Blackheart (9 page)

“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 with 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.

Together they cut through the mass of chattering, drinking people congregated amongst the overburdened town. Lochlanaire distinguished those men who clasped pistols slung in sashes buckled across their chests. His he’d buckled along his hip, a knife as well disguised in his boot’s inner scabbard. He was wary for trouble. They strolled toward where musical instruments lilted in the distance. He and Siren nodded to those couples who danced under the angelic sheen of moon light. Lochlanaire swept her within his arms but kept Siren at an obvious distance. They danced the length of the wooden floor of which was erected for just this extraordinary occasion. He couldn’t say where he’d learned to dance, however, Lochlanaire could honestly say he was proficient.

A delicate tap on her shoulder announced someone cutting in. Siren came face-to-face with the sneering whore who so rudely snubbed her earlier in the day. Claressa now wore a low-dipping dress that lewdly depicted her breasts and hourglass form, hand-held mask clutched. When Lochlanaire unleashed her hand, Siren considered herself compelled to surrender him to the harlot. Siren trampled to the dance floor’s edge, her arms folded over her chest, she stared at Lochlanaire. He ignored her. Elegantly, he danced in the embrace of the immoral woman.

“Do you remember us dancin’ on such a blissful eve?” Claressa asked, while they glided to the musicians and back.

“My memory remains forsaken,” admitted Lochlanaire.

“I shall remind…we danced the night, afterward you carried me to my bedchamber, where you loved me for the eve’s remainder ‘til dawn. Does this regain a memory?”

Lochlanaire explored what fractured memories he’d gathered, piqued. “I proclaim regret, my lady. Nothin’ springs to mind.”

“Perhaps this conjures a remembrance of our lusty nights.” Yanking the lacy shoulder of her gown, Claressa partially bared her rounded breast, revealing the birthmark that tarnished above her left nipple, it a clover’s shape. “Many a man has found fortune in my arms, Lochlanaire.
You
were one.”

Lochlanaire heaved to standstill, smitten by the birthmark, and for a wisp of a moment; he relived the hallucination of him lying beneath this woman, she naked to his eyes, her body writhing atop his. The vision shattered. “For a moment, I beheld a phantom. It is lost.”

Saddened, Claressa adjusted the gown’s shoulder. “I suppose we shall have to fashion fresh memories.” She slyly smiled.

Lochlanaire was about to reject her, but Siren tapped Claressa’s shoulder, demanding that they halt their dance, for she’d witnessed Claressa’s bold baring of her breast and heard what she said to Lochlanaire. “The only memories of
any
woman’s body this man will fashion in the future will be at the behest of him loving
me
,” Siren growled, jealous.

Claressa liberated Lochlanaire, huffed, lurched her head high and stomped off, stilling upon the dance floor’s rim. She glowered at Siren’s back.

Siren threaded Lochlanaire’s fingers and he ensnared her in his bracing arm. “It was unnecessary to cause a fuss.” He chided, “I merely danced with her.”

“Yes, but you did not you rebuke her for her indecency as chivalry necessitates. I heard what she said, Lochlanaire. You did not appear disgusted by what Claressa clearly offered you.”

“The flirtation was bloody innocent. I simply sought to see if I could reclaim a memory. Care for it or not, Siren, I did possess a life prior to you, a life I cannot conjure to mind, yes. But there were others…
obviously
. These people are specters of my past. You cannot wish such away.
That
woman is acquainted with me and perhaps could have induced a remembrance that may have bridged the chasm to all the others which are exiled,” angrily he reprimanded.

“Are you willing to lie in Claressa’s bed in order to stir those memories, Lochlanaire?”

He stalled their dance in the middle of the floor and chastised, “You may consider us wed in a chaste union where I belong to only you, but I am not yoking myself to that morality, Siren. I will do
whatever
I must to retrieve my past.”

“And bedding that immoral hag is something you’re prepared to do whether you hurt me in the doing…no matter that you took me for wife.” She reminded, “You spoke vows to me, Lochlanaire. You took
my
virginity. Is this
meaningless
? Am I so paltry that you can ravish me, and then writhe in the arms of a woman
you
know is an unfaithful strumpet?”

Lochlanaire pitched Siren’s hand away and stomped off the dance floor in the direction of the wine casks. He choked a goblet and drank, admonishing his infuriated wife from afar.

While she stood on the dance floor, those surrounding promenaded. Siren warred to squelch her fury. A knightly champion appeared before her feet. He was tall, lithely muscled, and wearing a blond wig, thus disguising his true hair color. Gray-eyed and handsome, he momentarily removed his mask. Bowing, he introduced himself, “My name is Wolf Larnon, the Earl of Lancer. I request a dance, my lady. You’ve been deprived of your chaperone, so grievous a creature malicious for abandoning you without chivalry.” He smiled his teeth perfectly white.

Smiling beautifully, Siren introduced herself, curtsied, and accepted the hand he graciously offered, his other wafted around her waist. “The Earl of Lancer? What is a British earl doing walking a pirate-infested island, my lord?”

Wolf glanced toward Lochlanaire but not so obvious as to ignite his curiosity. “I admit to being in a hunt, for nothing which ought to concern you, my lady. But woefully, our ship was struck by a most unfortunate gale, one mast fell, shattered in the storm. We were drawn to this isle of ill repute, needful of repairs. And yourself…where do you sail?”

Siren became suspicious of his question, and he seemed oddly familiar. “We journey to the Americas…I meet my sister.”

‘Interesting’
, Wolf thought. “Ah, a loving family reunion to forthwith be enjoyed by all in hearty celebration. If I may be bold, the man you were so exquisitely dancing in the arms of is…?”

“My husband, Lochlanaire.”

Ah, yes, this seductress is the
wife
of Lochlanaire. How intriguing, fortune sincerely reigned upon him. Wolf wondered, “It is mysterious that he would discard a bewitching creature such as you amidst the dance to be frightfully swallowed by lawless brigands.”

Siren mused to herself that she was never without Lochlanaire’s attendance, but to Wolf she confessed, “He cares little for me. All Lochlanaire cares about is his reward and his sullied past,” she admonished, her glare reprimanding Lochlanaire.

“His reward and past?” One dark eyebrow arched.

Siren decided her captive stature was shrewdly left unspoken. “Lochlanaire’s memory is blackened. He only remembers splinters of his past. That woman, who danced with him, he once knew her, so she indelicately claims.” Siren left out Claressa’s defaming stature, although she believed any man would be aware of it upon seeing her, because of the harlot’s shameful dress.

“Tragic. I imagine it must be quite a grave discomfort to not know who or what you are, or what you’ve reaped, good or sinister.” Wolf earlier questioned a number of the men drinking inside the tavern that day, those pirates off
Satan’s
Victory,
and he discovered Lochlanaire’s supposed memory loss. He wondered now if Lochlanaire remembered the day on which he and Elias Larnon, Wolf’s brother, rendezvoused for their duel, with Lochlanaire massacring Elias over two years ago. But it did not matter. With his revenge achieved after swearing that Lochlanaire had unfairly fought Elias, Wolf received his desire, and Lochlanaire was imprisoned for his evil in the dungeons of Heathgate Castle, christened insane. Alas, recklessly that foppish king, William, released him. Wolf could not discover why, but what is important is that Lochlanaire acquire the vengeance his daring slaughter of Elias justified. Wolf swore to witness Lochlanaire’s end. In finding Lochlanaire’s pardon from his prison sentence, Wolf purchased a ship’s silence and hoisted sail. Having spoken to a herald who labored at the castle where Lochlanaire was lately prisoner, he was told that Lochlanaire sailed, beholding all haste, for he believed Virginia. However, the herald couldn’t be sure, nothing else could he profess. Wolf trailed, days behind
Satan’s
Victory
. It was pure fortune which ferried him to this isle of sin at the absolute moment Lochlanaire’s ship had anchored in the cove. He’d bide his time, then conjure a spell by which to bleed.

The music faded. Lochlanaire challenged the rogue dancing between Siren’s arms. He glared at him.

Wolf bowed and bid a skittish retreat, nary a word spoken.

Lochlanaire questioned the man’s rude indiscretion and somewhere drowned in his mind he thought he should recognize the libertine. Instead, he shrugged off the warnings granted him and flicked his attention to Siren. She twirled on her heel, before he could speak, and approached the wine casks.

Lochlanaire shrugged and was about to abandon the floor but a melody the musicians played roused biting memory. He froze. The dancing couples surrounding him bolted Lochlanaire to envision the phantasm of a masquerade that took place in a British palace long ago.
He stared into his own eyes, which he saw reflected within a mirror outside a white marble ballroom’s door. Lochlanaire tied the red wisp of cloth circling his head, noting his ruby silk shirt, and the black mask disguising his face. His fingers lowered to the pistol where it hovered in a sash, which crossed his chest. Lochlanaire tugged himself from the mirror and crossed the ballroom. He eased along the mass of ornately garbed, gleeful people. The throng seemingly slowed before his scouring gaze. He advanced on the man dancing in the arms of the ebony-haired beauty he hunted. Lochlanaire tapped upon the man’s shoulder; cutting in for a dance. He bowed and was left to the smiling, curtsying woman. Outside
the palace, cannon fire blared, enchanting the crowd to the eve’s celebration. As the woman lifted her fingers so she could lace his, a shot rang out but the sound was muffled by bunched cloth that her slayer positioned over the barrel’s end. The pistol ball jarred her heart. Lochlanaire holstered the smoking pistol ere anyone could witness the shooting and cradled the crumpling lady in his arms. She stammered to speak; her eyes began to fog while they captivated her assassin’s. He conducted her to a settee, feigning to those who took notice that she’d merely fainted under the eve’s excitement. Lochlanaire left her there to die; the woman’s blood faded into his shirt. He cloistered himself among the crowd, a scarcely seen, bloodthirsty specter…