Blackheart (15 page)

Quivery fingers skimmed her gashed throat. She relived the appalling attack the executioner prompted. Certainly, he bore something to do with Lochlanaire and Zore, terrorizing everyone aboard this ship and those who were not yet entombed amid sorcery... her unsuspecting, innocent sister.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Treachery at Haviland

Three more men were slain aboard
Satan’s
Victory.
The first the crew found with a rope strangulating his neck, his body swaying across the cargo hold’s rafters. A second suffered a knife lanced to his stomach; his body callously thrown inside a longboat. The third crewman was bludgeoned and shrouded by the galley’s kitchen, his fingers chopped and boiled in a cauldron of his own spilt blood. All endured the same barbaric initials etched in their chests.

A death shroud cursing his ship, Lochlanaire confined Siren to his quarters, rarely releasing her of the iron, avoiding her condemning eyes and seductive touch. No answers did he receive in confronting Aynore aboard her ship concerning the first crewman’s death. She said she was aware of no man walking her vessel who is thirsty for vengeance against Lochlanaire or Grayson. Unfortunately, the truth that the executions only occurred
after
they’d met the
Ranger
troubled, along with the fact that Siren was accosted for information about him, Zore and herself.

It was a bitterly plaguing happenstance.

***

The two ships anchored at Haviland Island days after a squall struck, the vessels requiring replenishment of the food coffers and water casks. Lochlanaire entered his quarters and applied the key, unlocking the manacle that blistered Siren’s wrist.

“I assumed you abandoned me,” she imparted and rubbed sore flesh.

Lochlanaire took solace by the window and stared upon the night-darkened sea. “I spared you the ills violating this ship. Another three men were slaughtered en route to our anchorage. The barbarian remains cloistered in cowardice.”

“I’m sorrowful for their loss.” Siren strolled to the water pitcher and dipped linen cloth in cool liquid. She dabbed her wrist. “Where do we anchor?”

“Haviland. Grayson says it is an isle structured for proper nobility, but the constable is his ally and he’ll permit our anchorage as long as my men obey the propriety instructed by him.” He faced her. “We’ll row ashore once you are prepared if you agree to walk by my side as though chained.”

Siren nodded her acceptance.

Lochlanaire left Siren to coddle her wounded wrist.

Changing into fresh clothing -- a midnight blue shirt, baring crossed black laces and sable linen breeches -- Siren donned the knee-bracing boots that waited outside the door’s threshold, left there, unquestionably, by Lochlanaire with his departure. Forthwith, she roved aboard deck, noting the boisterous men who abandoned the ship in one of the two longboats that ropes strenuously lowered, gracing glassy water. An enchanting hamlet appeared distantly, its moon-bathed log structures stood surrounded by a forest of willowy trees, which are native to the white-sanded land. Chattering men, lavishly dressed women, and giddy children graced lamp-speckled streets, haloed in merry lives. The baker’s shop wafted heavenly aromas, the seamstress’ cottage nestled where ladies caressed satiny cloths, those sailed to the island aboard merchant ships launched from France and England. Nearby, a mercantile possessed wares for sale or trade, so the sign swinging upon its front stated.

Near the rail circling the ship, Siren found Lochlanaire. His eyes drifted down her pirate-clad body. Siren smiled, aware that she’d stirred his thirst, impelling him to drag himself away. Immediately, he guided her step to the longboat dipping the water, rowing them to the log pier. Aiding Siren to exit from the moored craft, Lochlanaire forced his attention to the clogged sandy streets, which awaited their advance while they eased by nobly attired men and reprimanding women. Children pointed in their direction. They mulled on the inappropriately dressed woman, these snobbish gentiles never having witnessed a woman wearing men’s clothing before. Disgraced, but refusing to portray her exasperation, Siren walked alongside Lochlanaire toward the square porch of a white washed boarding house.

A brawl inside the tavern froze Lochlanaire’s stride. Intrigued, his eyes parted the mass of men bound in the angry tussle and he could have sworn that he’d seen Zore hovering by the serving table. Exploring once more those men lingering in the tavern, he did not see the man he was certain he’d recognized and claimed this vanished specter as an apparition of his imagination, for the
Vengeance
did not lie in at anchor in the harbor.

Shrugging off apprehension, Lochlanaire clasped Siren’s arm and they resumed their leisurely stroll in the boarding house’s direction.

Siren suddenly halted. The perfect flesh of her face drained ashen. She looked as though she saw a ghost.

Lochlanaire gazed at her, curious. “What?”

Siren muttered, “She…Shevaun.” Broad eyes split the offending masses that veiled the woman. Siren tore away from Lochlanaire and dashed around those people who blanched when she so rudely jostled through their midst. Halting, Siren found the woman enveloped by the fold and shifted so to hinder her escape. Prepared to chastise, the dark brown-haired, gray-eyed beauty’s glance dipped to the woman who offensively opposed her path and was stunned, for their eyes met with recognition eclipsing. The two threw their arms around each other lovingly.

Separating, Shevaun studied her sister, questioning that she was not enfolded by some bizarre dream. “Siren. I cannot believe it is you.”

Siren nodded, smiling. “Neither do I trust it is you, Shevaun. I assumed you were sequestered in Aunt Merideth’s protection. Why are you not in her care?”

“Aunt Merideth died a year ago after a terrible illness. I’ve been in search of you, Siren. Aunt Merideth said in a letter scribed to me that if anything happened to her to sail to you immediately. I’ve journeyed for months.”

Drawn to Lochlanaire’s daunting shadow, for he halted behind her, Siren glanced from her intrigued sister to her husband. “I’ve much to explain. Perhaps a private haven is in order for our conversation.” Siren looked to Lochlanaire for that sanctuary.

“The boarding house secludes bedchambers above for such an occasion. Shall we retreat there?” he asked.

Her elbow clutched by Lochlanaire, Siren and her sister were escorted to the boarding house. Lochlanaire inquired after two rooms for the eve and the three patrons were summoned to furnished bedchambers above, lining the dwelling’s second floor.

Amongst a candlelit room stood a single sized bed, a damask tufted, high-backed chair and its fire grate that snapped warmly. Siren wrung her hands and roamed toward the window, tormented by everything she must confess to her sister. Spinning, instead of landing her eyes upon Shevaun, her gaze caressed Lochlanaire. He barred the door, having slumped against it; one sinewy leg embellished the other’s booted ankle. Siren withdrew to Shevaun, who sashayed to the chair and dutifully graced its tufted seat, smoothing her voluminous gown as a meek lady invited to the king’s court. “I…where to begin.”

“Virginia,” flippantly droned Lochlanaire, his lips flinching in a leer.

Siren rushed to Shevaun. “Do you possess the ring?”

Confused by her sister’s request, Shevaun removed her elbow length white glove and lifted her left hand so Siren could see the ruby signet that mirrored hers. “That ring, Shevaun, belongs to our father so you are aware, however…” Straightening, for she’d hunched in front of her sister’s feet, Siren’s dismal eyes crawled to Lochlanaire. “Our father is King James II.”

Shevaun staggered to her feet, challenging her twin. “You’re mistaken. Mother…would have told us. Your words are a lie, a falsehood derived for some unknown treachery, Siren.”

“Did it occur to you that it was mysterious that Mother separated us after her death?”

“Why, yes, of course, but...”

“I think she separated us for protection, Shevaun. She realized her affair with King James II could summon all our deaths, especially us sisters.” Siren turned, for she’d paused at the window again. “Queen Mary, our half-sister, lies dead. King William launched a hunter in search of me, to capture me and ferry me to him so…”

“So he may assure his sovereignty, having you killed?”

“And by such, you are menaced too, Shevaun.”

“How did you discover all this?” Piqued, Shevaun approached her sister, who nodded toward the man blockading the door.

“Lochlanaire informed me.”

“He is…Lochlanaire?”

“Yes.” Siren paced. “Somehow King William learned of my existence. He hired a huntsman who was commanded to trace my footsteps. I escaped Rain in hopes of retrieving my own fortune and sailed to Virginia. There, I beheld service to a tavern proprietor. I owed him favor for rescuing me from a deathly illness. I served the men of his tavern ale and wine while they gamed. One night, months ago, I was kidnapped, having sought solitude in the alley outside the establishment, taken aboard ship, enslaved but unaware of why. En route to England, the vessel I lay captured aboard, Lochlanaire seized.” Breathing raggedly, Siren resumed her declaration, “Lochlanaire is the huntsman. He was cast for which to ensure my imprisonment and eventual return to England.”

Shevaun thoroughly ogled the man behind them. “You’re…”

“Lochlanaire Blackheart, King William’s assassin.”

“Assassin?” Compelled to step to him, she scoured his frosty eyes and was lightening-struck by a memory of when she and her mother attended a masked ball. Shevaun had been sitting on the outskirts of the ballroom floor where her mother danced, for she’d begged to attend the masquerade as young chaperone. She’d seen the man who interrupted the dance that was her mother’s last, and she’d witnessed the shooting, the masked pirate carrying her mother to the settee. He left her there to die, but before he’d disappeared, Shevaun raced to where her mother lay and she memorized the glacial, mystically colored eyes of the fiend who executed her. Gasping, Shevaun bid a backward footstep. “You!
You’re
Mother’s slayer. That night, I witnessed the shooting at the masquerade.
You’re
the masked pirate. You
murdered
our mother. I remember your eyes, the left monstrous gray, the right satanic black.”

Damned by Shevaun’s staggering admission, Lochlanaire’s gaze darted to Siren, whose flesh drained ashen. “I…I…”

Siren skirted around Shevaun and advanced on Lochlanaire. “No. It cannot be. Is what she’s saying true?”

Lochlanaire forced a deep breath. “I cannot be certain. My memory…”

“Your bloody lack of memory, Lochlanaire, is the devilish excuse for every titanic wretchedness you’ve ever wrecked. Tell me.
Were
you Emerald Rain’s
executioner
?”

He couldn’t look into Siren’s eviscerating eyes, instead, Lochlanaire nodded, his head downcast. “I think so. I held no memory of that night until…”

“But you’ve since acquired a remembrance? When did you remember?
When, damn you, Lochlanaire?
” Siren screeched.

Lochlanaire lunged toward the fire grate, seeing Emerald’s dying body while he’d cuddled her between his arms. “On the night of the masquerade at Pirate Quay, the music played triggered the remembrance to awaken. I couldn’t be positive. Grayson suggested the memory could be false. I saw no purpose in telling you, Siren.”

“My God.
You’ve
cosseted this ruin all this time? How could you, Lochlanaire? ” Siren condemned.

“I couldn’t confess. You’d despise me. You have the right.” Turning, his glance pleaded. “I’m not that ghoul, Siren. That monster is someone else, an unjust deviant.”

“Grayson assured me.  He said you never executed a woman. Did he lie for you?” Siren asked, gravely wounded.

Lochlanaire shook his head. “No. Grayson knew nothing ‘til I told him about the memory that enshrouded me. He was stunned,
trusting
that I pledged to never assassinate a woman.”

“Alas, your honor-bound promise to King William, or whoever commanded the kill, demanded for you to relent and you murdered my mother?” Tears flooded Siren’s condemning eyes.

Straightening his slumped stance, Lochlanaire faced her and defiantly announced, “I’m sworn to a vow decreed by the king or queen of England, no matter my feelings contrary.”

Siren realized her own treachery. “Oh my God, I’ve
married
my mother’s
slayer
,” she whispered and swooned, dropping toward the floor.

Lochlanaire gathered Siren’s crumpled form and carried her to the bed.

Shevaun crept far from him, reviled by his traitorous person. “Siren said she’s married you?” Shevaun meekly asked.

Lochlanaire removed the water pitcher from a side table and drenched a linen cloth, draping the linen over his wife’s forehead. “We wed under the iniquity gypsies commanded in order to spare our lives. This was long before I realized my tyranny in assassinating your mother.”

“It is true?”

Lochlanaire ached for the entire scene to be nothing but a vicious nightmare. “Yes.” Studying Shevaun, he said, “I suffer no memory. Everything I did prior to two years ago is only a jumble of black caverns. At times, however, a remembrance breaks the void—it is a cruel bridge to the shattered past. Each is tinctured with blood I’ve spilled.”