Blackheart (20 page)

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.

Lochlanaire quickly crossed the cabin to his desk and made a notation within the parchment log, applying a white-feathered quill and ink vessel sculpted in the form of a dragon. Concluding his task, Lochlanaire spoke to his inattentive wife, “I thought to escort you ashore, Siren. We shall dally at anchor for a day, perhaps longer filling the coffers.”

“I’d rather remain aboard, in seclusion.”

Lochlanaire was exasperated by her answer and trudged to Siren. He tugged on her arm and drew her to face him. “I did not
ask
you to accompany me, Siren. I
demand
that you venture with me to the island.”

Noting his fingers, which whitened as they held her, Siren snapped, “Demand? Whatever for?”

“A rector takes residence here. One who beholds ties to the British realm. We’re marrying, lawfully.”

“We’re already wed, Lochlanaire,” Siren coldly reminded.

“Not by a rector who may witness our union and favor us with parchments sanctifying the marriage as legitimate.”

“Parchments? This is…”

Lochlanaire interrupted, “Not necessary? If you cradle my child in your womb, our marriage must be without contestation. No gypsy ritual will ever be christened such, Siren.”

She balked, distressed. If she weds Lochlanaire in a ceremony for all to agree is in proper license, she’d have to accept that she’s eternally bound to her mother’s cruel assassin. “I dare not.” Her eyes lowered toward the floor.

“If you force me to, I’ll chain you in irons and drag you to the rector as my infuriated slave, you
will
marry me,” Lochlanaire brazenly insisted.

Siren jerked on her restrained arm. “You cannot force me, Lochlanaire. You do not lord that sovereignty over me.”

“Therefore, you offer me no choice.” He dragged her to the desk, Lochlanaire wrenched a drawer open and withdrew a chain and iron. Siren yanked on her limb and stomped on his booted foot. Her actions merely baited Lochlanaire to throttle her tighter. “Damn it, Siren, cease this bloody tussle or you’ll wound our child. Is such your desire?”

She venomously spewed, “I’ll never submit to you, Lochlanaire. I
refuse
to marry you.”

“So you’ve hissed time and again, Siren, you already are wed to me. I simply seek to prove the sincerity to the world. If I die under Zore’s unleashed venom, you’ll possess evidence in your grasp which acknowledges our union as valid. That truth may spare your life once you confront King William, especially if you coddle my child.”

Siren must agree with his assumption, although neither of them bore proof that a union tying them would protect her.

Lochlanaire leered and the chain lolled in his hand, its iron swaying eerily in front of her embattled eyes. He broached afresh, “Do you surrender in defeat and shed this ridiculous war, wedding me without further resistance, or am I to tug you about the hamlet as a slave?”

Unwilling to relent and lord him a victory over her, Siren smugly growled, “I’ve been a prisoner since the day Zore kidnapped me and with your boarding of his dastardly ship. I, therefore, pronounce myself captive everlastingly. If you insist on wedding me, do so, but you’ll not receive my acquiescence.”

Lochlanaire ringed the iron shackle ‘round her wrist, studying Siren’s scowl. He jerked on the chain, forcing her to walk the passage, boarding the main deck. By the ship’s edge, he ordered her to step down the rope and wood ladder flanking the vessel.

Siren snootily declined.

Lochlanaire unsheathed his pistol and pointed the weapon at her.

Siren knew he’d not wound her. She stood her ground.

Holstering the pistol, lunging his arm underneath her legs, Lochlanaire cuddled her in his arms. Recklessly, he jumped off the ship to the water. Siren screeched. Desperately, her arms circled Lochlanaire’s neck. He swam toward the longboat, tugging himself and Siren to the craft. He lifted his water-dripping wife inside the vessel. Siren seethed, watching him heave himself inward of the boat. He clenched the oars, drawing them to swish the water toward the pier. Lochlanaire seized the chain and tugged Siren onto the island’s wood plank dock. Without regard, he stepped between startled villagers who murmured at his water-sodden advance. Lochlanaire proudly parted the ranks to the rector’s forest sheltered cabin. Prying eyes never hampered.

He dashed open the rector’s cottage door and Lochlanaire motioned for Siren to enter. She audaciously refused, so he lunged amidst the fire-fluttery structure, dragging her to trail him in the course.

The gray-haired, skittish cleric scampered to Lochlanaire. “My Lord,” he nodded, observing first Lochlanaire and then the young lady who glowered at the man who detained her in irons.

“Marry us,” Lochlanaire demanded.

The baffled vicar retrieved a parchment book, cleared his voice and began to read aloud in Latin.

Pulling on the chain imprisoning her to her abductor, Siren rashly objected, “Cease this instant!”

The cleric studied Lochlanaire, awaiting his command.

He motioned for the rector to continue the ceremony.

“You’re a man of God. You cannot wed a woman to a man who has immorally chained her as his slave,” shouted Siren.

The rector never acknowledged her.

Siren understood. Quite obviously, the man was handsomely compensated for his decadent crimes. “Damn you, Lochlanaire. I curse this wretched union.”

Lochlanaire taunted, “The union’s been cursed all along, Siren. This merely links us to each other for eternity. I cannot renounce you and
you
cannot defy
me. Ever
. We’re captive of our own sultry lusts.”

Brutally Siren slammed her elbow against her smug captor’s chest, trampled Lochlanaire’s foot, and shoved him to falter backwards. Lochlanaire unwillingly released the chain, for Siren tore it free. Outward of the rector’s cottage, she ran to a horse that whinnied, the animal tied to a nearby stable. Siren yanked the reins loose of the post detaining the steed, pitched her foot into the saddle’s stirrup and mounted the horse. Kicking hard, she urged the mare to gallop up a hill.

Outraged by his wife’s sedition, Lochlanaire grappled for his balance, he snapped at the startled vicar and hurried from the cottage, only to see his wife vanish from his sight. Lochlanaire jumped a man who sauntered by on horseback, dumping the cursing soul on the ground, where he sprawled in the dirt. Lochlanaire mounted the horse, muttered a hasty apology, and plucked the steed in the direction his feisty wife engaged in her crazed escape.

Siren darted between knitted trees, all the time aware that escape was not forthcoming. Harried, she explored the forest for a refuge by which to conceal herself. She rode upon a beautiful dale of wild flowers and slowed the steed to a trot. Siren searched for anyone who might appear as champion in arms. Nary a soul did she find.

His stallion faster than Siren’s mare, Lochlanaire wildly split the fragrant vale and rode straight toward her. Siren kicked her horse to a full gallop. Her wrathful husband caught up to her, alas, and arching across her animal, he warred to rip the reins loose of her bloodlessly cringed fingers. Siren darted the horse to her left and evaded. Lochlanaire leapt to her steed and wrenched Siren’s horse to an abrupt halt. Siren somehow wriggled from his hold and jumped to the ground. He followed in hot pursuit.

Ere she could run, Lochlanaire’s arm encircled her stomach. He twirled her to challenge him. “Your little war grants you nothing, Siren. You will marry me.”

She furiously renounced, “You’re an animal, Lochlanaire. I’ll never wed you.”

“Oh? Deny me and I’ll not sail to rescue your sister. She’ll die at Zore’s titanic treason.”

Siren was appalled by his threat. “You bloody bastard. You cannot discard Shevaun in Zore’s barbaric stranglehold. You’re not so monstrous, Lochlanaire.”

“Dare me, Siren, just dare me. You’ll discover how monstrous I can be,” goaded Lochlanaire.

Siren studied first his black eye and then the ghoulish gray and could see that he was not jesting. She pronounced, “I relent to your wickedness, Lochlanaire, but remember, I’ll never be tamed by you, no matter
what
you threaten.”

Unwilling to forsake the beauty, Lochlanaire took Siren’s lips in a tawdry kiss. Her arms wafted around him. Blisteringly, she remembered his poison with forcing her to take his hand in wedlock. Siren bit down on his tongue. He wrenched away, but he refused to release her. Lochlanaire grit her chin and he kissed her ravenously afresh. Moaning, Siren couldn’t defy her passion for this sensual rogue. She relinquished the war, whimpering, for he caressed her breast through her silk shirt. Lochlanaire shattered the heart-stealing kiss, bemused by her misted eyes, which portrayed her lust for him. He tugged her to the horses, where they munched on knee high grasses and effortlessly he lifted Siren astride his stallion, throwing his leg for him to sit behind her. He wouldn’t permit her to run again. To the rector’s cottage, they rode. Lochlanaire’s arm cuddled Siren’s stomach; she fondled the bulging muscles of his flesh. Turning toward him, Siren savagely kissed him. Lochlanaire pulled on the reins, stilling the animals.

Forsaking his desire, Lochlanaire severed their kiss, dismounting. He carried Siren from the horse, inward of the cottage.

Siren was too feeble to protest, standing afoot of the rector and bit her lip. When the cleric summoned her to proclaim her vows, Siren searched Lochlanaire’s bewitching eyes. She was doomed and stuttered a coy
‘I do’
. With his victory, Lochlanaire loudly pronounced his vows. The vicar scribed a parchment declaration that pronounced their marriage legitimate, took to his palm the gold coin offered for his compensation, and then he retreated to where his soup bubbled in a burnt cauldron simmering over the fire crackling its hearth.

Lochlanaire gathered the chain tethering Siren’s arm and lurched her to the entry. They trod in the direction of where a boarding house stood erected. Just outside of the two-story log structure, however, Lochlanaire was confronted by a scruffily-clad, dirt-smudged urchin.

The child gifted to him a piece of folded parchment. “This, my lord, be for ye. It was bestowed by a man aboard a ship that departed days ago.”

Suspicious, Lochlanaire accepted the crinkly parchment and wondered about the boy’s quick leave-taking. He unfolded the letter.

Loch,

Your lass bears a signet, as well, the lady I presently imprison held a signet,

which she claims Siren now grasps. These rings entomb something of

grave importance. Ferry to me the treasure they disguise. This shall be my

ransom for Shevaun’s life, that, and, of course, your painful demise.

Zore

Disconcerted, Lochlanaire whirled on Siren. “What is the relevance behind the signets?”

Siren hesitated, confused by his question. “What?”

“The signets, Siren, they enshroud something dire. Read his letter and tell me the truth. What do the signets mean?”

Siren read the parchment Lochlanaire thrust to her and her shoulders drooped. Apparently, her sister comprehended the significance behind the rings given to them by King James II, but why was she not told that they are gravely important? “I cannot say what their exact worth is, Lochlanaire.”

Unconvinced, Lochlanaire hastened inside the boarding house, drawing Siren in tow, and straight to the establishment’s proprietor, who guided them above stairs to a rather large chamber that was opulently furnished. An oversized, four-posted bed was dressed in a lacy coverlet, and the fire grate spattered wispy shadows, adorning two blue brocade tufted chairs. The proprietor offered to Lochlanaire a key and fled, sensing trouble brewing between the groom and his magnificent bride.

Lochlanaire locked the door. His glower roamed over Siren’s stiffened body. She strolled across the chamber. “Exactly what do the signets shield?”

Rubbing the flesh where it was raw from the iron as best she could, Siren approached the fire, warmed by dancing flame. “I do not know their significance.”

Was she being honest? “But the rings seclude something valuable, something Zore’s unmasked. What?”

Siren drooped upon one of the chairs. Her eyes crept to Lochlanaire’s gloriously sheathed, sinewy legs, then caressed his chest, arising to his disgruntled scowl. “Mother said the rings would deliver us a fortune. I assumed she meant that if we were to sell them once we grew into womanhood that the funds awarded to us would command fortunes for both Shevaun and myself. I never bore a clue that they could signify anything else.”

“You think differently now?” Lochlanaire shifted to the chair opposite of hers and sat.

“Days ago, as I lay on your bed, I remembered that you left my ring atop the desk. I cuddled it in hand and suddenly I saw the differences, which seemed irrelevant at first. Mother said the rings were exact in appearance, but as I looked closer, I discovered they are not. I thought nothing further until I dropped them on the bed. They joined together and, as I cradled them in my palm, I witnessed something astounding.  They divulged a chart.”

“What sort of chart?”

“A seafaring chart, one similar to those scribed amid the log amongst your cabin.” Standing, Siren moved to Lochlanaire, she lifted his arm and withdrew the signet from his pinky. Ceremoniously, she eased Shevaun’s ring from hers. Siren anchored the rings together so Lochlanaire could see the island they depicted, for firelight twinkled across the gold and ruby rings. “I could not suggest what this talisman embodies. I, therefore, hid my discovery.”

Lochlanaire withdrew the rings from Siren and studied the signets, troubled. “Were you not afraid that I might confiscate both rings in belief that they could award me some unknown treasure? Is this the true reason for your concealment?”

Siren could lie. “I did question what could be your intentions, Lochlanaire. You said when you first abducted me from Zore that King William demanded for you to retrieve the signet for him. At the time, I did not presume your words were of importance. I cannot say now.”

Lochlanaire mulled. “King William may have been hunting the signet all along, not truly wanting you, but in search of whatever your ring disguises.” A treasure, so Zore said in his cryptic letter. Could King James II have buried a treasure upon an island, a fortune that might assist him in a victorious revolution against his rival for the British throne? Were these rings carved so to shed light upon the chart with which to recover that fortune? Alas, King William was unaware that there are actually
two
rings, thus he’d be foiled if he gained only the one -- the ring which once glorified Siren’s finger. Honestly, Lochlanaire couldn’t say if his assumptions are precise or not. King William never yielded anything except that he imprison Siren, whatever the cost, and sail her to his damning midst. “It’s curious.”

“Yes. But now we must exhume this treasure, wherever it is, and sail it to Zore.”

Lochlanaire rebuffed, “Hellfire and damnation, we cannot even be sure there
is
a treasure, Siren. We’ve only Zore’s word that there is. Perhaps your sister lied to him in an attempt to spare her life. She could have twirled a web of falsehoods.”

“I refuse to risk it, Lochlanaire. If a treasure exists and I do not ferry it to Zore, he’ll slay Shevaun. These rings impart evidence of something enormous. Why else would that chart be carved in the gold?”

“It is a mystery, but a mystery it shall remain. We cannot gallivant across the ocean in want of a dastardly fortune. It’s ridiculous, Siren. We must sail to Zore, yielding me for ransom. We’ll say we searched and gained nothing. He’ll never learn the difference.”

“At my innocent sister’s torment? No, Lochlanaire, I’ll assume the risk of seeking the treasure that Shevaun’s said is entombed on that island. It is the only way to save her.” Crossing arms over her chest, Siren haughtily stated, “If you refuse to assist me, I’ll beg for Grayson’s aid or Aynore’s, but I’m going to hunt the island, with or without you.”

“And what will you say upon anchoring at Satan’s Labyrinth without me to offer to Zore for ransom?” chided Lochlanaire.

He had a point. “I’ll tell him you died, shot by a pirate in the fray of battle, and your body was swept overboard in a storm. It is simple.”

It was definitely plausible, he must agree. “I surrender, Siren. I’ll speak to Grayson. Perhaps he can unlock this bizarre chart the rings paint.”

Smiling, she eased Shevaun’s ring into her possession.

“Distrustful of me, eh?”