Blackheart (11 page)

“Not if I surrender to her seduction as though nothing wounds me other than the destructive apparitions my past fires.”

“Can you…can you ravish Siren knowin’ you are her mother’s slayer?”

Lochlanaire couldn’t say if he could or not. He quelled Grayson’s inquiry, throwing himself amidst the captaincy of the ship. Nevertheless, the question haunted until he thought he’d run raving mad.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Between Cutthroat
and Assassin

Long out to sea, Lochlanaire strode to his quarters and released Siren of the iron imprisoning her wrist. Siren changed from the ball gown she wore to the masquerade, slipping on one of Lochlanaire’s oversized shirts and hugging sable breeches, noticing her husband’s severe stance. He stilled in front the window, denying the yearning to look upon her naked flesh.

Siren sauntered across the cabin, her fingers feathered across Lochlanaire’s back. “What disturbs you, Lochlanaire?”

He sucked in a ragged breath. “Secrets are fissures of an assassin’s existence, Siren.”

“You hide something from me?”

Lochlanaire confronted her. “I secret a thousand nightmares, a thousand degradations.” His gaze caressed her chest, for Siren’s billowy shirt laces lay untied, seducing his attention to her breasts that were nearly fully bared. Lochlanaire groaned, aching to touch her.

Slyly, Siren proclaimed, “You hunger for me.”

“To the depths of my roguish soul,” he declared. “The ship, regrettably, requires its captain. I return to command, obliged to leave us both unsatisfied.”

Siren sashayed alongside him amidst the corridor and stepped onto deck, eventually pausing near the helm deck’s rail. Lochlanaire regained the captaincy, his glacial eyes perched upon the ship’s stem, hands strangling the vessel’s tiller.

Grayson approached Siren and draped his arms across the ship’s edge, his unrestrained black hair drifted under the whisper of the cool breeze.

Siren looked toward the sea. “Lochlanaire says he cossets secrets from me.”

Grayson smugly grinned. “Such an affirmation is not astonishin’.”

“Did Lochlanaire tell you about the memory that battered him at the masquerade on Pirate Quay?” Siren studied her husband’s brother, wary of any reaction broached by her questions.

Grayson attested, “Aye.”

“Who did he remember shooting?”

Cautious, Grayson replied, “Lochlanaire does not always possess the names of those he hunts.”

“Perhaps his tattered memory declines to permit him to summon the names, or he disguises the names in protection of himself owing to disgrace.” Siren shifted the conversation to another subject. “How long has he been an assassin?”

“Long enough to govern himself to see the kills as a task commanded as chivalry dictates.”

“I see. Lochlanaire’s chained to the nefariousness?”

“Under pain of death allotted by treason should he
not
surrender himself,” Grayson replied.

Siren nodded. “Then Lochlanaire must forsake me at King William’s demand even with our marriage?”

“An assassin must reject whatever feelings he may endure…for
anyone
.”

“He cannot consider those he promised to love for eternity, Grayson?” Siren’s saddened eyes searched his.

“Your marriage was a sacrilegious vow arranged by gypsies. It is an outlaw accord.”

“The pledge afforded a king abolishes everything promised a wife.”

“I’m aggrieved to confess it so, lass,” Grayson affirmed.

“Do you think I’ll be beheaded or hanged?”

Grayson confirmed, “The king ultimately decides your destiny.”

“Then perhaps a nunnery, enslaved by chains is fitting for an innocently condemned woman, or poison spooned within my food will serve, therefore I shall not even learn of my end,” snappily Siren replied.

“Your fate is tragic, but perhaps King William shall see your innocence and not sentence you at all,” Grayson apprised.

Siren rolled her eyes. “William did not order Lochlanaire to chase me across the length of this vast ocean for the purpose of freeing me from my immoral birth, Grayson. You surely see the truth. My fate is death.”

Forlorn, Grayson perceived it such himself.

“Did Lochlanaire shoot my mother?”

Grayson was stunned by Siren’s question. “I cannot say.”

“But you possess the knowledge.” Exploring his eyes, which reflected her husband’s in glacial intensity if not in menacing color, Siren could see that he’d divulge nothing. “You’re loyal to your brother, no matter his assassin stature, just or depraved.”

“Blood demands my enslavement,” Grayson acknowledged.

“But not to Zore?” wheedled Siren.

Grayson flinched with her mentioning his infamous sibling. “Zore’s massacres are pursued by the behest of the lust for malice invoked at the offerin’ of his soul to Lucifer for no purpose other than bloodshed.”

“An impressive description. I wonder how you so effortlessly dismiss Lochlanaire of the same blood quest. Are his evils not reminiscent to Zore’s?” Siren reprimanded.

“The difference is Lochlanaire’s allegiance belongs to a king by knightly oath, he’s held to the alliance in protection of the monarch. Zore submits to the ruin of bloodlust, hungry to slaughter those whose mere flaw is that they fell into his sinister sights. Lochlanaire’s quick in the kill, covetous for no pain to envelope those hunted.”

“Ah, I see. You presume that lack of inducing pain upon his victims sanctifies the maliciousness inflicting a murder decrees?”

Grayson understood. There is a delicate line carved between lawlessness and cutthroat ghoulishness. “It is difficult to understand.”

“You are correct. I cannot understand. I’m innocent. My only failing is I’m born of a monarch’s seed. I exist, therefore I’m traitorous to a man. Yes, William is king, but he’s still…
only….
a…man and one who claims himself higher in stature than I. He christens himself godly enough to decide if I may live or die. Would I not have been a princess, Grayson? Does my blood, delivered by King James II, not affect the depravity of a madman?”

“King William rules, sadly, rulin’ your fate,” Grayson confessed.

“No,
Lochlanaire
rules my fate. He’s my husband. He’ll decide if I’ll live or die.” Siren leered.

“Meanin’ Lochlanaire will decide if your flair for seduction is majestic enough to absolve him of the king’s dominance over him,” Grayson further elaborated.

Obviously, she’d not fooled Grayson regarding why she seduced his brother.

“Possibly if Lochlanaire falls in love with you, then his feelin’s will stay him from yieldin’ you. Is this what you’re thinkin’? It is quite the ruse, Siren.”

“Grayson, I admit it has occurred to me that Lochlanaire will never relinquish my hand if he stumbles under my spell.”

“You’re justly a witch, temptress. You might succeed. If you do, beware, Siren -- Lochlanaire’s heartbeat shall not pulse long after your escape of King William’s snare.” Grayson drifted in the distance.

Is one person’s life worth the sacrificing of another’s? Could Siren position herself higher in stature than Lochlanaire? If she did and she shuns the noose of death smothering her throat, would Lochlanaire die owing to his failure to fulfill King William’s mark? Lochlanaire’s spilt blood would then stain her fingers. Could she live with this guilt? Siren couldn’t answer these questions. As she stood there, she turned toward her distracted husband, enraptured by his glory while he steered the ship. Godly handsome, he’s the most exquisite man she’d ever seen. That day, Lochlanaire dressed in a ruby silk shirt that he’d left slit, chest to waist, his body tapering to muscled legs, hugged by sable breeches. High boots cuffed just below his knees, and his hair he’d clasped in a length of leather at his back. He was the portrait of a rakish pirate. Why could he not simply be that outlaw and not a lethal assassin?

One truth she did find interesting of which Grayson said…
blood demands enslavement
. If she were to become with child at her seduction of Lochlanaire, would this be sufficient to thwart her husband’s slaughter?
Blood demands enslavement.
The blood of Lochlanaire’s child growing within her womb would surely insist that he not sacrifice her.

Seditious, Siren strolled to her husband.

One hand wrenching her to him, Lochlanaire’s arms ringed around her while he commanded the ship, both hands then cuffed the tiller. Siren stood in front of him, intoxicated by his body, which shielded her back. Oh, how she was desperate to writhe in his arms, her naked body loved to ecstasy. Siren’s fingers caressed his. Facing Lochlanaire, who attempted to keep his concentration engrained on the ship, Siren’s hand crept over his chest to his lightning-throbbing pulse. She lured his lips to hers, kissing him lustfully, uncaring that the world witnessed her passion for this pirate slayer.

Lochlanaire freed one hand of the tiller and braced Siren against his body, aching to ravage her. “God, woman, do you bear any clue of what you’re doin’ to me?” he asked.

Siren smiled. “I want you, Lochlanaire, regardless of the fact that you instill the power to have me slain. To my very soul, I lust for you.” Siren ducked under his arm and strutted to the stairs. On the landing, she gestured for him to come to her, tweaking one finger.

Lochlanaire couldn’t harvest the strength to defy her. He ordered the man standing near to seize the helm. Bewitched, he followed Siren down the stairs to his cabin, aware that this untamed enchantress could be his fatal downfall.

CHAP
TER FOURTEEN

Indecent Quest

Once sheltered inside his quarters, Lochlanaire blistered to squelch his passion for Siren, but she glided to him, flipping aside his shirtfront, fingertips roaming the muscles of his chest. No knifing wrecked by his fingernails could defeat the lust. He kissed her lips, and Siren’s provocative body scorched his to famished. Lochlanaire eased the laces of her shirt wide. His lips fell to her throat, which arched for his seduction. It was in this heart-wrenching moment that Lochlanaire realized -- Siren was beginning to tangle him in her web. He fled to the window, frantic for sanity.

“You will not refuse me, Lochlanaire. I’ll never allow you that victory,” Siren attested.

“You’ll not rule me with this seduction, Siren,” he promised.

Siren countered, “I do not want to rule you, Lochlanaire. I seek for you to love me obsessively. I covet your child.”

Intrigued, Lochlanaire challenged, “Why?”

“Blood delivers your absolute enslavement. Grayson said that blood rejects a king’s dominance. If I conceive your babe, you cannot let me die. You’ll never wield the power to crucify your own flesh and blood. Our marriage, then, cannot be contested by either king or god.”

Lochlanaire feared Siren was correct. If indeed she did become with child, he wouldn’t permit her to be slain. Still, he battled to crush his lust. When she shifted to stand in confrontation, Lochlanaire knew he was nowhere near strong enough to deny her of this indecent pursuit.

Her hand lowered to her shirt’s hem, and Siren drew the mantle over head, dropping it to the floor, baring her upper body. Lochlanaire moaned, eyes drifting over taunting breasts, skimming to her lips that Siren licked.

“You’re killin’ me,” painfully vowed Lochlanaire.

A wicked smile twitched her lips. Siren withdrew the breeches bracing her legs, stepping from them. Lowering her hand, she grasped his, and raised it to cup her breast. Siren’s eyes wafted closed.

Lochlanaire’s craving for the battle was cursed in that blink of an eye. She stood here, seducing him, why continue the war? This is what he was starved for, this is what
she
demanded of him, why not surrender to the ecstasy? Lochlanaire shoved Siren against the cold window, his body baiting, lips possessive, savage.

Siren clutched the hand of which King James II’s ring adorned and withdrew the signet off Lochlanaire’s pinky. He lifted his lips from hers. She tossed the ring to the desk behind Lochlanaire. His gaze questioned why. “This day, I am yours. You are mine, Lochlanaire. No king reigns over either of us.”

Lochlanaire swept Siren into his arms and carried her to the bed. There he loosened his shirt and pitched it away, his breeches and boots followed. Between her parted legs, he lay, his lips sizzling the silken flesh of hers. His fingers slid from Siren’s peaked breast to her satiny hip. Lochlanaire raised her body for the impaling pierce of his manhood. Siren’s legs manacled his body as he seized hers, fiercely. Siren clenched his hair. The mass cascaded from Lochlanaire’s shoulders, tickling her chest; tendrils slithered with his rocking body. Siren shoved Lochlanaire upon his back and straddled him. She took full possession of his lust, feeling him swell deep within her. At the juncture of her legs, starlit splashes blazed. Siren flung her head backwards and groaned. Lightning splintered Lochlanaire, who moaned, drowning in his own intoxicating release.

Sated, Siren draped his body, listening to Lochlanaire’s heart pound in his chest. He closed his eyes, aware of the betrayal if she should receive her longing for his seed to root in her womb. Jarred to make his escape, Lochlanaire was compelled to relent. Siren pushed him backward, refusing to free him from her body. She began to rock, seducing his swelling manhood to take her again. Lochlanaire couldn’t resist, so he submitted to the temptress’ sweet enslavement. His lips suckled her breasts, tugging a moan from her. Siren’s body moved quicker and in moments, he pierced hard into her flesh, flinging her beneath him, spilling his seed.

Lochlanaire toppled upon Siren’s flesh. “God, you
are
my fatal end,” he whispered.

Siren grinned, drawing her fingers through his disheveled hair. All the while, a voice echoed in her mind, “
Blood demands enslavement. Lochlanaire, you’re my captive.”

After ravaging her flesh two more times, Lochlanaire drifted asleep. Siren withdrew of his sweaty body, praying for a babe to fill her barren womb this day. Aware that it could take time for her to become with child, she intended to bed this man as often as Lochlanaire couldn’t withstand her seduction. Kissing his lips of which did not respond to her touch, Siren grabbed Lochlanaire’s shirt. She glided to the window; the lengthy mantle enveloped her flesh. With twilight swaddling the ship, she murmured, “Please, God, if you are to spare my life, let Lochlanaire’s child grow in my womb. Our blood must unite. I beg for a reprieve of death.” Siren fondled her slender stomach and turned toward where her husband slept. Tears trickled from saddened eyes, but she swiped them away, striding to the bed. Siren lay beside her captor, her hand wafted along Lochlanaire’s chest. Her lips teased his. “There is no sleep for the wicked, Lochlanaire,” she whispered.

Waking, Lochlanaire replied, “Siren…damn…this is lunacy.”

Siren nuzzled his cheek and kissed his lips, her fingers roved toward his stomach.

Lochlanaire captured her arm. “You’ll kill me if you continue the agony.”

“What a sweet, sultry death.”

He couldn’t agree more. Lochlanaire denied her the victory, however. Sitting, he throttled his breeches, and tugged them on, withdrawing to the window where he gathered a fragment of sanity.

A knock on the door disturbed the tenuous silence. Lochlanaire walked to the cabin threshold. A crewman appeared amid the passage, “Aye?”

“Grayson seeks word, Captain.”

Lochlanaire was grateful for the distraction. “I return to the helm posthaste.” Shutting the door, he recovered his boots and sat on the bed where Siren languished, wearing only his tousled shirt. Lochlanaire wrestled for his composure. He yanked on each boot, ignoring the temptress.

“You’re not triumphant, Lochlanaire.”

“That, Siren, is gravely clear.” He glanced upon the beauty who graced his bed and regretted the infraction, for he couldn’t resist. His lips captured hers, he cupped Siren’s breast through the sheer silk of his shirt. “God, have mercy,” he murmured, divesting himself of her embrace. Lochlanaire bolted to the shelf where his shirts lay piled. He removed one. Never looking at Siren again, he trounced the door’s threshold; otherwise, he would never wage a step.

“Mercy has abandoned you, Lochlanaire,” Siren murmured.

Sleep finally consumed her, but haunting Siren’s mind a depraved voice resonated,
“Blood demands enslavement…our blood
shall mingle as one, Lochlanaire. Resistance of me is futile.”