Blackheart

by Raelle Logan

  Precisely across from Siren, the tormentor paused. His gaze slowly slipped down her body. “Oh, I see the difference. Have you failed to deduce it yourself? You wanted to conquer that which you’re confident will forbid Lochlanaire from allowin’ you to be slaughtered by an unmerciful king. Blood yields imprisonment, Siren. Am I mistaken?”

  Siren could question this fiend no longer, for he strode amongst the fray aboard the ship and never triggered a shot. He split the men as shrouded ghost. What was his meaning? Siren heard him say again, ‘Blood yields imprisonment.’ Siren remembered. Those were nearly the exact words Grayson spoke to her once, only he’d said ‘blood demands enslavement.’

  Siren discarded the battle progressing wildly aboard ship. Her hand slithered to her stomach. Could she be with child and the executioner somehow sensed it? Siren rushed to the captain’s quarters and dropped the saber upon the desk. She lifted her shirt and unlaced the breeches she wore; her fingertips skittered the flesh of her belly. That was when she realized it was not as smooth as it had been. Did a cold felon witness changes in her that she’d never seen? He chillingly had, or he wouldn’t have said what he did. As well, he knew of her plot to conceive a child so to oppose Lochlanaire from abandoning her to the king. But is she having Lochlanaire’s babe? If so, it boded of a destructive disservice. Siren cradles in her womb an assassin’s seed.

  Awash in dread and yet elation too, Siren almost fainted. She clasped the pitcher and sprayed water over her face. Did she achieve her goal, sparing her life? Skeptical, Siren questioned if she ought to tell Lochlanaire. Perhaps she should wait, but for what? If told about the babe’s existence, what will Lochlanaire do? Could he cause pain, so insidious that she’d lose the child?

  Remembering what the charlatan walking this ship applied in deceit, Siren recalled the sins executed, those murders he insisted mirror her husband’s past assassinations. If they are accurate representations, then Lochlanaire is capable of anything, even with his defiled memory. The mercenary, however, could be lying. How must she be sure?

  Employing the shrewder half of valor, Siren decided to lie regarding the possibility of the child, for she was not convinced it existed. Honestly, she feared what Lochlanaire would do if informed that his child grew in her womb.

  Shots burst aboard the ship.

  Siren was reminded of the clash continuing without. She trussed up her lacings, retrieved the saber, and bounded for the main deck. Bravely, she lit between the cutlass flailing men, striking the first assailant she came across. He donned a patch where once his left eye dwelled and leered at her. His weapon whooshed skyward. Siren defended. Lochlanaire apparently taught her admirably, for Siren noted where her foe thought to employ his weapon. She deflected. The pirate’s blade wrenched from his hold and twirled. The ocean swallowed its sacrifice. Siren threatened her stunned adversary. The pirate took his leave. Siren parried against another man to victory. She battled poisonously until she came upon a silvery-eyed, black-haired scoundrel. Spellbound by his stormy eyes, imposing height, and handsomely chiseled features, she almost forgot to lift her saber. He blocked her every defense. Siren’s weapon clattered against his.

  He effortlessly avoided her attack. “A woman coddlin’ a babe shouldn’t be so bloodthirsty,” he suggested.

  Startled, Siren realized just who her foe was, sputtering, “You’re the butcher.”

  He nodded and his ebony hair streaked his shoulders. “Is it fittin’ that I should duel on the side of those I hunt?”

  Siren circled toward him and memorized his appearance. “Do you not think that I’ll point you out for the destroyer you are to my husband?”

  “I shall easily vanish, swallowed by the fray.”

  “Who are you? You seem familiar,” Siren questioned.

  “My name is Thorn, Siren, that’s all you need learn. Oh, and let’s keep my name secret, shall we? I’d not want Lochlanaire to recognize it. Then again, with his bloody lack of memory, he probably will not. Nevertheless, if you inform him of me, beware, Siren, if he uncovers my full identity, I’ll shoot him. What, then, shall become of your darlin’ sister? It is wise, for everyone’s sake, if you leave me to wreck my ruin, sparin’ your sister a torturous death executed by Zore. Remember, I can slaughter Lochlanaire any time.” He struck her saber, tearing it from her. Thorn ensnared her and dragged her to lie against his chest, holding her between his legs. He whispered near her ear, his teeth gnarled, “Aye, it is dangerous for a lady who cradles the spawn of the Devil to battle one such as me.” He dashed Siren to falter for her balance. “I’m off to forge another death.” Thorn vanished amongst the scathing pirates, whistling an eerie tune.

  Siren observed his departure, her chest heaving. Her despaired gaze cut along the sparring pirates for her sword-brandishing husband. Lochlanaire was too ingrained in the war to notice her adversary, the fiend who taunted him and now threatened her sister, demanding that she keep his identity sacred or risk Shevaun’s death and Lochlanaire’s.

  Too disgruntled to continue the fight, Siren walked through the corridor, escorted her to Lochlanaire’s quarters, and there she waged a cruel war against her embattled conscience. If she told Lochlanaire about the butcher, Thorn would kill Lochlanaire and Shevaun dies too. But if she secluded the blasphemy and others die because she veiled this secret, is she not guilty of spelling the deaths of innocents?

  Siren stared upon the darkened water glinting under the crescent moon.

  Blood splashed, Lochlanaire entered the captain’s quarters long after the battle ended. The pirates off the Ranger and Satan’s Victory were successful in killing most of the men who opposed them, and the two blockading ships were sunk in the fight, pillaged of their precious cargos. Flipping gold doubloons, Lochlanaire found Siren standing by the window. “The ships are sunk, the conflict fought to our victory.”

  “I’m pleased.”

  Disgruntled by her lifeless voice, Lochlanaire strode to Siren. He tossed the coins upon the desk. “You battled courageously.” Lochlanaire leaned on the desk’s polished façade.

  Siren confronted him, curious. “You saw me fight?”

  “Aye. You were quite ruthless.”

  Siren returned her attention to the sea. “Did you see the men I parried against?”

  “I paid no heed to them,” confessed Lochlanaire without trepidation.

  She nodded. “One of them was the man who haunts your ship, blood starved, Lochlanaire.”

  “You dueled the mercenary? Are you assured it was him?” Lochlanaire’s brow furled.

  “Yes. I recognized his voice, and he admitted his maliciousness,” Siren frostily announced.

  “Can you describe him?”

  “He bears your stature, is muscular and handsome. His eyes are piercing gray, he possesses black hair and is sickeningly insane. He warns that if his identity is uncloaked, he’ll kill you. He, as well, said that the murders aboard the ship are reflections, depicting your past hunts.”

  Lochlanaire was almost ill himself. “He kills in order to torture me.”

  “To lure you to remember what assassinations you’ve executed.”

  Disconcerted, Lochlanaire rubbed his clean-shaven chin and moved to where his clothing lay stored, untying his shirt. He considered. Why did his tormentor seek Siren’s council? What enticed him to her? Was it vengeance throttled against him? If his mercenary’s crucifixions are ruled to torture, the slayer accomplished his objective, especially for he’d now learned that the killings are phantoms divulging his past. Lochlanaire washed the blood from his flesh. He removed the smeared shirt, changing into a clean blue silk, the laces left untied to his waist. Perplexed, he confessed to Siren, “I’m distraught, Siren. It’s never been my intention for you to be threatened by this beast.” To her, he sauntered, standing behind her.

  “If he kills you…” Siren could not finish her sentence. Tears flooded her eyes.

  “He’ll not, and we’ll save Shevaun.”

  Siren shook her head. �
��She’s not the only one I’m fearful for, Lochlanaire. I’m frightened…for you.”

  Lochlanaire couldn’t trust that she may still care for him after discovering his maniacal execution of her mother and now seeing that because of him, Shevaun’s life is endangered by two brutal monsters. “Come.” Lochlanaire coerced Siren to face him. He was startled by the tears twinkling in her eyes. Lochlanaire, however, sensed something disguised behind her gaze. “What do you seclude from me?”

  Siren shook her head. “Nothing, I’m afraid. For us all.”

  “I clearly cannot imprison our violator. He’s wise enough to keep his sanctuary masked, evading my mightily armed men. Now he baits me, proposing maliciousness against you. He’s confident that his purposes cannot be spoiled or he’d not have revealed himself to you,” Lochlanaire professed.

  Why she did not reveal the name the executioner conveyed to her, Siren couldn’t say, for she’d told Lochlanaire everything else the killer warned her not to divulge. What prevented her from saying the barbarian’s name?

  Lochlanaire enticed her to the bed. He blew out the lanterns, then he lay beside her, trapping Siren against the wall. Tears falling, Siren crept her hand, slithering Lochlanaire’s chest. Her head cradled his shoulder.

  His fingers laced Siren’s ebony hair and he struggled to silence his lust for her. He listened to his wife’s calming breathing as she languished asleep. Lochlanaire sighed, convinced that never could he resist this intoxicating woman who began to signify the world to him.

  Lochlanaire wrenched apart his memories; wanton to uncover anyone violating his past who compares to the man Siren claims is their mercenary. Alas, no ghoul with gray eyes and his stature could he stir to memory. Perhaps Grayson would provide an answer. He’d see to him after resting this night.

  How to poison his feelings for Siren and ward off her guileful skill to seduce, all the while staying alive so he’ll eventually be slaughtered by Zore, sparing Shevaun. Should he not survive Zore’s revenge, so he presumed, what will become of Siren and her sister? The warrant for Siren’s life is far from fulfilled. King William would unquestionably ordain another hunter to search for her.

  Cruelly, alas, another, far more destructive question ghostly attacked…what would become of his wife if he’s not slain?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Baring Deceit

  Twisted in nightmares while cuddled between Siren’s arms, Lochlanaire slept but restlessly that eve. The dulling eyes of those he’d assassinated he envisioned and he relived their eerie screams. In the dreams, he ran, enfolded by a labyrinth of blackness. Lochlanaire then heard the death dirge echo and found himself suddenly imprisoned in Heathgate prison, relentlessly tortured.

  Jerked awake, Lochlanaire’s harried glance dipped to his sleeping wife. He realized that he’d not awoken her with his curt resurgence into the present. Lochlanaire drooped upon the bed. His fingers strayed down Siren’s silken-sheathed body to her stomach. He froze. Curious, Lochlanaire lifted her un-tucked shirt. Why did he not see this? Siren’s skin was not as silky as it had been on the night of their gypsy wedding and at every exquisite time he’d loved her to furious ecstasy. Had she discovered that she is with child and disguised it for dastardly purposes? But why hide the truth when conceiving his babe at her ceaseless seductions was her desire? Alas, by revealing his treason in shooting her mother, she must be vilified by him. Is this why she’d not told him of the child her womb nestled?

  Disturbed, he untwisted himself from Siren’s languid arms and slouched before the desk’s front. Lochlanaire prod himself to the sea’s lapping waves, bewildered by disturbing, unanswered questions.

  Siren awoke, exploring the darkness for her husband. She found Lochlanaire standing at the desk, his left leg cocked over the other’s ankle, his arms woven over his chest. The moon haloed him exquisitely. Sitting up, she felt dizzy and moaned.

  Lochlanaire lit a lantern in the course and strode to her. “Is something amiss?”

  Siren shook her head and regretted her infraction, illness washed. “No. I…”

  “You’ve conceived my child, Siren. Is this what you shield from me?”

  Siren gasped. “What? No.”

  “Did you know about the babe?”

  Rankled by his suspicious inquisitions, Siren eased to the bed’s rim and stood, challenging his damning glare. “I couldn’t be convinced. I still am not. Why do you accuse me of deceit, Lochlanaire?”

  “Am I wrong to do so? I sensed you were veiling something. I questioned you. Why disguise that you could be bearing my babe?”

  “It is simply so, Lochlanaire…could. I did not wish to tell you if I did not possess the absolute sincerity,” Siren confided.

  “Did you intend to tell me?”

  “Why deny this, Lochlanaire? What possible reason could I have that demands such sedition?”

  “Because of my treachery in assassinating your mother, you embrace hatred for me. Siren, you behold no injustice in that, but I’ve a right to be told of my child.” At his sides, Lochlanaire’s hands clenched into fists.

  Siren chided, “A child you do not want any more than you crave to be wedded to me. You’ve made it painfully clear, Lochlanaire. I’m a burden to you. The babe I carry, if I carry a child, is my troublesome plight and mine only.”

  Rage fired Lochlanaire. “The child is mine, just as distinctly as it is yours, Siren. You’re not entitled to refuse me the knowledge of its existence.”

  “I possess every right. You’re sworn to discard me to a merciless king, Lochlanaire. I cannot expect otherwise, even with the fact that you’ve sired a child, should you have.” Siren withdrew to the window. “I…I was afraid,” meekly she muttered, her voice cracking. Siren hung her head, ashamed. “I was troubled. I thought you could plot something.”

  “Plot…what?” Aggravated, Lochlanaire forced Siren to turn so he could search her mournful eyes.

  “Lochlanaire, a child is a threat.”

  “A threat?”

  “Yes. To you, to King William. You’re the king’s huntsman. I assumed…”

  “Assumed…what?”

  Tugging away, Siren escaped to the middle of the cabin. “I felt terrorized. I thought you might try to wound.”

  “To wound…who?”

  “Me. The babe,” Siren proclaimed.

  Lochlanaire understood. He was crushed by her admission. “You believed I’d wound you if you are with child?”

  She nodded.

  “My God, Siren, you honestly think I’d hurt you?”

  “I imagined the worst. You’ve pledged a solemn oath of allegiance, Lochlanaire. You must grant my imprisonment to the king. If you do not yield…”

  Lochlanaire interrupted, “If I do not submit to my king, I’ll die. You were convinced that because I’m a merciless assassin a babe jeopardizes my life and therefore I must hunger for its death. Is this what you assumed?”

  Stinging tears filled Siren’s eyes. “I was agonized. I thought you’d be drawn to seize actions by which to force me to…”

  “To wreak the child’s destruction.” God, he couldn’t believe she’d think this. He understood her reasoning, for he’d not offered her any cause to trust differently. Why wouldn’t she damn him capable of crucifying an unborn child?

  Stricken, having deeply offended him, Siren approached the desk, shattered by Lochlanaire’s burdened eyes. “I was wretchedly mistaken, Lochlanaire. Please, forgive me for my outrage.”

  He shook his head. “No, you are correct. I’m said to be an executioner suffering no conscience, it is why King William insisted on me for the task of sailing you to England. He’s positive that I’m malevolent. However…”

  “What will you do if I’ve conceived your child, Lochlanaire?”

  “I must consider, Siren.” Lochlanaire circled her, striding to the door.

  “I require an answer,” Siren’s voice begged.

  “You’ll have it. Eventually.” Lochlanaire took his exodus.


  Siren was left confused and more anguished than before she’d been coerced to admit to the possibility of the child’s existence. She wilted upon the bed and wept ‘til there were no tears left to cry.

  ***

  Lochlanaire boarded the helm deck, where his brother guided the tiller. He eased to hand the steering of the ship, not speaking a word.

  “We’re not distant of an inhabited island, Lochlanaire. Do we anchor?” Grayson asked, peering through the spyglass.

  “Aye. We’ll replenish the coffers and resume the voyage,” Lochlanaire murmured.

  “You’re distraught, why?”

  “My wife might be with child.”

  Grayson paled. “My Lord. If she is…?”

  “If Siren is, I must betray King William and my vow as his knightly defender. I’m a dead man,” Lochlanaire smirked.

  “Your rejection of the king is precisely what Siren longed for by seducin’ you, Lochlanaire.”

  “I’m confident, Grayson, that I’ve sired our babe,” announced Lochlanaire.

  “You must be properly wed for the union to be sanctioned in the eyes of English law, Lochlanaire. If it can be claimed such, you could lure the king to abandon his hunt, liberatin’ Siren from the death dealer.”

  “Agreed. I’ll see to this upon anchorage at the island we sail to. I intend to drag my wife; kicking and screaming, if needs be, to a rector.” Lochlanaire slyly grinned. “I, unquestionably, will have to do it with her cuffed in irons, but lawfully wedded Siren and I will be.” Disgruntled, Lochlanaire mulled on if a union chaste by British standards would be sufficient to spare Siren from the demon hunting her. Sadly, he couldn’t say.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Zore’s Enlightening Letter

  At King George, an island waving native trees braced by a hilly mid land and a snug hamlet, the two ships anchored in the harbor’s coral jut. Siren stood near the captain’s quarter’s window, mulling on her future. Sighing, Siren laced arms over her chest and longed for the journey’s end, anxious to learn what destiny bore in mind for her. Still, she was unable to say if she’d conceived Lochlanaire’s child.