Blackheart

by Raelle Logan

  On the night of her captivity aboard this ship where she now resided, Siren noted in a corner of the Virginian, slouched a black-haired, similar eyed fellow whose scowl followed her every step. The patron drank little, not partaking of the gaming within the crowded edifice. Erroneously, she did not think further of the chap, declaring herself plagued by exhaustion with the warnings sensed. She left others to address the needs of the men and drifted amongst the alley’s shadows. It was while she stood there rubbing her achy feet, that from behind, a man’s palm clenched her mouth, and the assailant’s arm seized her stomach. Siren screeched but the sound muffled. She was dragged to a waiting carriage where she was thrown inside. Her hands and legs were tied together by biting rope and bunched cloth was shoved into her mouth. The coach swerved along the lamp glittery streets of Norfolk to the docks. At pistol point, Siren was hauled aboard this vessel and chained in a cabin inside its bowels. Immediately, Siren realized that her captor was none other than the fellow who watched her at the Virginian. This charlatan refused to explain his actions for her kidnapping, only snarling that she returns to England and he captains the Vengeance. For months, Siren sat inside this floating prison, never released of the irons, fearing cruel fate. Whenever she questioned her abductor, she received grunts and no answers.

  The vessel curiously docked this day, but she did not know where or why. Through a distant porthole, Siren could see the outlines of cozy cottages in a sleepy island town. It, however, was unfamiliar.

  The door to her prison burst open.

  Siren’s attacker choked her hand. The captain applied a key and released the irons. Siren rubbed her raw flesh, curious regarding why she was unshackled. He unsheathed his pistol, demanding that she stand and, chaining her arm, he walked the lantern lit passage, dragging her on deck. Here, Siren confronted a man who was never introduced to her. He nodded his brown head and the accuser spouted no word; he received gold coin from the captain and departed the ship with skittish haste.

  Siren’s kidnapper twirled her toward the door leading to the ship’s inner sanctuary, clearly meaning to return her to captivity. Siren dug in her heels, groped for a lower rigging rope and jolted the captain to a standstill. “I demand answers. You owe me this,” she snarled.

  The captain jeered, “I owe ye nothin’.” He grabbed her arm. Siren kicked his knee, screeching. Unintentionally, he freed her. Siren ran to the stairs that led to the ship’s helm. Her persecutor mirrored her ascension. Unaware of her error in judgment, Siren crossed the bridge and found herself trapped at its stern. There was no access for her to achieve escape. Siren’s feral eyes leapt off the grinning captain’s to the ship’s edge. She considered jumping.

  ***

  Days after Satan’s Victory was wounded in battle, in the distance of a pier, gilding Serpent Isle, the vessel anchored. At the helm, studying the progress with the refigure of the ship’s mainmast, Lochlanaire stood. Curiously his attention was drawn to the ship which lay anchored near his, for he heard a woman shriek. Lochlanaire clutched his spyglass and peered at the ship where he’d heard the screech. His eyes followed the strides of a woman who rushed up the stairs and boarded the bridge. Lochlanaire’s glance drifted to her terrified face and then dipped along her slender, though voluptuous body. Lochlanaire immediately recognized her as the woman he hunted, but a blazing hunger pierced his heart. ‘Siren…’ he murmured, lowering the spyglass, entranced by the beauty.

  ***

  Aboard the Vengeance, Siren shook her head at the captain who cornered her. Before she could jump off the ship, he snatched her arm. He tugged her from the bridge into the ship’s hull and vanished.

  ***

  Lochlanaire advanced on Satan’s Victory’s starboard rim and stared upon the ship. He’d not be sailing to Virginia after all, the lass he’s sworn to kidnap lies ensconced inward of another man’s vessel. But why? She, clearly, was an unwilling passenger, having fought the blackguard chasing her. Who is Siren’s assailant?

  Grayson swaggered to Lochlanaire. “The ship raises anchor in another day, Lock.”

  Lochlanaire still glowered at the far ship. “Who captains yonder vessel?”

  Grayson retrieved the spyglass, exploring the ship and its black crow figurehead. “It’s the Vengeance. Months ago, the vessel was taken in a bloodbath. Most of its crew were slain, heads, legs, arms…all chopped from their bodies and tossed to the ocean. The few who survived the massacre swam the ocean waters, but most died when sharks attacked. Truly, I cannot say who’s captain this day. I could inquire of the tavern. See what I may uncover, if you wish.”

  Lochlanaire mulled. “It matters little. It would be prudent, however, to discover its destination. There’s treasure aboard that I must possess.”

  “You’re achin’ to plunder the ship?” Grayson affirmed.

  “Aye.”

  Grayson tossed the spyglass and departed, demanding a longboat lowered, as he walked the main deck.

  Lochlanaire observed his brother’s leaving in the boat where it eventually anchored to the pier. Raising the spyglass, he searched the Vengeance. Its captain remained hidden to sight.

  ***

  Siren seethed as she was thrown inside her prison again. “Explain yourself…I must learn why I’ve been kidnapped!”

  The captain tugged her to the bed. “What you want means bloody little.” Shackling her arms, he withdrew to the cabin door; locking it, he took his exodus.

  Siren screamed every expletive she could think to spew and wrenched on the cuffs, cutting her skin.

  The shackles held true.

  ***

  Upon night fall, Grayson rowed to Satan’s Victory, his face appeared ghostly pale. He rushed to Lochlanaire who continued to ponder the Vengeance. “The Vengeance sails to Britain posthaste. Its lady captive is sentenced to wed a duke who was wronged by her stepfather. She’s bein’ used for compensation for an enormous debt he owes.”

  “Tragic,” Lochlanaire grumbled, rubbing his chin.

  “That’s not the worst. The current captain of the Vengeance is our brother, Zore.”

  Lochlanaire sought Grayson’s disgruntled countenance. “He’s… ”

  Grayson interrupted, “Zore is a satanic pirate. I hid this. It was unnecessary for you to learn it. The Devil cannot be so barbaric. I should have known it was he who violated the Vengeance. Zore’s treachery mirrors what occurred aboard the vessel. Ownin’ to that I’d been off ship, his atrocities were sheltered to me.”

  “What was my relationship with Zore?” asked Lochlanaire.

  “Whatever conquests he engaged, you spelled mightier quests, Lock. Blood vengeance rose between you. Zore branded you cowardly for becomin’ the King’s assassin. After your arrest, Zore celebrated, thinkin’ your imprisonment signified death. He may even have borne a part in the atrocity, though I’ve no evidence regardin’ such. Hearin’ ‘bout your insanity, he rejoiced. He’s disgustin’.” Grayson’s eyes dipped toward the Vengeance.

  “Our paths cross anew.”

  “Raidin’ Zore’s ship will not be easy. It bears the worst brigands known to exist. Zore’s a demon warrior in the fray of battle.”

  “Did I best him previously?” Lochlanaire questioned, pensive.

  “Aye, alas, Zore’s acquainted with your every move. You, on the other hand, cannot remember anythin’ of his. He possesses an advantage.”

  Lochlanaire ominously chided, “Ah, he’ll not have every advantage. He cannot know…he’s about to be boarded. We’ll seize Zore unaware. Keep weather eye upon his ship; enlighten me the moment she sails. Have the mast repaired, whatever it takes.” Descending the stairs, he sauntered to his cabin. Lochlanaire’s scowl fell onto the portrait of Siren. How wretched her fate. First, she’d been kidnapped to pay for her stepfather’s debt, now she will be enslaved at King William’s decree, taken from one villain, only to be chained in the arms of his assassin sibling. The woman’s little more than a pawn in a game riddled by bloodshed.

  He stifl
ed guilt, strangled the throat of his wine decanter, and backed to his bed, drinking gluttonously.

  A knock rattled the door, jolting Lochlanaire awake. He groped to his feet and one hand threaded his raven locks as he swaggered to the door, bursting it open. A crewman waited at attention in the corridor. “What?”

  “Quartermaster Grayson said to apprise ye o’ when the Vengeance cast sail, sir.”

  “She sails while we speak?”

  The crewman chirped, “Aye.”

  “Dismissed.” Shutting the door, Lochlanaire was eclipsed by an apparition awakened by the past. Secluded in a night-blackened alley, his brother Zore stood before him. Zore laughed and raised the knife held in his right hand. A woman was cradled in Zore’s arms. He slit her throat and blood gushed over the maid’s fatal injuries. Zore dropped her dying body, and wandered away. He disappeared in the darkness. Lochlanaire heard Zore’s ghoulish laughter echo. Suddenly, he returned to the present; his limp body shielded the door. Lochlanaire saw Zore’s grisly black eyes, bewildered at how effortless it was for him to slay the harlot after his ravishment of her.

  Lochlanaire quarantined the memory and returned to his helm, where Grayson waited. He noted the Vengeance’s slovenly departure of the harbor and then he peered at his quartermaster. “Is our ship primed to sail?”

  Grayson attested, “Aye, the mast is repaired, Captain.” Employing countless carpenters, the mainmast was restored far quicker than normally would occur.

  “Cut anchor. Cast sail.”

  Grayson gave the order. The men scampered in response. Soon, Satan’s Victory dipped among choppy seas, trailing the Vengeance. Manning the tiller, Lochlanaire was uncompromising in his lust to entrap his brother’s ship and the treasure it enfolded below.

  Satan’s Victory glided closer to its prey, but with fog rolling in, the two ships were commanded to slow in their pace. Fortune, however, held true to Lochlanaire, for his ship sidled alongside the Vengeance. Grappling hooks were tossed and bridged the fissure between. The crews off both vaulted, swarming the vessels, pistols, swords, sabers and cutlasses engaged in a ferocious bloodbath. Lochlanaire vaulted to the Vengeance from his helm and blood spilled at his every step. He made way in the direction of the passage that would lead him into the ship’s hull. At its doorway threshold, he captured a pirate; his cutlass’ tip pricked the villain’s throat. Lochlanaire scathingly demanded, “Where’s the woman?”

  The pirate clawed Lochlanaire’s fingers but was futile in his quest for freedom, spouting, “She be jailed in a cabin…nearest the galley.”

  “Take me. And if you deceive me, you’ll die, torturously. Understood?” Lochlanaire droned.

  The pirate dashed across the entrance. Lochlanaire trailed, his cutlass piercing the pirate’s back, should he pause. At the locked cabin, Lochlanaire kicked the door and it splintered to shards.

  Lochlanaire found the desecrated woman. Siren cringed backward against the wall. Magnificently menacing, Lochlanaire felled his guide, discarding him inside the corridor. Forthwith, Lochlanaire crossed the cabin. His cutlass struck the ring that held her until it flopped on the bed near Siren’s cradled legs. Lochlanaire yanked Siren to her feet. She fought him, but was unsuccessful. He whisked her to the passageway, and afterward tossed her aboard the main deck.

  Fog rolled heavier.

  Lochlanaire could barely see but he dashed across the vessel, dragging the woman alongside him toward the ship’s helm. Mystically, the fog parted and he challenged the blood-soiled, scathing captain of the Vengeance.

  Zore’s deadly gaze defied Lochlanaire’s. “Well, well, if it is not my dear brother. Lock…I believed you damned to the Devil in Hades, where you belong.”

  Lochlanaire pitched his prize behind him, still bracing Siren’s arm. Her fingernails bled his flesh. He never cringed. “Zore. I trust you’ll be vexed. Your treasure is now mine,” he snapped, raising the cutlass before his brother in opposition.

  “It’s said that you’re insane, Lock.”

  Pushing his treasure far from Zore’s reach, Lochlanaire grinned. “Aye. That…I…am.” The whites of his eyes were bared.

  The brothers’ cutlasses dove in a feral duel.

  The joust scarcely begun, fog split the adversaries. Lochlanaire swept his prisoner aboard the deck of Satan’s Victory. He jumped behind her. Siren ran, but her abductor yoked her arm. She was thrown against his chest.

  Grappling hooks were immediately severed. The ships groaned and parted. The sails of Satan’s Victory flapped their masts. The ship drifted amidst the fog.

  Zore yelled to his brother through the muck, “Curse you, Lochlanaire! I’ll haunt you to the ends of the earth! Beware, the day I catch you, you’ll ferociously wish I had not!” The Vengeance was utterly stalled; for under command by Lochlanaire his pirates had taken their knives and ripped Zore’s canvas sails to ribbons.

  Rain poured.

  Lightning illuminated the ship in torrents.

  A storm listed the vessel.

  Floundering merely to stand, Lochlanaire wrenched his captive to his quarters. Siren fell before the toe of his boot on the threshold. He locked the door. He studied her, for she crawled along the floor, frenzied for freedom. Lochlanaire yanked Siren to stand and he pushed her to fall across his bed. He retrieved the key to the irons secluded amid his desk. Lochlanaire unlocked one of her cuffs and strung the chain between the ring above his bed. He manacled her blistered wrist. Siren’s eyes frosted under every cruelty.

  “Who are you? Why have you taken me prisoner? What have I done to provoke such wickedness?” Siren whimpered.

  Lochlanaire scowled, reviling the entrance, never facing her. “My name is Lochlanaire Blackheart. I’m King William’s assassin, his huntsman.” Lochlanaire unlocked the door and disappeared in the corridor. He locked the cabin.

  ***

  Siren’s stunned eyes searched the water-streaked window. What nightmarish Hell enshrouded her? Siren tucked her legs under her chin and sobbed. Why would the king’s assassin hunt her?

  ***

  At the helm, Grayson battled the tiller, losing control of the vessel. Lochlanaire walked the stairs to him and accepted the captaincy, rain and wind battered him and the crew.

  Over the roar of swishing waves, Grayson shouted, “We’ve lost course! The ship will be fortunate not to sink!”

  “Furl the sails!” The order darted from pirate to pirate.

  All that blustery day, Lochlanaire crimped the tiller under whitened fists, Grayson faithfully assisted. Long into nightfall, he stumbled off the helm to his cabin. Lochlanaire found Siren huddled in the corner of his bed. Her eyes condemned as he swerved to his wine decanter, uncorked the vessel, and guzzled, ignoring his slave.

  ***

  Siren watched the door to her newest prison open. She recoiled and rebuked her captor’s every move. Once he tossed the decanter onto the desk and advanced on her, she scurried for the bed’s farthest end.

  Lochlanaire throttled her right hand and drew it outward.

  Siren fought him.

  His biting hold never wavered, however, and as her eyes brushed his scarred wrists where irons once trussed, Lochlanaire tore the ruby ring off her finger.

  Siren’s arms wrapped around her legs. “Why?”

  He moved off to the rain-washed window. Lochlanaire slipped King James II’s signet onto his pinky and searched rolling waves. Dully he spoke, “Who are you, Siren Rain?”

  “You kidnapped me. You should know who I am,” she reprimanded.

  Lochlanaire questioned, “Why did Zore accost you?”

  “Who is Zore?”

  “Zore is the captain who held you prisoner aboard the Vengeance.”

  “I never saw the tyrant until he came to the Virginian in Norfolk,” Siren admonished.

  “The Virginian?” Lochlanaire removed one silk shirt from a shelf. He unlaced the soaked shirt that clung to his body and divested himself of it.

  The witchery of his eyes captivated
hers and then Siren’s gaze caressed his chiseled flesh, which tapered to his waist. Lochlanaire’s shirt was thrown to the captain’s chair. Siren’s breath wrenched, her glance touched the flog scars that desecrated his body.

  Lochlanaire turned his body away so she couldn’t see his chest or back.

  Siren recovered her wits. “The Virginian is a hall. I served the men food and drink while they gamed.”

  Lochlanaire fluttered the shirt to cover his body; the laces remained untied to his waist. He fully faced her. “This is where you met Zore?”

  Siren replied angrily, “I never met the bastard, in the manner you suggest. He kidnapped me in the alley and caged me as his prisoner aboard his vile ship. All he said was that he intended to return me to England. He would not even tell me his bloody name, leaving me alone for months in that hellish cabin. I bear no hint of what I’ve executed which prompts such sacrilege.” Glaring, for he sat on a chair, Siren demanded, “My ring?”