Blackheart (19 page)

“Grayson requests ye at tiller, Captain.”

Lochlanaire craved to shoot the crewman standing behind that door. “I return in a moment.”

Siren’s eyes drooped. Lochlanaire caressed her chin and kissed her, famished for more than merely one celestial kiss. On the verge of abdicating his captaincy, and seizing this woman in frenzied lust, Lochlanaire heralded the crewman’s disturbance astute. He withdrew from Siren’s embrace and sauntered to the door, never looking backward.

Disappointed, Siren wandered to the bed, pondering the signet, curious what the chart borne of the two bridged together signifies, coveting to lace herself in the wickedness designed.

Unfortunately, instead, in her blistering daydreams, Siren saw Lochlanaire’s surreal eyes and fell, spellbound by the sorcery he wreaks.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Lies

Nightfall, days later, pirate vessels blockaded.

Satan’s
Victory
and the
Ranger
were pitched amid a bloody conflict catapulted by the ships that slung grappling hooks across each vessel. Pirates boarded, shooting pistols, swiping bloodied cutlasses and stabbing jagged knives. Screeches haunted the air in the swarm.

Below stairs, inside the captain’s quarters, Siren was unaware of the carnage until cannon shots bolted her to her feet. She tugged on boots, laced her shirt and removed the saber pegged upon the wall. Siren rushed through the night-darkened corridor toward the main deck. Frigidly she halted, seeing the two ships of which caged
Satan’s
Victory
in the bloodbath, the
Ranger
as well engaged in a crusade to the death. From the secluded stoop, Siren witnessed as Grayson and Lochlanaire vaulted off their bridge to their rival’s, they swept across crowded decks, leaving little alive as they thrashed their cutlasses.

Siren prayed for a swift conclusion to the clash and for her husband’s survival and grasped the saber’s hilt. Mystically, she sensed the existence of a ghostly specter. Siren’s skin crawled. She took a step and twirled to see who hovered amidst the passage with her. A shadowy apparition lingered where no lantern light dared touch. Siren immediately realized the identity of the ghoul. “You skulk the darkness as Satan, slayer.”

Thorn icily proclaimed, “I disguise myself for reasons not concernin’ you, lass.”

“What demands that you spill blood aboard my husband’s ship?”

Thorn arched one eyebrow, although Siren couldn’t see his response to her question. “Your husband? Do you continue to name Lochlanaire such after hearin’ of the treachery he’s guilty of committin’?”

Siren lifted the saber, its tip pointed at him. “Yes, I do trust that he’s my husband. Reveal yourself, brigand, or I’ll run you threw.”

Thorn shook his head. “I’d shoot ere you could swipe your blade once, Siren. Do not tempt me,” harshly he imparted.

Siren lowered the weapon, certain she’d not be gallant enough to kill him anyway. “You have me at a disadvantage, but you were aware of that, were you not?”

Thorn snapped, “Aye.” Calculating, he portrayed, “You are different, Siren. Somethin’ is altered, why?”

Siren couldn’t imagine what he spoke about. “I know nothing of what you suggest, killer.”

Thorn huffed. “Killer? Do you think that word more appropriate for your executioner husband? Do you possess any hint of what he’s capable of inflictin’ or of how many people Lochlanaire’s torturously slain?”

Siren took a stride to cross the stairs’ landing. “You obviously do. You’re clearly acquainted with my husband. How? Are you someone he’s wounded in the past? Or, perhaps you seek revenge for some other infraction he’s guilty of enacting?”

“Oh,
Lochlanaire’s
guilty. Never question it.” Thorn rubbed his chin. “The slayings thus far I’ve committed, Siren, they are a hollow frivolity to you. But, they mirror wickedness.
Lochlanaire’s
wickedness.”

“What do you suggest?”

“I’ve stripped them from Lochlanaire’s ignominious past. They paint in death those poor souls assassinated by your husband’s freed venom. Each reflection is precise.”

Siren’s stomach began to churn. “You mean…”

“The beheaded man disbanded with the stock, the hanged tyrant swingin’ among the cargo hold, the pirate with his fingers chopped off, boiled in a blood cauldron in the galley, the dead brigand found inside the longboat, a knife impalin’ his stomach,
all
these murders represent of your husband’s kills. I dispatch the men in our
time
, presentin’ a mirror image for Lochlanaire to remember his degradations.”

Siren accused, “You’re crazy...”

Thorn snickered. “Am I, or is
he
? Lochlanaire’s said to be insane. His memory’s destruction sanctions the conclusion, do you agree?”

Siren remained silent, observing, for he soldiered nearer. She still couldn’t see his face sufficiently to describe him. She could, however, see the spark the pistol glimmered of which he carried.

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.