Blackheart

by Raelle Logan

  Lochlanaire lost himself in the snappy flame. “I suggest that time shall resolve our plight, this which I must obtain.”

  Apprehensive, Siren observed, for he approached the door. “I wish to speak to Shevaun alone, Lochlanaire.”

  He halted. “If you wish. I’ll post a guard to protect Shevaun. I’ll be in our chamber, Siren. Do not run. I’ve men watching this establishment.”

  Did Siren accept that she and Shevaun are being guarded as he claimed? Lochlanaire couldn’t say if his ruse was successful. Nevertheless, he stepped through the lantern-shadowy corridor and strolled to his bedchamber. Aware that she’d unquestionably seek the attempt to escape, Lochlanaire left his door cracked and dragged a chair to the entry, patiently waiting.

  He wouldn’t wait long.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Run

  The minute Shevaun advanced on her, Siren gestured, silencing her sister from speaking, thereafter, she grabbed Shevaun’s hand and they tiptoed to the door. The entry held slightly cracked, Siren searched the lantern-speckled corridor. The door to the chamber assigned to Lochlanaire, she noted, appeared to be open just a splinter. Siren looked in the opposite direction for the guard he said he would post. No pirate, wielding loaded pistol or cutlass, stood in defiance so she brushed open the door, urging Shevaun to follow her gingerly padding feet. Oh, Siren knew Lochlanaire would only trail her wherever she ran, but she hoped to escape to the island’s constable, perhaps begging for his aid or some other noble soul’s. Siren and Shevaun soon came upon a staircase and it invited them to the kitchens below stairs. Here, they saw no servants minding the eve victuals that bubbled amid a seared cauldron, scorched by ravenous fire. They hurried to the boarding house’s rear door. Siren shut the groaning entrance and they rushed to the gnarled forest, employing its darkness for a haven of looming death.

  ***

  Lochlanaire heard the creak of the door to Shevaun’s room as it opened and he saw Siren studying the corridor. Unbeknownst to her, he allowed Siren the chance to run, convinced that he’d catch her regardless of where she roamed, for Haviland Island is merely such, an island. She couldn’t run far.

  ***

  Deeply entrenched in the woods, the women journeyed, cut by spiky branches and brambles, rocks defying their path. Slowing, Siren realized Shevaun was enduring trouble keeping pace, for her lengthy azure gown encumbered Shevaun’s foot strides.

  Where could they hide?

  “Siren.” Shevaun fanned the bodice of her gown. “This is impossible. Where do we run?”

  Siren shook her head. “I cannot say, but I refuse to sit idly and permit Lochlanaire an easy victory over me.”

  “You love the beast,” gasped Shevaun, startled by the revelation.

  Siren appeared offended. “You’re mistaken.” Agitated, she stalked around a felled tree, ignoring her sister’s perceptive glower.

  “I think not. I saw it sparkling your eyes, Siren, when you kissed him. You love your huntsman, the barbarian who shot our mother.”

  Rankled, Siren brushed aside the branches of a diverting bush. “He kissed me. And I cannot be in love with Lochlanaire. It is wicked.”

  “You were innocent of his treason employed against Mother ‘til I told you, therefore, you couldn’t command your heart to accept the truth, Siren. You love Lochlanaire Blackheart…confess it is so in order that you may recover the means to crush the brazen feeling.”

  Siren chastised, “And how, pray tell, am I to admit to loving Lochlanaire and then smash the feeling?”

  Shevaun did not possess an answer. “For Mother, you must.”

  “Mother would hardly derive the power to banish me of whatever feelings I may enfold. Her illicitness cannot be denied. She loved a forbidden suitor. What faults me from the same betrayal?”

  Shevaun concurred, “Yes. However, her suitor was not the notorious executioner who seized our mother’s life right before my witnessing eyes.”

  “No, Shevaun. Her lover was as guilty, though. Because that scoundrel committed the degradation, Mother forfeited her life. Lochlanaire may have executed the crime by shooting her, but her death ultimately lies at King James II’s feet.”

  Shevaun, unfortunately, couldn’t refute Siren’s confession. “What about your feelings for this dreadful rogue?”

  Siren resumed walking in the opposite direction of where the boarding house awaits. “My feelings are entombed. I’ll not name them. This conversation offers little but ruthless guilt to me.”

  “You’re innocent of all crime. Lochlanaire is guilty. He seduced you to love him.”

  “No. You’re mistaken, Shevaun. I seduced him.” Striking off the conversation, Siren saw fluttery light dotting the distance. Intrigued, she stomped in that direction, hoping whoever lit that lowly flame might be inclined to present assistance to two terribly frightened women. They wove along the forest, soon stumbling onto shore. Siren wondered about the lantern, which ghostly haloed a boulder. No sentry hovered in attendance. Siren brooked wary steps. Shevaun shadowed her back. Seeing a ship, which lay anchored in the lightly fogged cove, Siren sensed that the vessel lingered there for immoral purposes. Suddenly she recognized the crow in flight figurehead as the carving of which belongs to the Vengeance, her first captor’s prison barge. “Zore. Oh, God, not Zore,” Siren muttered, her flesh shivering.

  Two men vaulted from the forest’s edge. Siren immediately recognized Zore and screeched for Shevaun to run. She furiously spun on the man who was hungry to entrap her. Outfoxed, Siren was convinced her struggles could all be for naught, but she swept her boot for the knife-brandishing, scarred hand of her opponent. She missed. Siren kicked again but for his gut. He grunted and backed off. Zore grinned and lunged for Shevaun. She fell on the sandy ground, face down. Her breath was silenced from her body. Siren fought as a wildcat. She clawed her assailant’s arm, for it ringed her stomach. Trampling his foot, at the same instant, she jarred her elbow in order to wound his chin, Siren escaped and ran to the forest line. Siren saw Shevaun being tugged toward the longboat where it drifted, moored on shore. Shevaun was tossed inside the vessel. Her wrists were tied by Zore. Bunched cloth drowned out Shevaun’s terrified shrieks. Zore shoved the craft to sail, ordering the pirate who fought Siren to resume the hunt for her. Siren could arise no power by which to spare her sister so she fled amongst the forest, and tiptoed to a concealing tree. From her vantage point, she witnessed as the ship’s anchor was chopped. Whirling amid the air, a parchment letter was shot by double crossbow’s arrow to pierce the sand below the lantern, which became the sprung trap. The marooned pirate gave chase of Siren, but eventually he yielded, for his ship sailed without him. No further did he burden himself about the woman who was swallowed by the forest’s ghostly goblins.

  The pirate took his leave.

  Siren huddled, thinking her assailant could hover in wait. Only after minutes ticked by did she break the woods. Siren apprehensively approached the parchment missive Zore shot to stab the sand.

  The Vengeance hoisted its sails and dispatched the inlet.

  Siren dragged the arrow free of the ground and read what Zore wrote upon the parchment. She wilted upon buckling knees…

  have lochlanaire sail to the island of

  satan’s labyrinth

  siren should he fail to come

  your sister dies and her death shall be torturous

  zore

  She forced herself to stand and reread the demonic words scribed by Zore. Siren’s hand quivered the crisp parchment. Lochlanaire burst through the woods and startled Siren, who took a stride backward. Weakly she drooped to her knees. Weeping, she held outward the letter to Lochlanaire, unable to speak of her failure.

  Lochlanaire read the letter. “Zore’s captured your sister?”

  Siren swiped fallen tears. “We stumbled into his trap. Lochlanaire, he’s learned of her identity.”

  Lochlanaire mulled. “If true, why is he not sailing to his reward in Britain, meaning to offer her t
o King William? No, I’m the hunted treasure. Zore proposes to use Shevaun for ransom so to entrap me.” He recalled Simone’s wretched death and recognized that Zore still thirsts for revenge. Once he received his vengeance, he’d abduct both Siren and Shevaun, sacrificing them to King William, collecting his bounty.

  Lochlanaire meant to assist Siren to stand. She faltered to her feet and defied his chivalry. “Your rejection of me is warranted, Siren. However, since it appears that we’ll be sailing together far longer, you’ll have to renounce your disgust.” Lowering his eyes from her anguished gaze, Lochlanaire motioned. “Come, we unearth Grayson and discover where Zore journeys.”

  Two slovenly footfalls behind, Siren plodded along the shore with Lochlanaire, all the while feeling mortified that she’d walked straight into Zore’s trap. Now her sister was the captive of a venomous serpent. She especially detested herself for loving Lochlanaire. She faulted him for his lies and her treacherous downfall. If possible, her glare would have slashed him to pieces.

  Inward of the noisy tavern, Lochlanaire cut across the crowd of gaming and drinking men. Siren reflected his steps, avoiding broken glass and blood staining the wood floor, splashed there by the scuffles waged, past and present. Lingering in a meagerly lit corner, they found Grayson, a goblet of wine cinched in his hand. Lochlanaire sat on the opposite side of the scratched table, and surmised his brother, disgruntled, for he and the men were not in a sober enough position to heave sail that night. Lochlanaire whipped outward Zore’s parchment letter and surrendered it to Grayson. Alas, Grayson’s eyes refused to focus. He looked to Lochlanaire for an explanation.

  “Zore kidnapped Siren’s sister,” Lochlanaire blatantly stated.

  Grayson’s bloodshot gaze broadened and he slurred, “Siren’s sister’s here?”

  Lochlanaire shook his head. “No, she was. We found Shevaun walking through the crowd earlier. Zore has since imprisoned her and inscribed this letter, which insists for us to sail to Satan’s Labyrinth.” Grayson began to slump unconscious; his eyes drooped. “Damn it, Grayson, stay awake!” Lochlanaire grabbed the half-filled chalice and tossed the remaining wine, splashing his brother’s haggard face. Grayson shook his dripping head and wrestled to gain consciousness. “Where is Satan’s Labyrinth?”

  Grayson mumbled, “Satan’s Labyrinth…Satan’s Labyrinth?” he staggered, confused.

  Infuriated, for he’d dredge nothing from Grayson this eve and unable to pull together the pirates who had spread throughout the island as rats fleeing a sinking ship, Lochlanaire refolded the letter, shoving it inward of his billowy shirt and moved to Grayson. Easily he lugged his brother to his shoulder and hurried across the tavern to its swinging door, evading the dueling men who tussled over the favors of a bawdy, buxom trollop.

  To the boarding house, Lochlanaire stamped, taking the stairs two at a time to the bedchamber Shevaun was supposed to sleep amid. Unceremoniously, he dumped his unconscious brother across the bed. Lochlanaire’s glance twitched to Siren, who guarded the door, her arms folded over her chest. “At least we know the name of the island Zore sails to. He, unfortunately, will be hours at sea ere we can ever hoist sail.”

  Siren nodded.

  “Not speakin’ to me, eh?” chirped Lochlanaire.

  Siren shrugged, moving to the hearth and wilted on the chair. “I detest you for lying to me about my mother and for killing her and me for foolishly enticing Shevaun to be webbed in the arms of a heinous libertine.”

  “Zore will not harm Shevaun anymore than he did you, for should he, he’ll never receive what he wants, which is my severed head on a bloodied pike,” droned Lochlanaire.

  “Why does Zore despise you so despicably that he seeks your spilt blood?”

  “Siblings endure rivalries,” quipped Lochlanaire.

  Siren scoffed, “Lying again, Lochlanaire?”

  He shrugged, soldering to lean against the hearth, an arm cocked. “Why not, Siren? Would it matter if I confess the truth? I’m a merciless cad. Nothin’ I say is important now, is it? Your repugnance garnished against me is entirely justified. I’m your mother’s slayer. I admit my hideous crime.”

  Beguiled by the firelight dancing across this rogue’s enamoring eyes, Siren dipped hers to her feet. “At least there’s a shred of truth somewhere lingering in your blackguard soul.”

  “Now will you let me seek an annulment?”

  Siren shook her head. “Absolutely not. You’re tied to me regardless of your desire contrary.”

  “Damn it, woman, what could possibly summon you to want to remain married to me?”

  Siren glided to him, stilling before his feet. “You’re my only hope of survival and you’re now Shevaun’s. Our bound assures me that you’ll stay chained to me, while your bloody allegiance promised to King William demands that you continue to imprison me. Am I in error, Lochlanaire?”

  “No.” Seduced by her ebony scowl, Lochlanaire defied his longing to take this woman in lust. He retreated to the snappy fire. “I suppose we’ll leave Grayson to sleep off his inebriation. Come.”

  Siren shook her head, but his scowl dared her to reject him. She stepped alongside Lochlanaire to the bedchamber he’d purchased for the night. Inside, he tugged the chair to its former position by the fire grate that cackled. He observed Siren, who wandered to the bed. She lay on its ridge as far removed of him as possible. Lochlanaire sighed, shed his boots, and locked the door. He sat on the bed beside his wife and tugged his legs to the furnishing. Lochlanaire languished backward. He laced his arms behind his head, staring upon the rafters. It was going to be a long night.

  Sometime in the darkness, Lochlanaire was held in a loving embrace and he cuddled the woman warming his side; his eyes caressed her fire lit face. Awakening, Siren stared lustily at him, but disastrously, she remembered everything, which occurred that day. Siren wrestled to remove herself of his arms but Lochlanaire wouldn’t allow her to reject her lust. He kissed her. Siren shoved against his chest and broke the kiss. Sensually, Lochlanaire’s eyes bewitched hers. Siren was lost, whimpering, for he parted the laces down her shirt, his fingertips skimming her breast that was oh, so desperate for his touch. Lochlanaire’s lips captured hers in a kiss that she couldn’t refuse if she’d borne the power hidden somewhere inside her soul. Siren ripped his shirt and tore it from his chest. His breeches followed, along with all her clothing to a disheveled pile. Siren shoved him to lie on his back and mounted Lochlanaire’s naked body, caressing his manhood, drawing it to impale her flesh. As she met her starlit release, Siren lured him to cover her body.

  Sated, Lochlanaire laid his head on her pounding chest.

  Profoundly Siren was riddled by guilt, but she’d wanted this man to the depths of her soul. Was her passion for him as scandalous as her mother’s had been for her forbidden lover? How could she deny her starvation for Lochlanaire when she loved him so tremendously in spite of his past?

  Locked in a bittersweet snare, were they, she for desiring this merciless huntsman and he for demanding to untwist his past, yielding only blood-soaked iniquities awakened by every memory he unburied.

  Tears drowned Siren’s eyes as her fingers combed the tousled locks of her slumbering husband’s hair. Is she guilty of treason for loving the man who executed her mother? Would her mother damn her devious and sinful for falling in love with the wrong man as did she?

  Condemned traitorous by her own merciless thoughts, Siren wished that she’d never learned about Lochlanaire’s brutality in shooting her mother. Oh, to turn back time, to never be told about the evil of his crimes. Unfortunately, if she was to remain married to this man, she must accept Lochlanaire’s wickedness and surrender to the truth that he was tendered no choice, ordered to kill or be slaughtered himself.

  God forgive her, Siren craved for an assassin to love her.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Zore’s Spelled Trap

  Aggravated by Grayson’s relentless state of unconsciousness, Lochlanaire tread to the boarding hous
e’s kitchen and there he grabbed a wooden bucket en route. At the well outside the structure, he filled the vessel with ice cold water and hastened back to the bedchamber, where his brother slept. Lochlanaire lifted the bucket and pitched a wave of water to splash Grayson’s entire form. Grayson shrieked as a strangled cat, and glared, reviling his sibling. “ ‘Bout time you returned to the living, Grayson. We’ve a pirate to hunt.”

  Droplets shaken from his face, Grayson raked drenched locks and rubbed his bloodshot eyes. “What…pirate?”

  Lochlanaire dumped the empty bucket alongside the bed. “Do you remember our conversation from last eve at the tavern?”

  Grayson flicked water off his cheek and shook his head. “Lochlanaire, I do not even remember the tavern.”

  Lochlanaire retrieved a chair and sat forefront of his brother. “Siren and I found her sister, Shevaun, folded amongst this devilish island. After their gleeful reuniting, Siren explained to Shevaun what happened to her with Zore’s kidnapping and their mother’s deceit in loving King James II. She, as well, described my arrangement with King William. In the course, Shevaun remembered seeing me at the masquerade where her mother was shot and died. Shevaun bore witness that I am their mother’s executioner. Siren was livid and escaped the boarding house with Shevaun in tow. I imagined that Siren was going to run and followed, but before I could rescue them, Zore kidnapped Shevaun, leaving Siren and a letter. Which brings us to you…this is the letter Zore wrote.” Removing Zore’s missive that he’d secreted in his shirt, Lochlanaire released the parchment to Grayson.

  “Bloody Hell.” Grayson trampled to the hearth. “Satan’s Labyrinth is faultless for an ambush, Lochlanaire. Rocks and shoals surround the island. It is deserted by all but the Devil. Many a ship’s struck the rocks there. Hidden tides urge a vessel in the direction of the shore without a captain bein’ aware. It is a wicked proposition sailin’ to that haunted land.”

  “Haunted?” Lochlanaire grimaced.