance or loaded pistol, therefore she strolled along the passage. Aboard deck, Siren saw the crewmen who battled to fend off an assailing vessel, cannons blared, swords, cutlasses and knives slashed. Siren took a backward step, disguised by the shadows within which she hoped no one could see her. Intrigue, however, crushed the asylum of valor. Siren skirted off to the side of the stoop, and looked toward the bridge.

  Lochlanaire, with Grayson, gritted dangling ropes and flew from their helm, boarding the ship that intended to seize theirs. Lochlanaire carved a bloody path through the ranks. One pirate he killed, swiping his sword throat to stomach, then he slashed the chest of another. Grayson reflected his brother’s boot steps.