Blackheart (7 page)

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 darkness, 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.

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 her 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.