by Raelle Logan
Waking, Siren found her enslaver clad under a veil the fire enchanted. She couldn’t say if Lochlanaire was tangled by the labyrinths that enfolded him, but she lay perfectly still, not craving to test providence.
Lochlanaire’s eyes rose and drifted to Siren. “I’m regretful for strangling you.”
“Are you?”
“It was not my intension to cause harm,” Lochlanaire muttered, standing and then turning away from her perceptive eyes, eyes which seduced him to drown in their depths.
“What demons possess you?”
Lochlanaire sighed. “You needn’t burden yourself.”
Siren accused, “You attempted to kill me at the waterfall. You owe me an explanation for your treason.”
Lochlanaire roamed to the cavern’s entry. “I possess no memory…or little of who or what I am. My past has been torn…it is in shambles.”
“How…is it possible to live without a memory?”
Lochlanaire wondered such himself. “I cannot say. Alas, whenever I suffer my reflection, I behold the image belonging to a stranger.”
“What do you remember?”
“Jumbles of nightmares…death, destruction, murder.” Facing her, Lochlanaire saw terror poisoning her eyes.
“Have you kidnapped me longing to kill me?”
He explored the fire light as it frolicked over her. Lochlanaire could see that she did not sincerely covet the answer to her question. “I have not kidnapped you for the purpose of slaying you. However, so you may attest, I could at any time. Guard yourself, lady.”
Siren dared, before he pursued his retreat…“My ring…I want my ring.”
Looking at the ruby signet and then upon her, Lochlanaire avowed, “The ring is in my possession, thus it’s become a bloody pirate’s plunder.” Chuckling, Lochlanaire sauntered from the cave.
Siren’s heart thumped wildly. He’s a pirate. How, God Almighty, how could she have landed in the arms of a vicious pirate?
Desperate, Siren yanked on the chain, teeth clenched, her wrist bleeding for her ferocity.
CHAPTER FIVE
Gypsy Wedding
With Lochlanaire’s extensive absence, Siren loosened the iron tethering her wrist. Blood dripped over the shackle under her constant tugs, the iron then eased down her hand, for she folded inward her scratched fingers. She lurched her attention to the cave mouth and tiptoed to it. Not seeing Lochlanaire anywhere, Siren stepped in the other direction of the escape she’d tried in her first attempt and eased around the waterfall. She faltered on its misted shore, but she quickly gathered her tattered wits and continued her flight for freedom, twigs and rocks lacerated her naked feet. Voices drifting in the distance commanded her to run in another direction. The path guided ashore. Siren’s heart jumped with every noise the forest chirped. She searched for anything to garner as either raft or weapon. Siren discovered nothing of significance.
As Siren circled the broad jut that split the wave-thrashed island, she came face-to-face with a dark brown haired, bearded man whose black eyes proclaimed how stunned he was to see her. His reaction, unfortunately for her, altered, and faster than she could procure an escape, he grabbed her wrist. He wrenched Siren in the direction of a fire lit camp. Here, she found a large throng of…gypsies? Huddled under the moon-dazzled sky were a mass of gypsies sitting around a cozy bonfire. They were dressed similar as she, wearing colorful shirts, skirts and breeches…women, men and children. The throng halted the lilting music they played, enchanted by Siren’s unexpected presence among them. Siren was dragged forward, cutting between the imposing faction and she was commanded to sit on a felled log, which lay forefront of the warming fire.
The gypsies surrounded her in a frightful crush. Whispers arose between the agitated men, their fingers pointed in her direction.
A woman wearing a red scarf glinting wavy brown hair, her skirt whipping her legs, the gypsy’s once white linen shirt drooping from her shoulders, pierced the swarm. She sat next to Siren and raised one hand. The men quieted. She explored Siren’s fretful eyes. “Wed?”
Siren balked. “Ah…what?” The woman’s question puzzled. Siren peered at the charmed men, who hung on her every word. Their gazes fondled her body that was barely concealed by her sagging shirt. Siren clutched her shirtfront together.
“Are ye married?” the woman asked.
Siren discerned that her answer could spell disastrous consequences, therefore she perched her head high and admitted, “I’m betrothed.”
The faces of the gypsy men fell.
Siren understood…had she not professed that she was betrothed, she would have been wedded to one of these lecherous thieves, probably the man who abducted her on shore. Now desperate for Lochlanaire to emerge from the woods as her champion defender, Siren watched the woman who spoke to her, for she sauntered to the men.
As a lion freed from his cage, Lochlanaire bashed from the shadows of which the thick trees presented, his pistol drawn and cocked.
Siren hurried to him.
Lochlanaire darted Siren behind him, pointing the weapon at the silenced mass, a militant starved for war. “What…who…who the Hell are they?”
Siren murmured, “I was grabbed by one of their men. They’re gypsies. They asked if I was married. I said I’m betrothed.”
The woman returned to Siren, her distraught eyes dipping toward the pistol her protector held. “Betrothed?”
“Lochlanaire?” Siren then understood and confirmed, “Yes, yes, Lochlanaire’s my betrothed.”
“Bloody…what?” Lochlanaire stared at her. She snaked her arm around his waist and squeezed his lithe flesh, prodding him to accept her ruse. “Aye, we’re…um…betrothed.” He smirked.
Siren captured his hand. Raising the ruby signet, she gushed, “Oh, you found my ring. I’m grateful.” She tugged the signet off Lochlanaire’s finger and slid it to bejewel hers, implying that it was her betrothal ring. She dared him to counter her deceit.
Lochlanaire gritted his teeth and whispered so only she could hear, “I’ll steal it back. Do not think that you’ve conquered me.” Loudly he berated her for the benefit of the gypsies, “Aye, my love, you were careless to leave it ashore of the waterfall where we bathed earlier.”
Disapproval echoed amid the gypsies. The woman who spoke to Siren, broached, “You must marry.”
Lochlanaire’s face altered to confused. “Marry?”
The woman nodded. “I am Eleshia, the seer. It be a grievous error for ye to await marriage when ye so desire this woman that ye bathe together.”
He roared to refute the woman’s oath but Lochlanaire was halted, for Siren conveyed, “We journey to England for this purpose…for our family to witness our union in celebration.”
“Nay, you wed this night.” Eleshia nodded for Siren and Lochlanaire to follow her, fracturing the crush of gypsies. “Come.”
Lochlanaire possessed only one shot in the pistol and even using the cutlass adorning his hip wouldn’t secure him a victory. The men guarding them would easily drag him down, if he fought. He and Siren, therefore, were coaxed to the mocking fire. An age-gnarled gent, awarded a respected stature, advanced within the circle, facing Lochlanaire and Siren. He summoned them to enfold hands. Lochlanaire’s fingers laced Siren’s. Words were spoken by the man wedding them in a language unfamiliar to Lochlanaire. His brow began to speckle with sweat. Siren squeezed his hand, impelling him to search her eyes. Lochlanaire relaxed, surrendering to her ability to soothe. Words once more were chanted, those Lochlanaire and Siren were persuaded to repeat. The gypsies cheered, mugs of wine skipped about the crowd in hearty celebration, and musical instruments played lilting melodies. The man presiding over the ritual enticed them to kiss. As their lips touched, Lochlanaire’s arms webbed Siren in a passionate embrace and their kiss became voracious. Hoots from the men yanked the bashful couple from their starvation.
Lochlanaire found himself enveloped by gypsy men. Siren was scooped off by the women to a forest-adorned cott
age. Frantically, she searched for her captor, but she couldn’t see him. Lochlanaire disappeared amongst the crush of gypsies. A tankard of wine was plunged into his hands. The jubilant crowd congratulated him on his triumph.
Intoxicated a bit, for the gypsies continuously plied him with mug after mug of drink, most of which he secretly spilled, Lochlanaire, after hours drifted by, was escorted to the cottage. The door slammed behind him and immediately locked. He squinted to peer inward of the candle-smoky edifice. Lochlanaire approached a beaded threshold and brushed its colorful strings apart. Inside appeared a round table dressed beneath a ruby cloth. A crystal sphere balanced gracefully upon a golden-clawed altar, and behind it waited a kingly bed dotted with fragrant petals cut from the island’s wealth of flowers.
“We appear to have married,” a womanly voice broke the silence from the cottage’s rear.
“Such is a union I’m hardly sure any would declare lawful,” Lochlanaire affirmed, struggling to see the woman behind the voice.
“Alas, the gypsies believe.”
“Aye, and since they may be observing, even this moment, we must believe,” he coldly suggested.
Siren unveiled herself to Lochlanaire. The women had assisted her in bathing within a crystal- clear waterfall even with her insistence contrary. Siren was soon after gowned in a white dress, which flowed to her naked feet, the gossamer cloth not hiding an inch of her body. A soft crown of ribbons and flowers speckled her ebony hair. Gold rope circled Siren’s waist, the knotted ribbon enticed the dress to further silhouette prominent hips. The gown’s skirt slit to nearly the juncture of her long legs, its throat plunged.
“My lord…” Lochlanaire whispered.
Siren bit her lip, halting directly in front of him. “Are you hungry to kiss me, husband?”
Lochlanaire was frenzied for far more than this. His eyes roamed to her bared breasts, for the gown’s throat dipped across her shoulders. He was insanely besieged, for the nipples of her heavy breasts peaked under the caress. “Siren…this…”
“This saves our lives, Lochlanaire. Touch me.”
Compelled to the reality that should they not consummate their union, and the gypsies somehow discovered their deceit, they could be slain for their ruse, Lochlanaire accepted his prisoner stature once more. Trembling fingers cupped her breast through the dress’ silk. Siren’s lips parted and her hands feathered to his lithely muscled chest, drawing the shirtfront’s folds. Lochlanaire’s heartbeat jumped. He seized her lips in an insatiable kiss, groaning, for Siren’s body pressed provocatively against his. He skimmed her flawless breasts, commanding a moan from her for him. Lochlanaire carried Siren to the bed, lowering her to lie there while he jerked his shirt off his body and threw it aside. Sitting up, she helped him untie his breeches, shoving them down his muscled legs. Naked to her blistering eyes, he covered her body beneath his, remembering the scars violating his flesh, aching for her not to see them. Lochlanaire ripped the gown from her heaving chest, and suckled her silky breast. He shoved away her skirt, scalding the juncture between her parted legs. Lochlanaire’s body shadowed hers, his engorged manhood pierced but a supple barrier opposed his full conquering, attesting to Siren’s virginity. Aware that he couldn’t abandon his treachery, Lochlanaire sliced the wispy skin, tearing a cry from Siren. She arched beneath him, biting her lip to stay herself of the desire to scream.
Lochlanaire’s fingers prickled her body, his lips kissed hers, dipping to Siren’s arching throat, then fell to her breast. He began to rock, seizing her sheathing flesh. Pain subsided, whirling into ecstasy. Siren clawed his twitching muscles, descending his back. Lochlanaire moved faster, spiraling to life a fire that consumed in heavenly waves.
Siren’s body quaked. Lochlanaire captured her lips, enslaving Siren to her soul.
Flames arrested Lochlanaire to heights so exquisite he could never imagine surviving the tempest. Sated, Lochlanaire dropped atop Siren, his head lying upon her breast. “God…what devastation have I reaped?” Lochlanaire reprimanded himself.
“You’ve done what we had no choice but to do.” Siren’s fingertips roved down his back.
Certain that she could feel the slashes burdening his flesh, Lochlanaire withdrew from her body and sat on the bed’s ridge, his shaky fingers delved into his hair. “You were a virgin…I ruined…sullied you.”
Sitting slightly, arm propped behind her, Siren countered, “My virtue’s loss is worth the reward of our lives. They may have killed us, Lochlanaire. You’ve assured they will not.”
“This…is insane. How could I…how?”
Not grasping the answers he ached for, Siren gestured for him to lie by her side. “If you leave me, as you seek to this moment, they’ll suspect we’ve lied. You must lay with me, Lochlanaire.”
He flopped upon the bed beside her, staring at her candle lit face. Unwillingly, his eyes fluttered to her still naked breasts, for she lay on her back. He groaned, starved for her again.
Clenching his hand, Siren enticed him to encircle her nipple, starved for him to take the possession they both itched for. She kissed him, seducing Lochlanaire to surrender to her power. Siren commanded him to fall on his back. She enchained his manhood, her body rocking over his, his hand shivering her breasts. Fire scorched them both.
Under dawn’s unholy break, Lochlanaire dressed and roamed to the cabin’s door, trying the knob; effortlessly it turned, unlocked sometime in the night. He threw open the door, finding the gypsies partaking of their morn meal beneath a blood red sun. Turning from the condemning sunrise, he moved to the bed. Siren slept, one arm tossed behind her head. The flesh of her wrist blistered where the iron he’d locked there had rubbed it raw. Lochlanaire loathed himself for everything he’d executed in mere days. He removed his shirt and draped it beside her. He left Siren to slumber, parting the crush of gypsies who welcomed him akin to one of their own. Several children cuffed his head beneath ruby cloth, the strings tickled his bare shoulders; somberly he sat on a felled log, a trencher of food someone plopped in his palm. Lochlanaire began to eat, curious if his brother had yet to realize his disastrous absence.
Lochlanaire’s attention delved from the rising sun to find Siren captivating the doorway to their cottage. She wore his shirt that covered to nearly her knees, untied laces crossed her chest, Siren’s breasts were barely shadowed, and the heavy mass of her black hair whispered to her waist. She was the most exquisite portrait of beauty he could ever imagine. Setting his trencher aside, Lochlanaire walked to her. Siren grinned, seeing longing glistening in his bewitching eyes. He tied the shirt’s laces. “Our captors are less tyrannical this day. We safely depart when you’re prepared.”
Her reprieve of captivity now ended, Siren somberly said, “I gather my clothes at once.”
Lochlanaire returned to his meal. Unfortunately, his interest rarely strayed from the cottage. He was unsure if it could be because he did not trust Siren not to seek escape or he just couldn’t suffer the fact that she was removed of his sight.
What now?
He’d taken her. He married her. Yes, it was a marriage forged by gypsies, arranged under duress, and surely their union couldn’t be accepted as lawful in British eyes. But he’d stolen Siren’s virginity. He’d taken in lust the woman he must sacrifice to a cutthroat king, a woman he’d sworn to slay if necessary, the woman who so threatened the British monarchy that the king hired him to hunt her down. Now Lochlanaire must question his ability to continue the decree. Should he not relinquish her to King William, he was sure to lose everything, his title, his manor, even his life, for he must question if the king will have his murder conviction upheld, imprisoning him for eternity. Too much lies at stake. Lochlanaire dared not risk his life for this temptress -- he must resist her seduction.
Just after Lochlanaire thought he bore power over his emotions, Siren exited the cottage and sashayed to him. She surrendered his shirt to him, for she wore her former attire. Sitting beside him, she ate the porridge that the gypsies o
ffered to her. Lochlanaire drew on the shirt, aggravated, for his body scorched with starvation, just having her near.
Once their meal was concluded, Lochlanaire and Siren said their farewells to the gypsy clan and drifted along the shore for the beached ship. With their arrival, he confronted her. “This alters little, Siren. You’re my captive. I’m your captor. Understood?”
As Lochlanaire squeezed her fingers, Siren began to reprimand him. She fought to run away and snapped, “You heartless, wretched bastard…”
Her tirade was stilted, for Grayson came upon them. “What the devil has occurred, Lock? We found the cave abandoned and began a search for you. Where have you been?”
Lochlanaire sneered at Siren. His mouth enfolded her finger. He tugged the ruby signet free using his teeth. His eyes never left hers. Hers dazed with lust. Ceremoniously, he withdrew the ring from Siren’s finger, it then sparkled his pinky. “Bastard, Siren? I’m worthy of that name and countless others. I agree.” Lochlanaire clutched her arm and tugged her down the shore.
“Bloody blighter, you defamed me, you rake, blackguard, despoiler, libertine…damn you, I despise you, Lochlanaire. I shall hate you evermore. I swear…”
Grayson asked, “What happened?”
Lochlanaire continued onward in the ship’s direction. “We were accosted by gypsies and forced at pistol point to wed.”
“Wed?”
“Aye.” Lochlanaire twirled in front of Grayson’s feet, defying Siren, who still struggled to free herself but failed miserably. “Grayson Blackheart, I introduce you to Siren Rain Blackheart, my wife.”
Grayson jeered, “You cannot suggest such…a gypsy union?” he laughed.
“Aye, I’m bloody sincere.” Challenging Siren, Lochlanaire chastised, “Continue raking me over the fire, Siren, and I’ll bed you again, madly. Understood?”
She glared in answer, battling further to liberate herself.
