Blackheart (4 page)

Fog rolled heavier.

Lochlanaire could barely see but he dashed across the vessel, dragging the woman alongside him toward the ship’s helm. Mystically, the fog parted and he challenged the blood-soiled, scathing captain of the
Vengeance
.

Zore’s deadly gaze defied Lochlanaire’s. “Well, well, if it is not my dear brother. Lock…I believed you damned to the Devil in Hades, where you belong.”

Lochlanaire pitched his prize behind him, still bracing Siren’s arm. Her fingernails bled his flesh. He never cringed. “Zore. I trust you’ll be vexed. Your treasure is now mine,” he snapped, raising the cutlass before his brother in opposition.

“It’s said that you’re insane, Lock.”

Pushing his treasure far from Zore’s reach, Lochlanaire grinned. “Aye. That…I…am.” The whites of his eyes were bared.

The brothers’ cutlasses dove in a feral duel.

The joust scarcely begun, fog split the adversaries. Lochlanaire swept his prisoner aboard the deck of
Satan’s
Victory.
He jumped behind her. Siren ran, but her abductor yoked her arm. She was thrown against his chest.

Grappling hooks were immediately severed. The ships groaned and parted. The sails of
Satan’s
Victory
flapped their masts. The ship drifted amidst the fog.

Zore yelled to his brother through the muck, “Curse you, Lochlanaire! I’ll haunt you to the ends of the earth! Beware, the day I catch you, you’ll ferociously wish I had not!” The
Vengeance
was utterly stalled; for under command by Lochlanaire his pirates had taken their knives and ripped Zore’s canvas sails to ribbons.

Rain poured.

Lightning illuminated the ship in torrents.

A storm listed the vessel.

Floundering merely to stand, Lochlanaire wrenched his captive to his quarters. Siren fell before the toe of his boot on the threshold. He locked the door. He studied her, for she crawled along the floor, frenzied for freedom. Lochlanaire yanked Siren to stand and he pushed her to fall across his bed. He retrieved the key to the irons secluded amid his desk. Lochlanaire unlocked one of her cuffs and strung the chain between the ring above his bed. He manacled her blistered wrist. Siren’s eyes frosted under every cruelty.

“Who
are
you? Why have you taken me prisoner? What have I done to provoke such wickedness?” Siren whimpered.

Lochlanaire scowled, reviling the entrance, never facing her. “My name is Lochlanaire Blackheart. I’m King William’s assassin, his huntsman.” Lochlanaire unlocked the door and disappeared in the corridor. He locked the cabin.

***

Siren’s stunned eyes searched the water-streaked window. What nightmarish Hell enshrouded her? Siren tucked her legs under her chin and sobbed. Why would the king’s assassin hunt her?

***

At the helm, Grayson battled the tiller, losing control of the vessel. Lochlanaire walked the stairs to him and accepted the captaincy, rain and wind battered him and the crew.

Over the roar of swishing waves, Grayson shouted, “We’ve lost course! The ship will be fortunate not to sink!”

  “Furl the sails!” The order darted from pirate to pirate.

All that blustery day, Lochlanaire crimped the tiller under whitened fists, Grayson faithfully assisted. Long into nightfall, he stumbled off the helm to his cabin. Lochlanaire found Siren huddled in the corner of his bed. Her eyes condemned as he swerved to his wine decanter, uncorked the vessel, and guzzled, ignoring his slave.

***

Siren watched the door to her newest prison open. She recoiled and rebuked her captor’s every move. Once he tossed the decanter onto the desk and advanced on her, she scurried for the bed’s farthest end.

Lochlanaire throttled her right hand and drew it outward.

Siren fought him.

His biting hold never wavered, however, and as her eyes brushed his scarred wrists where irons once trussed, Lochlanaire tore the ruby ring off her finger.

Siren’s arms wrapped around her legs. “Why?”

He moved off to the rain-washed window. Lochlanaire slipped King James II’s signet onto his pinky and searched rolling waves. Dully he spoke, “Who are you, Siren Rain?”

“
You
kidnapped
me. You
should
know
who I am,” she reprimanded.

Lochlanaire questioned, “Why did Zore accost you?”

“Who is Zore?”

“Zore is the captain who held you prisoner aboard the
Vengeance
.”

“I never saw the tyrant until he came to the Virginian in Norfolk,” Siren admonished.

“The Virginian?” Lochlanaire removed one silk shirt from a shelf. He unlaced the soaked shirt that clung to his body and divested himself of it.

The witchery of his eyes captivated hers and then Siren’s gaze caressed his chiseled flesh, which tapered to his waist. Lochlanaire’s shirt was thrown to the captain’s chair. Siren’s breath wrenched, her glance touched the flog scars that desecrated his body.

Lochlanaire turned his body away so she couldn’t see his chest or back.

Siren recovered her wits. “The Virginian is a hall. I served the men food and drink while they gamed.”

Lochlanaire fluttered the shirt to cover his body; the laces remained untied to his waist. He fully faced her. “This is where you met Zore?”

Siren replied angrily, “I never met the bastard, in the manner you suggest.
He
kidnapped me in the alley and caged me as his prisoner aboard his vile ship. All he said was that he intended to return me to England. He would not even tell me his bloody name, leaving me alone for months in that hellish cabin. I bear no hint of what I’ve executed which prompts such sacrilege.” Glaring, for he sat on a chair, Siren demanded, “My ring?”

Lochlanaire casually retrieved another decanter. He tore the cork loose, and hurled it to the desk. He shook his head, mulling upon the ring glinting on his finger. “The ring is mine.”

Siren seethed, “
That
ring is all I possess of my father. I want it.”

His eyebrow arched. “You were acquainted with your father?”

“No, I’ve never met him. My mother gave me the ring. It was a token of his love for her. I command my ring’s immediate return,” she ordered.

Lochlanaire never uttered a word.

Siren dared his piercing scowl.

A knock clattering the door battered the anxious silence. “Captain? Grayson requests a word.”

Lochlanaire vaulted to his feet, dropped the decanter upon the desk, ignored his captive and retreated to the door.

Siren yelled, darting to her feet, her fists clenched, “My ring…
give
me my ring!”

Lochlanaire strode to her. He clutched the neck of Siren’s shirt, his eyes seared hers, and then they fondled her heaving breasts.

Siren breathed greedily, searching his fiery stare that journeyed to hers. Siren’s lips challenged.

Lochlanaire pushed her to sprawl across the bed. Hunching, his arms splayed around Siren’s sides. He snarled, “No.” Spinning, he walked to the door, unlocked it and departed.

Siren faltered to sit and shuddered a hand to her racing heart. My God, what sordid trap had she stumbled into, and why did her flesh quiver under this sorcerer’s eyes?

CHAPTER FOUR

Beached

In the storm, the ship battled to remain afloat, the maelstrom so titanic, Lochlanaire feared a death-spell cursed the ship, and they’d never survive. Waves struck unmercifully and three crewmen were tossed to the sea swells. When suddenly the gale subsided, the ship righted itself and the worst appeared to be behind them.

The crew cheered.

The ship wrenched to a standstill. Men flopped onto the decks, high and low. Seizing the rail nearest the tiller, Lochlanaire assumed the worst. Either a beast of enormous size and ferocity strangled them in its claws or the ship was pitched onto a fissure of land. Torches were lit and the men peered over the vessel’s rim.

“Land ho!” someone shouted below deck.

Grayson approached his brother. “We’re beached, Captain.”

Lochlanaire spoke, bemused, “Aye, but where?”

Grayson shrugged. “ ‘Til morn dawns we cannot know, I fear. I’ll order a crew to scavenge the hull, seein’ if we’ve breached the ship.”

Lochlanaire pondered his brother’s retreat but, trusting there was little he could do, he returned to the captain’s quarters. Inside was a disheveled disaster. Anything that had lain on the desk and not anchored was thrown as twigs and now littered the floor. The chair that usually graced the desk  traversed a great distance and was flung backward. Brass navigation instruments were scattered throughout the wreckage.

Lochlanaire’s lady treasure sat, huddled on the bed of her prison. Siren’s leg oozed blood, her flesh gashed at the calf, for the chair smashed toward the bed in a hunt for adventure. Siren’s fingers, which cradled her wound, were soaked ruby.

Lochlanaire stepped along what was once his immaculate cabin, searching for cloths to attend her injury and gathered the basin and tin water pitcher, which lost much of its liquid. Lochlanaire righted the chair to skirt the bed. He motioned for Siren to extend her leg in his direction.

Siren shook her head.

“Damn it, lady, I only intend to wash your wound. What sin is this?”

She protested, “Why should I trust you? You could have poisoned the water.”

Lochlanaire’s fingers laced his damp locks. “Now why would I kidnap you from Zore just to poison you?”

Siren explored his eyes and lowered her leg. “Be quick.”

Soaking a cloth, Lochlanaire’s hand ringed her leg. He dabbed the flesh below her knee, caressing higher, enticed to her sultrily presented thigh. The skirt Siren wore exposed her flesh to his enamored attention. Lochlanaire faltered in restraining his traitorous heartbeat.

Intoxicated by his touch, Siren breathed raggedly, for he encircled her knee. Frenzied for restraint herself, she drew inquisitive eyes to the hand that cleansed her cut, seeing the scars that sullied her captor’s wrist. “You’re wounded yourself. Why not tend these?” The chain jingling, Siren fondled the skin which blemished Lochlanaire’s right wrist.

Lochlanaire lurched away as if bitten. “They’re not your concern.” Revolted, he threw a strip of cloth to Siren for her to apply as dressing to her leg while he removed the pitcher and basin. He avoided her glorious raven eyes and began to clear the strewn rubble.

Grayson entered the cabin, having knocked on the door but not awaiting his brother’s reply. His eyes swiped to the woman who sat chained upon the captain’s bed, then he turned in Lochlanaire’s direction. He stuttered, “We’re…beached upon No Man’s Island, Captain. I recognize the stone phantoms appearin’ nearby. The island is deserted but has food aplenty in the treasure of fruits and waterfalls mid land.”

Glum, Lochlanaire nodded. “What is the ship’s condition?”

“Carpenter Nole says the hull’s violated by a considerable crack. It requires repair, obviously. We’ll need to maroon ourselves on land for a few days.” Grayson rubbed his scruffily whiskered chin.

“How far are we from England?”

“Weeks. The storm drifted us far off course. We’re fortunate to have landed so satisfactorily.”

“Prepare a camp, remove anything required from the ship,” ordered Lochlanaire.

Grayson soldiered to the doorway. “There’s a cave near the closest waterfall. It provides a descent shelter.”

“I shall journey there.”

Dismissed, Grayson rushed onto deck, shouting to the men to prepare to discard the ship.

Gathering clothing, while stuffing a satchel, dizziness fogged his quickly blinking eyes. Lochlanaire fumbled and gripped the desk’s rim.
The nightmare prison formed, torches cluttered the cavern as flaming wolves’ teeth. He relived the terrible lashings the prison guard inflicted and Lochlanaire’s arms were shackled between two tall staffs. The guard availed of the flog to bloody the flesh of his bare back. Savagely, Lochlanaire flinched under the whip, his breath labored.

Dizziness subsiding, Lochlanaire ripped himself free of the illusion. He straightened and noted his curious captive. He dragged his eyes away from Siren and began packing those belongings they might require for the duration of their adventure upon the island.

He sheathed his pistol, sword and a knife. Lochlanaire withdrew the skeleton key to the chain and liberated Siren, the key he restrung using a gold necklace, which sparkled around his throat. He tugged on the chain enslaving Siren and jarred her to stand. She objected to obeying his command to step amid the corridor. Lochlanaire pulled his pistol from its scabbard, cocked it, and dared Siren for her treason. She thrust her head high and sashayed along the passage, boarding the crowded deck.

The eyes of every scallywag aboard shot to her as she graced the ship.

Siren staggered backward out of fear, but her abductor stood directly behind and her back blanketed his chest -- she was more terrified of these men than she was of Lochlanaire.

Lochlanaire retrieved a glowing lantern and shoved her to the withdrawn plank. He signaled for Siren to descend, ignoring his men whose wolfish eyes followed his prey’s every foot-stride.

Squishing sand, Lochlanaire trampled for the island’s inner sanctuary, listening to shrieking birds and ghostly trees, leaves dripping rain.

Siren balked, unable to part the rabid darkness. “I refuse to go in there. It is haunted.”

Lochlanaire considered the forest and scoffed, “Nonsense, it is only shadows borne of the night’s ghouls. Come.”

Siren remained motionless.

Lochlanaire strung the satchel over his arm, the lantern dipped the sand, and he holstered the pistol. He flung an arm beneath Siren’s legs; his other braced her back as he carried her and clutched the lantern. He hurried toward the tree line.

Powerless to oppose her body from touching his, she laid her head on his chest, listening to Lochlanaire’s heart thunder. Her arm embraced his neck.

Lochlanaire silenced his embattled soul. This woman tormented him. Her curvy body pressed alluringly against his, Lochlanaire pried his mind to the task of splitting the island forest. Unsure of his destination, Lochlanaire heard the echo of rushing water and walked in the direction of where it rose. He threaded between grappling trees and approached the copse. The breaking moon glinted across the frothy waterfall. Stilling, Lochlanaire lowered Siren’s legs to the ground. He gathered the chain dangling at her wrist and lifted the lantern, finding the cave Grayson portrayed. He advanced on it with Siren dragging her feet, forced to follow. Lochlanaire dropped the chain upon the sandy floor and heaved a massive boulder atop it; the rock such that Siren couldn’t hope to free herself.

She scorned, “Where would I run? Your disgusting men swarm this land and it is an island, how could I escape?”

Sardonic, Lochlanaire answered, “It is a simple precaution, my lady, and you’re correct, you cannot run.” He picked up the lantern and went in search of firewood.

Siren whispered, “Bloody scoundrel.” Exploring the cavern, the only weapons at her fingertips were rocks that cluttered the earth. Could she knock her assailant unconscious using a rock, and then flee? If she escaped the chain, where could she run? The moon light was insufficient to see the rear of the cave; nevertheless, she wondered if the chasm pierced farther, perhaps she could hide therein out of fear. Then what? No ship, other than her foul prison barge waited. What evil would overcome her with those reckless footfalls? Disgruntled, Siren decided to bide time and hope that an escape presented itself.

Siren opposed her captor who offered her a tin trencher beholding boiled vegetables and roasted chicken. Obviously, he’d returned to the ship, for Lochlanaire carried another platter for himself and lugged a batch of chopped wood and another satchel. After stacking the boughs, he ignited the fire, employing the lantern, and motioned for her to eat.

Siren crossed her arms under her breasts. “How do I believe it is not tainted?”

Lochlanaire stole a piece of meat from her meal and chomped. He sneered. “If it is such, I’ll die.”

“I shall laugh and rejoice at your folly,” she snapped, grinning.

Denying her ability to wheedle under his skin, Lochlanaire nonchalantly announced, “There are clothes in yonder satchel. Once finished supping, you can take a bath in the waterfall’s pool.” He munched on his food.

“Not with
you
near,” Siren admonished.

Lochlanaire bit back, “You think I’ll take advantage?”

Siren tugged on the chicken’s meat. “Who knows what
you’re
capable of inflicting. I’ll not willingly be ravished.”

Lochlanaire vaulted onto his feet, tossed the trencher, and throttled the throat of her shirt. “If I wanted rape, Your Highness, I’d have done so long ago. You’re powerless to forbid me.”

Siren recoiled, for the glint tincturing his eyes altered to a yearning she did not wish to witness.

His glance crept to her lips, for she licked their lushness. Lochlanaire’s heart pounded. His mouth ensnared hers in a venomous kiss.

Siren shoved against his chest but she couldn’t break the kiss, and then she itched for his touch. She tugged him closer.

Sensing her ignited passion, Lochlanaire cupped her unbound breast, flicking the nipple to peak.

Siren moaned.

By witchery most foul, mist smothered his fragile mind. Lochlanaire tore his lips away and broke Siren’s embrace. He staggered to the cave’s mouth, for he was webbed under another vision.
This phantom revealed him lying on a bed, his anguished eyes stumbling to the bloodied hole, which speared his left side. Grayson impaled a knife within oozing flesh -- screams violated Lochlanaire’s throat.
Savagely yanked into the present, Lochlanaire scorned the hallucination.

The reaper haunting him so perplexed Siren that she denied her thirst for her persecutor. “Devils belittle you.”

“No,” muttered Lochlanaire, “I
am
the Devil.” He absconded amidst moon lit darkness.

Siren pondered what he said, cradling her legs under her chin. The fire snapped and danced. She remembered her hunger for the brigand who had abducted her from her kidnapper. Was she so weakened by malice that she couldn’t restrain her emotions? Why did she feel anything for this blackguard who said he was the king’s huntsman?

Her dreamy eyes slid to the boulder encaging her. Siren yanked on the chain. It held true, but suddenly, she flopped backward and her foot unearthed a rock. A scheme arose. Siren stretched her chained arm as far as it could reach, and jolting her foot outward, she unburied the rock. Closer, closer the rock journeyed, ‘til Siren gripped it tight. She poised the rock above her head and bashed the chain. The mashed links began to give. Peering toward the cave mouth, Siren beat the rock harder. A corrupted link split. Dropping the boulder, she eased the broken link from the others and liberated the chain, granting her freedom. Siren ran to the cave entry. She couldn’t see the assassin anywhere. Convinced he could be close, she tiptoed in the direction of the opposite way by which he’d journeyed. Siren raced into the gnarled foliage to her left. Tree limbs tore her shirt. Rocks pricked her feet. She scurried along a hill’s incline, looking backward to see if she was pursued.

Siren heard another waterfall’s rush. Lured in its direction, she crushed blooming wild flowers. Her heart pounded. Uncertain of where her captor hovered in wait, Siren pushed herself, aware that this battle for escape was feeble, but perhaps she could hide somewhere until her guards went in search. Possibly, she might sneak to a longboat, rowing into the sea without these brigands ever realizing her deceit. Siren concluded that she must make the attempt. She shoved apart gnarled tree limbs. Upon the crown of the waterfall, she faltered to a standstill. Powerless to catch her balance in mossy-slick water, Siren took a disastrous tumble over the cliff and barely strangled a tree branch. Water showered her body and there she hung. Siren screeched for Lochlanaire.

Lochlanaire returned to the cave only to discover his captive’s mutiny. He pondered the blanched rock she’d applied by which to free herself. Nearby, he found Siren’s sunken steps and trailed her, engaging his sword to severe tree limbs and overgrown flowers from his strides. He hurried up a hill. Close to the crest, he heard a shriek, recognizing it as belonging to Siren. The moon splashed a ghostly shroud over the water. Lochlanaire slid on the waterfall’s crown. Faltering to stand, he caught a low hanging tree limb to keep his balance. He dropped the lantern, which then floated amidst the roar of drowning waves. “Siren?” he shouted, attempting to see the pool below.

“Here,” shrieked her voice. “Here…I’m…here…
help!
”

Lochlanaire stretched the tree bough so he could look over the rim and there he saw a shadowy figure fighting to hold on. “Toss up the chain,” he yelled, over the water’s rumble.

“Are you crazy!?”

“Trust me,” Lochlanaire insisted.

Siren flipped the chain toward the crest. Heaving forward, Lochlanaire grabbed the links and began to tug. Siren surrendered her grip, freeing the tree bough. Screeching, she whooshed across the waterfall’s core. Lochlanaire heaved her to the ridge. Siren dove between his arms, but under her exuberance, Lochlanaire lost his balance. His fingers leapt off the tree that anchored him. They both fumbled over the waterfall, splashing the pool’s depths. Never taught to swim, Siren dipped in and out of waves, crying for Lochlanaire to save her. Lochlanaire swam through the pool and swept underneath Siren, pushing her to the surface, where she linked her arms around his neck in a rapturous embrace. Lochlanaire warred against the emotions of which fired. Her water-silhouetted breasts scalded his chest and a desire for her surged to life. When Siren peered at him, innocently licking wet lips, Lochlanaire couldn’t refuse his craving to kiss her. His lips seized hers, his left hand caressed her breast beneath the soft mantle of her droopy shirt.

Siren was frantic for more of his touch.

Lochlanaire squelched his lust, tore his lips from hers and helped her to shore. When Siren’s feet touched the ground, he trudged from the pool. Another apparition spelled by his past intruded.
A forest enveloped him and a man’s voice counted steps. Lochlanaire saw his own boot strides; a loaded, cocked pistol he crimped in his hand. He witnessed the duel, the one by which he was convicted of murder.
He strode to a tree bordering the water’s edge, his hand cringed its bark.

Siren studied him, concerned that he was twisted by some sort of mystical wizardry. She left the pool, seeking her abductor. She caressed his back, comforting, for she did not understand the cruelties afflicting him.

Lochlanaire spun on her, throttled her hand and shoved it away. His fingers ringed her throat and squeezed. He whirled from the past and suddenly recognized his villainy. Lochlanaire released her.

Siren backed off, cuddling her bruised throat.

Lochlanaire retrieved her chain, forcing them to the cave that had become her prison. Inside, he picked up a giant rock and felled it upon her chain, flinging far distant the rock she’d commanded in her flight for freedom, sure no others were available for her to employ in another escape. Lochlanaire retreated and was lost in the forest.

Siren was left to wonder what demons throttled him in turmoil.

With his eventual return, Lochlanaire found Siren asleep. He dumped over the smoldering fire the batch of limbs he’d chopped and lit them to crackle. He sat behind the lacy flame, guzzling wine from the decanter he’d pillaged from the ship. He watched the beauty sleep. She must be frightened of him. Lochlanaire understood, he was terrorized himself, for he knew so little about what he’s capable of inflicting. He could have strangled her to death at the waterfall, all because he’s not in rule of his memories. The assassin in him obviously is so ingrained that he twirled into a murderous creature. He was truly barbaric. He must keep his distance.

Waking, Siren found her enslaver clad under a veil the fire enchanted. She couldn’t say if Lochlanaire was tangled by the labyrinths that enfolded him, but she lay perfectly still, not craving to test providence.

Lochlanaire’s eyes rose and drifted to Siren. “I’m regretful for strangling you.”

“Are you?”

“It was not my intension to cause harm,” Lochlanaire muttered, standing and then turning away from her perceptive eyes, eyes which seduced him to drown in their depths.

“What demons possess you?”