Blackheart Page 8

  Siren discerned the evils her husband inflicted, discovering why he’d said he was a murderer and scoundrel. But, in watching him, she also witnessed that he was extended no choice in his ghoulishness -- it was either kill or be slain himself.

  Siren shifted position, in time seeing the scarred faced fellow who crept in her direction. Clothed in moth-ragged linen, proclaiming her a meagerly trapped treasure for the plundering, he lifted his cutlass and summoned her into the sun. Siren padded in the opposite direction of which he skulked, her eyes trained on his blue. The pirate leered; his attention fell to her breasts of which silken cloth brushed. Siren’s unburdened hand spread the laces for him to feast upon supple breasts. Such was the moment by which she took as opportunity; she lanced the blade against his so harshly his weapon impaled the ship. Her attacker ran off, enveloped by the warring ranks. Siren darted to the cutlass her oppressor forfeited and hauled it loose of splintering wood, proud that she’d deflected the victory of a man.

  Siren searched for Lochlanaire and found him battling bloodthirsty fiends, three at once. Distraught, for should he and his brother be slain, she’d lie within the arms of these merciless thieves, she silenced her terror, for another felon gashed the masses. Siren dueled for her life anew, employing both saber and cutlass. Clearly, Lochlanaire’s teachings infiltrated, for she deflected this brigand, but brazenly, he leered. Siren wondered why. From behind, a hand ringed her throat. Siren dropped the weapons she held, her body was dragged against her strangler’s chest. Siren shrieked, for the dirt-soiled fingers of his hand defiled her breast. She feared that her attacker could rape her.

  Seemingly spawned by the heavens, Lochlanaire dropped aboard the ship, for he’d dangled at the end of a rope, his bloodied sword gripped between his teeth. Snappily, he grabbed the weapon and slew the man Siren once fought. Now he glowered into the eyes of her defiler. The foe choking Siren’s throat cast his weapon to lie there, trusting this misdeed would spare his life. Lochlanaire lashed the blade and severed the pirate’s arm. Blood spurted. The felon’s dismembered limb flopped aboard the ship. He raced to flee, cradling the stump where his arm had once lain. Lochlanaire intercepted the ghoul and cut his throat, discarding him to die before his slayer’s blood-stained feet.

  Siren barely held back stingy tears.

  Lochlanaire summoned her between his consoling arms.

  A shot rang out. The ball pierced Lochlanaire’s side through his back. He jolted between Siren’s arms. His knees buckled. Siren struggled to hold him, but Lochlanaire plunged over the ship’s deck. Siren’s gaze cut apart the sparring foes for Grayson. Her desperate stare scalded his back, willing him to her. Grayson killed the man he was dueling and whirled, for he was bewitched by Siren. His attention fell toward his stricken brother.

  He gashed among rancorous pirates and Grayson dove to his knees near his straining brother, who fought unconsciousness. He surmised the wound. “I trust it not mortal. We move him to quarters.” Peering upon his pirates, he noted that the conflict had stalled. The men of Satan’s Victory defeated their enemies who retreated aboard their conquered ship. Having sought the aid of two other men, Grayson lugged Lochlanaire to the captain’s quarters. Therein, he drew his knife, which he dipped in water, found stripped cloths, and a basin, and advanced on Siren. She stood helplessly above Lochlanaire. He lay on his side, still attempting to remain conscious.

  Grayson’s knife severed the cloth, entirely exposing the ragged hole skewering Lochlanaire’s right side. He spoke to Siren, “It requires a woman’s touch.”

  Siren flinched, rejecting the knife hilt he offered. “I possess no skills.”

  “You must. My fingers are too large to spear the hole and remove the shot.”

  Siren slouched beside Lochlanaire, whose forehead sweated. She accepted the offensive blade. Her husband nodded for her to pierce the hole. Lochlanaire grimaced, his breath held under the agony she inflicted.

  “The shot rests straight through,” Grayson portrayed.

  Siren proceeded as commanded, wounded when she caused Lochlanaire such distress with the blade tip. Alas, she could not recover the shot. Miserable, she sought Grayson’s council, “I cannot unveil it. What must I do?”

  “Pierce the cavern. Fingers suffice, lass.”

  Siren felt sickened by his proposal. Her fingers, nevertheless, explored the sticky flesh. Lochlanaire could resist unconsciousness no longer -- his body fell limp. Siren grasped the purveyor of death and whooshed the pistol ball to her fingers. Blood surged. Grayson draped clean cloths over the wound, letting Siren flee to the desk. There she freed the ball amidst the basin.

  Grayson attended the pistol wound, and wrapped cloths around Lochlanaire’s torso that he unmasked, cutting his shirt up the side. Grayson’s attention whirled to Siren. She moved to the window, breathing heavily. Standing, he wandered toward her. “He’ll be out for a while, the time…restoration of flesh. My gratitude for your service.” Turning, he meant to leave.

  Siren somberly attested, “Lochlanaire rescued me. He’s spared my life so many times, from Zore, the gypsies, when I fell overboard, this day. I must question…why?”

  Grayson leaned against the door, looking upon his unconscious brother. “Lochlanaire’s a rake, aye, a deadly one, but he’s never slain a woman -- at least to my knowledge, he’s not.” He smiled. “Aye, he hunts but those he slays are prey by which deserve their fate. He, sadly, remembers it naught and is disturbed by the truth.”

  Siren wondered if Lochlanaire would judge her deserving of death. “Why has his memory abandoned him?”

  Grayson shrugged. “Unknown. Somethin’ stole it. Perhaps somethin’ wrecked his memory at a portrait he couldn’t confront…I cannot say.”

  “Are you conscious of his intentions for me?”

  Grayson replied, witnessing Siren’s grave countenance, “I know of your lineage to King James II and that Lochlanaire was forced to hunt you by command of King William. That is all.”

  “What…um…should I die because of my sire?”

  Grayson once more shrugged. “Kings rule, kings die, kings abdicate. At times, the seeds of those kings are withdrawn to death, assurin’ the sanctity of the monarch who seizes the crown. I, fortunately, am not to decide who lives or dies. Such is for Lochlanaire.”

  Her life lies in the palm of an indentured assassin. Nodding, Siren sighed, her eyes withdrawn.

  Grayson resumed the helm in his captain’s stead.

  She stepped to the bed upon which Lochlanaire slept. Siren reflected on the wickedness that whirled her into Lochlanaire’s cursing arms. With their marriage, Siren thought she might alter her unimaginable course toward death. Certainly, Lochlanaire couldn’t allow her to die, a woman whom he’d physically loved, but did she sincerely stir him with her seduction? Siren couldn’t say. Perhaps if she utterly gained his trust, lacing him in a web of insatiable passion that he could never dismiss, Lochlanaire wouldn’t surrender her to King William. Or, she could tempt his heart to love her, then no earthly deity would instill the power to slay her.

  Love?

  That one word declared a fiery web Siren was not sure she could resist herself. She was beginning to seclude feelings for her abductor. But is love sufficient cause for Lochlanaire not to liberate her to death? Siren wondered at what he’d said about the ransom poised for her destruction. Did Lochlanaire tell her the truth of what is his reward for her eventual demise? A fleet of ships hardly appeared fair treasure for the execution of a woman. Was there something he hid from her, something so dire he could not say it?

  Sitting beside her husband, Siren’s eyes slipped to his pinky, which was haloed by her father’s ring, the father she never knew, a conquered king. Siren tugged the signet off Lochlanaire’s lifeless finger, and placed the ruby on her ring finger as she did on the night Lochlanaire accepted her hand in wedlock in front of a witnessing crush of gypsy thieves.

  King James II…his name haunted Siren. He, a man she’d never met, could spell h
er death, all because her mother had lain in the forbidden arms of a monarch, birthing the bastard seed sown. What wretchedness…to be innocent of all treason and still be sacrificed owing to lechery.

  Could she shoot him?

  Siren scurried to Lochlanaire’s desk, clenching the pistol waiting there. Shakily, she cocked the weapon, pointing it at him. This moment she could shoot Lochlanaire, and he’d not be alive to sail her to her death. Oh, but, no, his brother and the pirates swarming this ship would soon butcher her for her sin. Grim, Siren laid the weapon on the desk. No, she must seduce her captor, loving him as no other. Under her spell he’d do anything she asks, the threat to her thereafter revolving against the traitorous sovereign who hired her assassin lover.

  Siren lay beside Lochlanaire and laced her arm across his chest. Raggedly he breathed. Under the twirl of a wretched coin, he could sacrifice her to death, but he too represents life. Her heart beats lie in his alluringly caressing fingers, fingers that fire her body to frenzied for him, seducing her to silence all treachery waged against him.

  Oh damn it to bloody Hell. What foul trickery cruel, betraying destiny.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Pirate Quay

  Lochlanaire remained delirious.

  For two days and nights, Siren listened to his unconscious ravings, the bulk of which she couldn’t understand. She adorned his feverish forehead beneath damp clothes. She rarely ate, and seldom slept, for if she thought Lochlanaire would relent to slumber, he, instead, challenged phantom titans, his fists thrashing. Siren soothed, whispering, but did not touch him when he did battle, for she remembered the chasm of death she’d been locked amidst when he was prisoner of these demons. Lochlanaire could kill her with his bare hands, never realizing his vileness.

  Hazy eyes skimmed the captain’s quarters as Lochlanaire finally awoke. At first, he did not know where he lay, but his glance soon strayed to Siren, who sat near him, her legs tucked under her, one hand propped her head. She had fallen asleep in a damask chair. There was something he should remember but mystically it was pilfered from his mind. Lochlanaire shifted his position. Pain rushed down his body, forcing a throaty groan.

  Siren’s attention flicked to her conscious husband. “You must not move, Lochlanaire.”

  One hand feathered down his bare chest to his fire-infused side and ringed bandaged flesh. His voice raspy, he asked, “What…happened?”

  Siren un-tucked her legs and sat next to him on the bed. “You fought attacking pirates and were shot after you rescued me from a reprehensible blackguard. Does this awaken your memory?”

  “I…no.” Lochlanaire shook his head. Chunks of memory loosened from the abyss, but just as he thought to regain them, the visions shattered and drifted beyond his reach.

  “Do you recall your name?” Siren asked.

  “Lochlanaire Blackheart,” he droned.

  “Do you possess my name?”

  “Aye, Siren…Rain.”

  “Do you remember kidnapping me from Zore?”

  Lochlanaire squinted and rubbed his beard’s stubble. “Zore Blackheart…he’s my brother and a pirate. You were captive aboard his vessel. I…I invaded his ship...”

  “Capturing me.”

  “Aye, imprisoning you for…um…bloody King William.”

  “Do you remember wedding me?”

  Lochlanaire’s eyes swept her body that was improperly silhouetted in pirate garb. “Gypsies…we married at their camp, at pistol point.”

  “You remember distinctly.”

  Defying Siren’s smile, Lochlanaire struggled to retrieve his dismembered past. Sitting up, he gingerly stood with Siren’s assistance, trudging to the full-length mirror that was anchored upon the wall. Lochlanaire peered upon his reflection, noting his stormy gray eye and the black. “Damn it, there’s almost nothing!”

  Siren compelled him from the cruel mirror and insisted, “You’re exhausted. Your memory will gain its foothold. Do not reprimand yourself for its loss, Lochlanaire.”

  He couldn’t forbid the delirium of fragmented images, approaching the window -- the haunting dungeon he revisited as if he stood amid the prison, lantern lit, dank, ugly. The death chant echoed. Powerless to silence it, he muttered…“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.”

  Siren shivered, chilled by the song and she recalled him murmuring it in his sleep. Still, she did not understand its relevance. “Do you know what that song signifies?”

  Lochlanaire’s hand slid through his hair. “Death hovers in wait at a hangman’s noose, cursing those who war against Satan’s iron truss, possessing no sliver of hope to evade purgatory.”

  “Where did you hear it?”

  Slowly he lifted his eyes to her. Lochlanaire suddenly remembered -- it was something he’d disguised, not wanting Siren to gain the truth that he was a mercenary who had been locked in an insane asylum within which he’d awaited the hangman’s noose.

  Never answering Siren’s question, he soldiered to her and took her hand. He ogled the ruby signet. Lowering his mouth, Lochlanaire took her entire finger therein and tugged the ring loose using his gritted teeth. “I remember everything I require to know, Siren.” He eased the ring to glimmer his pinky.

  “Damn you, Lochlanaire, give me my ring.” Siren attempted to clasp the finger that the ring adorned.

  “Ah, a pirate’s bounty remains in the pirate’s possession.” Lochlanaire’s arm ringed Siren’s hourglass body, he whipped her within his embrace, ignoring the pain it caused his flesh. “You’re a pirate’s heavenly plunder, are you not?” His mouth descended to hers. He sultrily kissed her. Siren’s fingers splayed across his naked chest, intending to push herself away, but his tongue pierced her mouth. She melted in his treasonous web.

  A knock pounding on the door compelled Lochlanaire to free her lips, but his eyes never wavered from Siren’s. His hold over her tightened. “Aye?”

  Grayson pushed on the door and peeked around it, then threw the door broadly, noting his brother who held Siren captive in his arms.

  She blushed and squirmed free of Lochlanaire’s hold, retreating to the window, smothering the longing to lie within his enrapturing embrace.

  Grayson studied his brother, finding Lochlanaire bemused by his devious sin. “I see you return to the livin’, Lock. I come declarin’ that we’ve sighted land. An island…Pirate Quay.”

  “Pirate Quay?” Lochlanaire spoke to Grayson but his eyes strayed to Siren’s rigid form, roving down her body.

  Witnessing Lochlanaire’s inattentiveness, Grayson sternly replied, “It is a haven for pirates, buccaneers and corsairs. We may replenish the ship for its continued journey, such is wise.”

  “Aye, sail to the island.” At Grayson’s leave-taking, Lochlanaire moved behind Siren. She did not acknowledge him. Lochlanaire cuffed her arm, turning her to confront him. “You return to captivity. I wouldn’t want you to jump ship owing to our forthcoming anchorage.”

  “You distrust me?”

  Lochlanaire’s eyebrow arched. “Trust is nary an issue, Siren. Come.”

  Her stare meant to crucify him. “I’ve sat by you, nursing you every day. I could have murdered you, Lochlanaire. Your pistol lays footfalls to my reach. I could have availed of it at any time.”

  He reminded, “Aye, you could, but the pirates aboard this ship would have slaughtered you for daring. You’re no fool, lady, that’s clear or you’d have shot me days ago.”

  “Or, I’ve seen that something exists between us.”

  “Something neither of us cares to dig too deeply into,” he countered.

  “You married me.”

  Lochlanaire shrugged. “So you’ve reminded me countless times. Since our union was delivered under the offense of wretchedness, it is a hollow frivolity.”

  “Not to me, Lochlanaire. You took from me what no other man ever has. I gave myself to you, wi
llingly,” Siren attested, outraged.

  Wrestling her to the bed, Lochlanaire clenched the chain and iron, positioning the cuff around her wrist, locking it. “Aye, you did, but my ravishment of you was ordained because our lives were threatened…it is insignificant.”

  “I refuse to believe, Lochlanaire, that you can defile a virgin and just discard such to the wolves. Your conscience cannot simply deny the fact that you’re wedded to me.”

  “Oh, did I forget to tell you? I’m an unconscionable killer…that means I feel no guilt. I took your virginity because I bore no bloody choice.”

  Siren viciously roared, “You disgusting rogue! I’ll hate you for eternity, Lochlanaire, I promise you. Eternity!”

  Having whirled away, Lochlanaire twirled on his heel. He darted to her and clenched Siren’s arm. Dragging her to his chest, he kissed her. Siren shuddered to her soul, wild for him. Her unchained hand scorched his godly chest. Liberating her lips, he grinned. “I presume that lusty kiss proves your hatred of me is a falsehood. Does it not?”

  Siren shoved against his chest.

  Lochlanaire chuckled, released her and strolled to where his clothes were stored. He removed a shirt and left Siren to seethe.

  Siren grabbed the water pitcher and threw it at the door. Water splashed across the wood floor. The pitcher dropped with a thump. “Damn you, Lochlanaire. I curse the day I met you, you hideous cad! I curse you!”

  Lochlanaire paid no heed to Siren’s curses, entirely aware that his infuriating of her was purposefully tailored. It was best for her to detest him. With such he found it easier for him to govern himself to his accord with King William. Swearing off his dismayed thoughts, Lochlanaire retreated aboard the helm. Grayson stood, spyglass risen to his surveying eye.

  “Zore?”

  Grayson shook his head, lowering the spyglass. “Two ships lie at anchor. I do not recognize either.”

  Lochlanaire regained the captaincy, though his right side ached for his treachery.