Blackheart

by Raelle Logan

  Grayson considered his brother. “Why seduce the woman, Lochlanaire?”

  Lochlanaire acknowledged, “She’s more inclined to surrender to my desire if she’s governed by the heart.”

  “Ah, you plot for her to fall for you, then, with little vexation, you shall gift your captive to King William.”

  “Aye.”

  “It is quite the intrigue you knot. I wonder if you shall be caught in the snare yourself,” Grayson apprised.

  “You think I cannot forsake her when necessary?” Lochlanaire scowled, distraught.

  Grayson affirmed, “Perhaps. She’s a gorgeous temptress. Few could reject her seduction.” Thoughtful, he rubbed his chin. “Why do we sail with her request?”

  Needful of a distraction, Lochlanaire pondered the sails billowing under the breeze. “Siren claims a sister exists, her twin, a woman who is completely unaware of her kinship to King James II and her threat to King William. This sister could double my reward if we enslave her.”

  “Double treasure, double threat, say I.”

  “My unease is that Zore’s already learned of the sister’s existence and he’s sailed, hunting her.”

  “Thus her life is exceptionally endangered. Zore would rather butcher than imprison. A treacherous king cares little if he receives the whole prize. The severed head of the maiden is sufficient proof, especially if she bears a resemblance to the lass we chain below ship.”

  “Such I’ve considered. This signet,” Lochlanaire stretched his pinky outward, the sun glinted the ruby. “Perhaps another exists, a twin treasure so beautifully jeweled. King James is no fool. He must assume that if he never reclaims the throne then perhaps his children, even those illicitly bred, could stake a claim, but they required something of him, a trinket providing ancestral testimony.”

  “Two rings?”

  “What other talisman for evidence proving their claim on the British throne?”

  Grayson couldn’t derive another source. “Seems sufficient.”

  As the island’s towering peaks appeared in his sights, Lochlanaire wished to silence malevolent musings. Siren’s rapturous body and angry eyes seared his mind. Instead of the slivery tiller, he felt her silky flesh beneath his hands. Grayson, he fretted, might be correct in his assumption of his inability to deny her, but his freedom -- no, his life -- demanded that he recover the power. He must seduce the woman in order to keep her acquiescence, but what should prevail if he couldn’t suppress her touch of his heart? What Siren said, reminding him of his wedding and ravishing of her bit as sharks teeth. Could he renounce her after loving her body so lustfully and not once, several times he’d bedded her? Suddenly his thoughts swirled evermore grotesque…what if Siren became with child…could he sacrifice her and his unborn babe?

  Oh, what fiendishness life ruinously reaped.

  ***

  Anchored in the harbor glimmering Pirate Quay, the ship, Satan’s Victory swam. Lochlanaire ordered time off vessel. The pirates aboard were authorized to row ashore in clusters in the hopes of keeping them tied to some semblance of restraint, although he believed his expectation for opposing their atrocities was a frivolous thought.

  Grayson having told him that a boarding house was structured mid hill of the island, where meals could be taken in relative quiet, Lochlanaire decided to escort Siren to this log cabin but only if she promised not to leave his side. He did not wish to lure attention to himself or the ship if he chaperoned her about the streets under imprisonment of chains and irons.

  Lochlanaire tread across the captain’s quarters and was pierced by Siren’s eyes, which quite clearly attested to her detestation of him. He unlocked the iron.

  Siren observed him, curious of why he offered this freedom.

  “Pledge not to escape me and you row ashore with me for a meal to be supped at the boarding house. Decline to utter such oath and I leave you here to rot,” he chastised.

  Siren itched to spew words of loathing, instead she agreed to his accord, “I shall walk alongside Your Lordship as though chains arrest my feet to yours. Are my words sufficient testimony, Captain Blackheart?”

  Lochlanaire nodded. “Heed me wisely, Siren. My hand is quick. I’ll slay you if you disobey.” He cuffed the sword hilt that swayed next to his hip.

  Siren relented, curtsying.

  Aboard deck, Lochlanaire and Siren descended the rope and wood ladder to the longboat where it swished the water. Once she sat on a plank seat, Lochlanaire rowed them to the island hamlet. After he assisted Siren to walk the log pier, they strolled amidst the quaint town. Structured appeared log cabins, a carpenter applied his trade, crafting longboats ashore. A tavern was noisily immersed, melodies wafted, men off those ships anchored drank and gamed. Siren was reminded of the Virginian, conjuring the phantom who sat amongst the darkness of its shadows, that fiend, her abductor, Zore. She silenced the vision, lazing beside Lochlanaire, who clasped her cocked elbow.

  A buxom woman, beholding a mop of coiffed, glaring red hair, the throat of her matching gown barely covering bulging breasts, exited a shop, bumping Lochlanaire, who in turn jostled Siren. She foraged for her balance. “Oh, my, excuse my clumsy rudeness.” Arising, Irish green eyes explored his. She was nearly jarred upon her knees. “Gracious be the Devil, Lochlanaire?”

  Not recognizing this garishly dressed female, Lochlanaire stammered, “Do… do… um… am I acquainted with you?”

  She blushed to ruby roots, fingers strumming her chest. “My word, I ought to say. We’ve had occasion to become closer than close. Intimately. You remember, surely?” She smiled.

  Confused, Lochlanaire looked at Siren, who was angrily fuming. Once more, he turned his attention to the woman. “Perhaps a name refreshes my wayward memory?”

  “Claressa.”

  Lochlanaire could see that Claressa was beginning to be miffed owing to the fact that he couldn’t recall her. He professed, “My memory, Claressa, is clouded. My past, I regret to inform, is nonexistent.”

  Claressa flinched. “My word. You do not remember the devilish times you lay naked in my arms?”

  Lochlanaire gulped. “You must pardon me, Claressa. My dreadfully devastated memory steals even a dalliance so undeniably pleasurable.” He smiled enticingly.

  Siren huffed, arms woven across her chest, agitated by this scandalous conversation. She snappily spoke to the indecent strumpet, “Pardon my indelicacy, but as Lochlanaire is my husband, I believe I ought to introduce myself…my name is Siren Blackheart.”

  The woman rebuffed. “Married? You, Lochlanaire? I hardly trust such a ridiculous affirmation.”

  Siren reprimanded, “That’s correct; he married me, not someone such as you...”

  Claressa flushed with Siren’s obvious defamation of her character and brooked a step, intending to slash her fist across Siren’s face.

  Lochlanaire stepped between his wife and the irate strumpet, curtailing their hunt for bloodshed. “Ladies, please, a tussle is hardly necessary.” Speaking to Claressa, he soothed, “I’m sure you understand, Claressa, my marriage now begs that propriety dictate my actions. I admit, our time together must have been delightful. Alas, this day I vow that my hand belongs to another. I declare myself engaged in matrimony. A woman of your magnificence sympathizes, assuredly.” He winked.

  Claressa nodded, fluffing curly locks. “I shall miss our heavenly trysts, Lochlanaire, nevertheless.” She curtsied, revealing much of her chest to his discerning eyes. Afterward, she glowered at Siren, nobly taking her leave, hips sashaying.

  “What a disgusting whore,” grumbled Siren.

  His head cocked sideways, Lochlanaire pondered Claressa’s leave-taking, surmising head to toe, imagining the woman naked.

  Siren fired indignation. “Lochlanaire, don some rule of propriety and cease in drooling.” Her fingers stabbed his side where he’d been shot.

  “Ouch. Damn it, Siren, that hurt as talons.” Lochlanaire rubbed the flesh, which burned under her speared fingernails.


  “You’re bloody married to me, yet you drool over a bawdy tart. It is insulting.”

  “I have never thought of us as being wed, therefore my drooling over any woman, strumpet or no, means not a smattering to you,” Lochlanaire insisted.

  Siren stalked off, for tears stung her sorrowful eyes.

  Having needlessly battered her, Lochlanaire caught up to Siren. He restrained her arm, halting her by twirling Siren to challenge him. “You bloody think of us as honestly married.”

  Siren lowered her eyes, not wanting to admit her feelings.

  Lochlanaire seized her chin and compelled Siren to explore his gaze. The tears flooding her saddened glance knifed to his heart. “You do, my God. You truly think we’re wed.”

  Siren went to yank her chin away but was unable. Tears rolled down her cheeks. “Yes, damn you, I believe us married. I have since the moment that gypsy prod us to take our first kiss as husband and wife, when you swore to love me for eternity, Lochlanaire.”

  His skin crawled. “I…what the Hell…I swore to love you for eternity? When…when did I say that, Siren?”

  “As you repeated what the man said to us. You promised to love me evermore.”

  Lochlanaire was stunned. “By Hellfire, you understood what that devil gypsy said?”

  “Yes, Lochlanaire. Some of his words were unknown to me, but I beheld enough by which to say, without question, that we agreed to love each other and each other only.” Jarring her chin loose of his slackened fingers, for he paled, Siren trampled in the boarding house’s direction.

  “Siren,” Lochlanaire shouted, “Hellfire and damnation, Siren, wait.” He blocked her attempt at evasion. “Siren, please. Come now, you cannot…we were forced to marry…it was a gypsy wedding, a ridiculous ritual, for Heaven’s sake.”

  “Gypsy wedding or not, Lochlanaire, I accepted you for husband. You took me for wife.”

  “I bedded you.” He considered. “Apparently, I’ve had my share of conquests, but, Siren…”

  Siren skirted around him. “I’m no conquest, Lochlanaire. I’m your wife. To the end, I shall proclaim myself until I die. I surrendered my body to you. I’m yours.”

  Lochlanaire watched her mount the stairs guiding to the boarding house. Shaking his head, he followed Siren’s sunken footsteps, disgruntled by her admission. Within the house, Lochlanaire and Siren were greeted. The proprietor escorted them to a lace-curtained window, where nearby stood a round table endowed under feathery lace, lit candle fluttering mid furnishing. The proprietor ordered wine brought to their table, then filled the goblets, and excused himself, seeing to the food wanted. Glum, Lochlanaire observed Siren, who pouted, her forlorn eyes lowered to her lap upon which she laced her hands. “We’ll…we’ll request an annulment. There’s surely someone dwelling upon this heathen island who can preside over such a sacrament,” Lochlanaire bluntly announced.

  As if lightning struck, Siren attacked, “You think to wed me, loving my body countless times and then just reject me as foul rubbish?”

  Lochlanaire was so astonished by her chastising he scuttled to appease, “We scarcely know each other, Siren. Please, consider our absurd situation…I’m the king’s huntsman,” he whispered so no nearby soul could overhear. “You’re a captive woman who must despise me for every crime I’ve wrought, past or present. How do you sit there and say that you hunger to remain married to me?” Noting her unadulterated silence, Lochlanaire began to understand. “Ah, I see, you plot to exploit our marriage, influencing me so I’ll not ignite the supremacy by which to surrender you to King William?” It was a cruel question that haunted him too.

  “I…” The food ordered was delivered to the table, deflecting Siren from speaking. Lifting her spoon, she picked through the steaming Shepherd’s pie.

  Lochlanaire shook his head. “Our marriage is a farce, Siren. You cannot suggest otherwise.”

  “What would you do, Lochlanaire, if you lay, captured in the snare of the king’s assassin…wouldn’t you seek anything for which to alter your destructive fate?” Siren’s eyes begged. “My life lies in your rule…can you see that I must do everything within my power to live? If that means staying married to you so you cannot abandon me to the will of a cutthroat monarch, I’ll do so.”

  Lochlanaire guzzled the wine staining his goblet, and then poured another. Clearly she’d refuse to allow him to annul the marriage. He understood. Unfortunately, he dared not think of this woman as truly his wife or she’d be correct -- he would not relinquish her to the deadly trap that a horrid king spins. Somehow, he must fulfill the mark he’d signed. If he failed, he could be certain of one truth…King William will haunt him to the ends of the earth and would execute him, or, at the very least, return him to the entrails of purgatory inside a castle dungeon which is only rivaled by Satan’s hellish asylum. Mysteriously they were entwined. How malicious was this twisted labyrinth forged by providence.

  “I understand, Siren.”

  “Do you, Lochlanaire?”

  “Unconscionable executioner, or not, I would arise the same steps you presently poise should I stand as prisoner. However, you must confess that our union, which was spelled by treachery, is no sacred marriage and cannot be sanctioned proper -- no British law ordains it relevant. The king shall not be convinced of its morality even if I profess it such.”

  “It is a lawful marriage regardless of your insistence otherwise. I, Lochlanaire, demand its legitimacy.”

  “Bloody Hell. Siren, you are the most aggravating woman I’ve ever met!” Miffed, he drooped against the chair back, arms woven over his chest, legs outward thrust.

  “Do you remember any other women?”

  Lochlanaire sardonically admitted, “No, by hellfire and damnation, you’re the only insane woman I possess any memory of, Siren.”

  “Could it be, Lochlanaire, that there’s a reason for you remembering me as the only woman you’ve ever loved? Perhaps your memory wishes for no conquest other than your conquering of me and you sincerely are wed to me within your darkened mind, perhaps amidst your soured soul, if nothing else.”

  Lochlanaire admired her fervor for the conflict. “I concede for the moment, Siren, though naught have you gained.”

  Shrugging, Siren smiled and ate at bite of the sumptuous fair gifted to her. “I continue the fight, or rather…the seduction,” she whispered the last words.

  Famished to quench his starvation for her, Lochlanaire strangled the wine decanter and poured another chalice full. Rancorously he peered at Siren while he drank, distraught, fearful that she just might indeed glean a victory, tempting him to submit to her in a lusty union of the souls.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Masquerade

  Within the hamlet of Pirate Quay that night, under glittery moon light and breeze-swishing lanterns, was a dance -- a masquerade. Siren pleaded to Lochlanaire for them to attend, for the ship would not be prepared for them to take their leave until morn. They could laze away the eve at the dance, then slumber at the boarding house. Lochlanaire inquired of Grayson to arrange for appropriate dress and masks to be purchased from the seamstress. Siren felt elated, for she’d never been invited to an actual ball. She remembered that, sadly, her mother died while attending a masquerade. Presently Siren questioned if someone purposefully shot her mother. The sisters were told that she’d been accidentally slain after a pistol was shot which was supposed to be emptied of its ball, the man carelessly wielding it dressed as a masked pirate. The shooter was never held responsible for her mother’s death, as he vanished in the night. Siren wondered now if this mystical slayer was hired by someone owing to the fact that her mother was the king’s mistress -- a disturbing question she feared she’d never learn the answer to.

  Inside the captain’s quarters that eve, Siren was earlier attended by the blond-haired, petite seamstress into a royal blue gown which swept the floor in glistening waves, the bone corset beautifully exposed her breasts along the dipping bodice’s throat. Her black hair adorned her head w
ith upswept curls, tendrils tickling her cheeks. A mask of misty blue feathers disguised Siren’s face, tied at the rear; a hand-held fan brushed delicate fingers. Speculating on her image in the full-length mirror, Siren became enthralled, for a princess emerged. Siren then realized that had she been born amidst the royal ancestry she should have inherited, she would indeed be ordained that princess. What a fanciful realm such must be, every whim fulfilled to her heart’s desire, servants bound to her beck and call, diamonds glinting her throat and ears, a tiara twinkling her head.

  Shrugging, Siren wandered aboard the ship. Near the doorway stoop, she froze, her eyes slowly descending the muscled body of her disconcerted husband who dallied footfalls distant, speaking to Grayson. Lochlanaire wore dark blue satin, his puffy shirt sleeves cuffing ‘round his wrists. Linen breeches braced his muscular legs, and a black sash ringed his waist. The muscles of his thighs bulged, tall boots sheathed to his knees. Siren knew in this moment that she’d absolutely lied when she’d confessed to Lochlanaire that the only reason she wanted to stay married to him was because he cradled her life in his palm. No, she aches for Lochlanaire more than she longed to breathe.

  Siren quieted sordid emotions and broke the stoop’s shadows. She sashayed to her husband. Lochlanaire was even more breath-stealing once facing her. His eyes beguiled, framed by a softened leather mask. His ebony hair he’d combed to a tail, the mass clasped in wispy blue silk, coursing down his back. His shirt laces slit, chest to waist, the shirt folds seductively parted.

  He enfolded her graceful fingertips and Lochlanaire’s eyes caressed head to toe. He almost was so bewildered by Siren’s beauty that he couldn’t take a step. Unfortunately, he silenced his intoxicating lust and guided her to the ship’s flank, where he assisted her, stepping down the wood ladder to the longboat. His hands released Siren’s slender waist after her slipper-clad feet touched the boat. While he rowed the vessel, Lochlanaire kept his concentration locked on the hamlet. Once he threw the anchoring rope to the man who guards the pier, he jumped from the rocky craft, assisting Siren, who gathered the gown’s hem, exiting regally.