Blackheart (10 page)

Upon the isle of Pirate Quay, swarmed by all those dancing couples, Lochlanaire recognized those ebony eyes of the woman he’d slain in front of hundreds of unsuspecting witnesses. Her name was Emerald Aiden Rain, she’s King James II’s mistress, a woman he’d obviously been hired to hunt. ‘
My God,’
Lochlanaire muttered to himself, standing there, returned to the island, the ghost of Emerald’s murder vanished to his haggard mind.
‘I executed Siren’s mother.’

Lochlanaire felt sickened to the depths of his soul. He stomped off the dance floor and trussed Siren’s wrist, yanking her from the masquerade. To the ship, he hurried, never speaking a word to her as he rowed the longboat. Aboard
Satan’s
Victory
, he rushed to his cabin. Once inside, he dragged Siren to the bed, locking the iron around her wrist. Lochlanaire spun away; ignoring Siren’s questioning eyes, eyes that so devastatingly mirror her mother’s in exquisiteness.

He ran.

Slamming the cabin door, he locked it. Lochlanaire fell backward against the entry. His fingernails gashed his palms so brutally they bled.   

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Zore

It was under the behest of a sorcerer’s twist of fate that Zore anchored alongside the very island where his brother’s ship swam, preparing to sail on its westerly venture. Hidden behind the island, where few knew of its presence, the
Vengeance
lay in wait. Only those who were highly compensated were aware of him skulking among the shadows. While the ship graced the harbor, a mast was restored, all the ship’s sails refurbished with newly sewn sheets, owing to Lochlanaire’s depraved cutting of his on the night that he’d boarded the
Vengeance
and stole Zore’s treasure -- the lovely Siren Rain.

In scattering spies within Pirate Quay’s hamlet, Zore learned an immense lot of information with their return to his ship. His brother, Lochlanaire, he was told, kidnapped Siren for her eventual return to England, where he plotted to offer the lass to King William for ransom. The woman, Zore was enlightened, is the child bred during an illicit affair King James II had with Siren’s mother. Siren’s death would surely relinquish to a blood-hungry king full reign over his country, therefore gifting to Lochlanaire an exquisite pardon from his crimes of which Lochlanaire was unfairly jailed. Unfortunately, King William did not know… there’s
another
woman menacing his monarchy…Siren Rain’s sister, a woman who is masked somewhere distant of anyone’s reach. Zore was displeased that his pirate spies were unable to unbury the sister’s whereabouts, only informed that Lochlanaire hunted her somewhere near the Spanish Main. But that was unimportant. Zore would simply derive a wicked cat and mouse game, shadowing his brother along
Satan’s
Victory’s
course, unseen, unsuspected.

Zore deduced, months ago, that Siren was somehow linked to King James II. He’d recognized the ruby signet she wore as the rare jewel belonging to the ousted nobleman. Having sought a haven where he presumed that he could garner the truth, at Serpent Isle, he’d forced Siren to confront her accuser, the man who muttered while drunken that he could bear witness of a woman wanted for death by King William’s declaration. He, indeed, confirmed Zore’s suspicions. The accuser, coincidentally, was the painter of the portrait King William had commissioned of Siren Rain, which was later surrendered to Lochlanaire with his release from prison. This gent long ago was a servant in the cottage that King James II purchased for his mistress, Emerald Aiden.

Now, with his ebony eyes scalding the antics of which proceeded in the hamlet that night at the masquerade, Zore took shelter behind a tree. He witnessed Lochlanaire’s displeasure with Siren, of whom he was told earlier that his brother married under the deceit gypsies waged. Of course, Zore couldn’t trust this tale, but upon listening to those who roamed about the masquerade, he discovered his spies indeed were correct. Siren and Lochlanaire
had
wed, although, Lochlanaire clearly was displeased, for Siren insisted that they were a truly wedded couple. Oh, what wizardry fate dealt against Lochlanaire. He must be wrenched apart, for he must surrender his seductress wife to a cruel king for the purpose of savagery.

Zore considered. Perhaps he could alleviate Lochlanaire of his terrible burden, seizing in chains his wife
and
her sister. Thereafter, he would gift these two women to King William himself, retrieving handsome reward for his enormous troubles.

Alas, there is the annoyance of Siren’s father’s plight to resolve. Zore, in truth, however, cared little about the charlatan Rain owed a vast fortune to. The man owed would probably slay Rain for not granting to him his daughter as compensation for Rain’s gaming losses. Zore’s conscious, he had to admit, remained untarnished. He’d merely confess that he was unable to track the lass and be done with the quest. He’d enfold a hearty treasure in his hands, discard Siren and her sister to their deaths, and then he’d see to Lochlanaire --
his
demise wouldn’t be painless.

Monstrous tortures blackened Zore’s mind. He snickered, backing amongst the secluding forest.

Snaking toward where his ship eerily lay anchored, Zore Blackheart deviously laughed.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Confessions of an Assassin

Lochlanaire trudged the ship’s lantern-misted deck to the stem where the carved figurehead of the skeletal reaper, Satan, wielded his arched sickle. He struggled for breath, desperate to reject the portrait of Emerald Aiden Rain as she’d died in his arms, pistol shot by his own hand at the masquerade.

  Guilt rankled.

Grayson advanced on his brother.  The two stood side by side. “What troubles, brother?”

Lochlanaire cringed the ship’s brass railing. “At the masquerade, this eve, I was furnished a memory…it was regained from years ago. I remembered standing outside a ballroom, surrounded by a grand British palace where another masquerade occurred in celebration. I peered into a mirror prior to entering the ballroom and situated my disguising mask. I was dressed as a pirate, ironically. Through the ballroom, I stepped, and threaded the crowd who danced and chatted, some supping, others partaking of drink. I saw the hunted and approached the couple who danced. Gently, I tapped the man’s shoulder, requesting a dance with his black-haired woman. She grasped a hand-held mask.  It beheld the beauty of peacock feathers, so her face was completely revealed, I knew, therefore, she was the woman I pursued. At midnight precise, a celebration was to take place under the blaring of fired cannon -- such was to be the spark for me to engage so to disguise the pistol’s retort. Her escort removed to sight, my prey curtsied to me. Before she accepted my hand to resume the dance, I crimped the trigger on the pistol at exactly the second the cannons blasted. No one heard the shot. The woman crumpled in my arms. I swept her off the floor; my eyes assured the attendants all was ordinary. I feigned that she’d merely swooned with eve’s excitement. Upon a settee, I laid her down. She surrendered her fight to survive. I faded amongst the fold.”

“You
killed
a woman? Lochlanaire it is the only rule you’ve never broken, or so I presumed. I must say…I hardly trust what you’ve attested.”

Lochlanaire drew his mournful eyes to the darkness of the sea. “There’s more…the slain woman was King James II’s mistress. Her name was Emerald Aiden
Rain
, she’s Siren Rain’s
mother
,” he droned.

Grayson lost his breath. “You
assassinated
Siren’s
mother
? Does the lass know?”

Lochlanaire gravely admitted, “I did not acquire the knowledge myself until the memory struck me at the mask this eve. The music played…it spurred the remembrance to rise. I witnessed the depravity, Grayson. I relived every moment. I am the slayer of Siren’s mother, and, no, I’ve not told her.”

“Perhaps you ought to deny her the sin. She’ll be furious. Siren cannot forgive such a travesty.” Grayson mulled. “Are you absolutely convinced, Lock, this is a
faithful
memory and not fancy? You may have merely witnessed the execution and it somehow fractured, becomin’ a remembrance as though
you
were the assassin. It could be a falsehood.”

Lochlanaire craved to declare the memory false, but how could he? He saw the scene play in his mind. He’d shot that pistol, delivering the tragic death of a woman whose only failing was that she fell in love with a forbidden monarch and gave birth to his illegitimate daughters. “The memory is pure, Grayson.” Lochlanaire struck off, powerless to search his brother’s disappointed eyes. “My God, Grayson, how could I have affected so villainous an injustice? Was I so evil?”

“Evil? I’d not claim you so, Lochlanaire. Alas, your assassin stature must spawn immorality. You are enchained by a sovereign, sworn to their rule under the vow of death should you not comply, no matter the person hunted. If you were this woman’s executioner, so you claim and witnessed, then you were presented no choice other than to act accordin’ to your sovereign’s demand. You cannot fault yourself,” counseled Grayson.

“Are you certain I can proclaim myself innocent of such heartless wickedness as to execute a woman, even if the threat of death envelope me? Does it not designate me as monstrous?”

“Guilt resolves little, Lochlanaire. This woman…Emerald Rain…she’ll still lie dead. You cannot raise her from Hell’s gates. Fate delivered her a tragic death, but
she
chose the man she bedded, Lochlanaire. She must have realized there could be grave consequences. She’s not innocent of the affair she had with King James. It was by her submission that she met this sacrilege.”

“Nevertheless, your assurances do not diminish my guilt. Yes, I can never invoke the magic of the gods and breathe life into Emerald. She’s lost. Her daughter, however, is not. How do I trample my guilt in all their fates and discard Siren to death with King William’s wretched mark? I’ll have destroyed an entire family and for what?”

“For
life
, Lochlanaire.
Your
life,” Grayson assured.

“Is my life more worthy than Siren’s, than her mother’s? How do I decide who lives and who is sacrificed? What conveys that sovereignty?”

“Under the seizure of a king, you must. You must honor your sovereign above all others. The holy sacrament serves in protection of the king.
You
promised to arise as his defender, Lochlanaire. To revoke that union, is to submit
yourself
to death at a felled broad ax. Are you willin’ to die for Siren? Aye, you married her, but it was not with your want, therefore it cannot be upheld by any law, kingly or godly.”

Lochlanaire rubbed his chin. “She sees it otherwise, Grayson. Siren believes we’re genuinely wed.”

“Sincerely or does Siren seduce you to think so, Lochlanaire?
You’re
her hunter. If she coerces you to accept that you’re utterly wedded to her, she secludes hope that you’ll not forfeit her to death. Siren employs you in order to spare her life. Why not? It’s the only chance she possesses for survival.” Grayson left Lochlanaire to his despair, returning to the tasks laboring aboard the ship.

Perhaps Grayson is correct and he shouldn’t confess to shooting Siren’s mother. What could possibly be righted with his admission? She’d despise him. He’d have to understand and perhaps it was best. Then neither of them would possess feelings for the other. He would be liberated to his accord decreed by King William. What about Siren and her sister? Their deaths would be reaped under his sacrilege. Could he live with the decision to permit Siren to die when she was as innocent as her mother? And what about his promise to Siren? He’d spoken marriage vows. Aye, they were pledged under pain of death and fear, but he’d said them. If he shirked his vow to King William and freed Siren, he’d have to run, for
he’d
be the cornered prey, another cutthroat hunter surely hired to find and slay him for his temerity, death his only hope for a reprieve of guilt. Oh, what a blackened realm he’d noosed them amongst. Now neither he nor Siren could ever escape.

Harried, Lochlanaire returned to his quarters and found Siren asleep on the bed, her iron-cuffed wrist gilding her forehead. He slouched beside the innocent beauty upon the chair she’d used while keeping vigil when he lay unconscious, and Lochlanaire whispered, “I’ve sewn unspeakable terrors, Siren. How do I, an assassin who’s said to suffer no morality, capture the roguery of the beast and request absolution of my guilt? Can I explain what terrors I’ve committed and expect you to understand, forgiving me of my depravity?” When no answers from her were forthcoming, since she slept peacefully, Lochlanaire blew out the lanterns and sat before his desk. He stared out to sea, lost to the ills a titanic killer commands.

With night’s lapse toward breaking dawn, Siren awoke, finding Lochlanaire peering upon the sea. Sitting up, she noted the chain’s rattle did not budge him of his vigil. She wondered why. Standing, she shifted as far as the chain permitted, observing him with each step. “Lochlanaire?”

He stared ahead, unflinching.

Siren spoke louder, “Lochlanaire, what’s wounded you?”

He murmured, “Have you ever done something so villainous that you entrenched it deep in your soul because you couldn’t endure the revulsion?”

“What occurred at the masquerade, Lochlanaire? A memory clearly surfaced. Is this why you rushed us to the ship?”

He huffed. “Aye, a memory rose…black as pitch.”

“What kindles your madness?”

Lochlanaire chuckled. “They do say I’m crazy, Siren. Were you aware? I’m haunted by relentless darkness. Too many evils bloody my fingers, my heart…what there is of it…my blackguard soul.” He turned toward her. “My name is Black
heart
, ironic, do you not agree? It is perfectly degrading for an unconscionable monster. My past is sullied by brutalities. Is it any wonder that I cannot confront those remembrances? What sane person would seek to unravel the barbarism of the libertine I have become?”

“Release me from this chain,” Siren coaxed.

Lochlanaire stepped to her. One finger swiping under his shirt, he withdrew the key to her shackle. In a moment, he pierced the lock and the manacle opened. Retreating to the window, Lochlanaire was again forsaken amongst brightening water.

“What was the memory?”

“It is too deviant to speak of, Siren.”

Siren mulled on what he said. “Did it have something to do with a masquerade?”

“Aye. Years ago, I slaughtered someone, right in the midst of a thousand people. No one witnessed my pistol shot’s blaring. Cannon fire from outside the palace muddled the blast. How faultless. It was an effortless kill. The precise scene I played in my mind long ere I strode into the ballroom. I would merely invade the masquerade, shoot and vanish.”

“Do you seclude the person’s name?”

“Of the hunted? I did once. The name defies me.” Lochlanaire just couldn’t say those words which would devastate her. “The hunted was innocent of any crime, any
true
crime, that is.”

“Then why were they marked for death by the king’s assassin?”

Lochlanaire shook his head. “I’m not always privy to what offense my prey committed, Siren. I can only say it was a traitorous kill. Not one I relished.”

“As the king’s huntsman what would happen if you did not slay the hunted? Could you refuse the king’s request?” She moved closer to him.

“I would forfeit my life.”

Siren was seduced by his haunted eyes. “My death guarantees your survival?”

Lochlanaire dragged her to lie against his chest and said, “How do I sacrifice you to death, Siren, when all I thirst for is to drown in your bewitching arms?” His lips snared hers. Lochlanaire’s arms wound around Siren’s body, her fingers cradling the muscles of his back. Voracious, she kissed him, moaning, for his tongue stabbed her mouth and scorched to her wildly wicked soul. Lochlanaire’s arm dove under her legs. He carried her to the bed. Lochlanaire shoved the chain aside; his body draped the bed beside hers. He broke the lusty kiss and explored her ebony eyes. Ruinously, the treasonous vision of her slain mother immersed. Lochlanaire tore away, escaping to the middle of the cabin. He warred against the memory of Emerald’s assassination.

A knock prompted Lochlanaire to the entry. He swung open the door. A crewman waited amidst the passage. “The ship, Captain, is primed to sail. Grayson asked me to apprise.”

Lochlanaire shut the door but only stood there, his forehead pressed against its wood, silencing his craving for the temptress who peered upon his back.

“Why do you reject me, Lochlanaire?” Siren sat up, glaring upon his rigid form.

“It’s nothing.” Lochlanaire stomped to the bed and gathered the chain, locking the manacle around her wrist, ignoring Siren’s objections. “I’ll unlock it once we’re sea-bound.” Refusing the rapture her eyes enticed, Lochlanaire left Siren alone.

Lunacy haunted her husband. Siren tore apart the conversation she’d had with Lochlanaire, anxious to understand why he’d rebuffed her when he’d rarely denied his lust. A ghost hovered aboard this ship, one that Lochlanaire for whatever reason could not defy. Why? Who was the person he’d hunted at the masquerade he’d described. Did he execute her mother? A constable told Siren her mother’s death was an accident, tendered by a man who thought his pistol emptied of its shot. Is such a fable derived by those royally empowered? Lochlanaire said his prey was innocent of any crime…the only crime her mother could be guilty of was that she fell in love with an adulterous king who could never claim her other than as his mistress. What honestly occurred on the night of her mother’s death? Is she simply stirring carnage where no malevolence boils?

***

Lochlanaire regained the ship’s tiller, watching the men raise the anchor the sea swallowed. The capstan circled methodically.

Grayson’s attention wafted to his rigid brother. “Did you tell her?”

“I said that I’d suffered the vision of an assassination of someone while attending a masquerade, the kill unjust and at my villainy. I couldn’t say the hunted was her mother. I fear, however, with my rejection of the enchantress’ seduction, I may have ignited Siren’s curiosity.”

“Curiosity impels suspicion?”

“Aye. She questioned me, asking after the name of the hunted that I slew at the dance. I admitted to remembering no name. Siren, however, must know something about how her mother died, though I’m only surmising.”

“She’ll keep askin’ ‘til she unburies the truth, Lochlanaire,” Grayson gravely apprised.