by Raelle Logan
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Devious Signets
Facing the wall of what was once her jail, Siren lazed on the bed adorning Lochlanaire’s quarters, feeling sorrow for herself. The signet belonging to Shevaun, which now beautified her finger, caught Siren’s eye, prompting her to sit up. Her tears stifled. Siren strolled to the desk, remembering then that Lochlanaire removed her ring, leaving it on the desktop earlier prior to their sword fighting lesson that morn. Cradling the ruby, Siren withdrew her sister’s from her finger. Mysteriously, the rings were not formed as the twins they were said to be, each bore paltry differences, or so she assumed. A carving laced one edge that the other was missing. The crest was altered, and the etched feathers appeared to be presented oddly, the ruby centered so to catch the beholder’s eye, Latin wording engraved. Why are the signets not a match of each other when she was told they were, and why did their mother demand that they never separate themselves from the rings and that one day they would receive fortune at the jewels’ calling? Her mother must have presumed that because they are the prized treasures of King James II they might someday receive fortune by assuming the British throne. But could she have intended something else, something wicked? Are there clues disguised therein, derived by sorcery unknown, and if so, where do those clues lead? Siren always knew the signets were worth money, thinking this must be the reason for her mother’s stern reprimands. However, now she wondered.
Questioning if she’s merely anxious to obtain answers to her disastrous circumstances with Lochlanaire, Siren discarded the rings on the bed. The jewels linked together, poised so they anchored as one. Siren lifted the signets, noting their position. What emerged before her bewildered scrutiny formed a seafaring chart similar to those drawn within Lochlanaire’s ship’s log. Siren approached the logs where they littered the desk and clenched one book. She whipped crisp parchment pages to where she unmasked an island chart. She situated the signets just as they glorified the bed upon which she’d first tossed them, and she could see that they did indeed reflect an island. What deceit is this? Not acquiring the knowledge necessitated in order to distinguish the symbols etched in tiny distinction, Siren pondered if the signets were not simply carved for the purpose of granting to the world the sisters’ ancestral lineage. Are they intended for a more devious reason, one that as mere children they could never unveil the relevance but once grown to womanhood, they might detect the true depiction of the rings, discovering that they’re more than decorative embellishments? What riddle did the rubies veil? Surely, no one would carve precise etchings into gold if they are not of importance. Did her mother and King James II contrive this image for their unsuspecting children, perhaps gifting to them a treasure should anything transpire against them?
Siren’s deliberations swirled ugly. What if the signets tumbled amongst the wrong hands and it was realized that they mask a remarkable intrigue?
Siren suddenly remembered… King William had ordered Lochlanaire to ensnare the signet upon kidnapping her and to sail the ring to him. Was his purpose all along to possess King James II’s signet and if so, why? King William had not known of Shevaun’s existence, which her parents shrewdly denied to much of the world, therefore, he could not be aware that there are actually two rubies. Is this of consequence, and if so, why? So many questions filled her head that Siren became dizzy and sat on the bed. She swished the rings back and forth to see if she’s unjustly seeing phantoms where none hovered in treason. But no, very cleverly the rings only fit together once held in a precise direction. How to solve the mystery? If she did so, then what?
Cryptic.
Distrusting Lochlanaire, Siren decided that it was shrewd to keep the full secrets of the signets to herself. She removed hers to the desk where it had lain, not wanting her husband to draw suspicion if he saw the two rings together.
Siren languished on the bed and tugged her sister’s ring onto her finger. She wafted asleep.
Nightmares enfolded Siren’s dreams, forming first the devilish eyes of Zore on the day he’d kidnapped her screeching, horrified sister. The dreams then swirled to the masquerade where her mother was murdered. She saw Emerald dancing, but mystically she witnessed Lochlanaire’s glorious entrance of the ballroom, the man costumed in pirate attire. Straightforward, he approached her mother and requested a dance. Emerald turned toward him, smiling. He shot her. The pistol blared at the instant cannon fire outside the palace burst, disguising his treachery. Siren saw her mother’s eyes widen, agonized, her hand fluttered to her bleeding chest. Lochlanaire scooped her into his arms, ferrying her to a settee, where he left her to die. Siren split the mass of celebrating people, desperate to confront Lochlanaire, but he faded away. The ballroom filled with white-veiled angels, but they spurned her for loving her mother’s executioner.
Screaming for Lochlanaire, Siren jarred awake and sat up on the bed, clutching the bed sheets, her body sweat-enswathed. Siren feebly stood. The cabin rolled as if entrenched in a gale. Siren faltered to the door, and opened it, but she felt too weak to step amidst the tilting corridor. She swooned.
Lochlanaire returned to his quarters long in the day, wondering about the door’s bizarre swishing back and forth. He approached, suspicious, and found Siren lying on the floor, unconscious. Pushing the entry aside, he hunched by his unresponsive wife and noted the sprinkles of sweat dotting her forehead. His palm caressed her head. He gathered her fire-hot body, and Lochlanaire hurried Siren to the bed. He cradled her beneath warming covers. She pushed him away, whimpering, tears trickled from her closed eyes.
Lochlanaire tugged the chair to skirt the bed. He retrieved the water pitcher and clean cloths, dipped linen in the water, and drenched his wife’s forehead. Siren warred to remove the cloth. “Damn it, Siren, allow me to help you,” he chastised.
Moaning, Siren remained far distant to Lochlanaire’s reach but no longer did she fight him. He laid the dampened cloth to cool her flesh.
Long in the night, Lochlanaire listened to Siren’s delirious rantings, much of which he did not understand, some of it, however, he did. He was disturbed by her words that condemned him for everything he’d inflicted against her, Shevaun, and their mother. He shouldn’t be stunned by her chastising. Still, it hurt to witness her crying that was caused by his wretched wizardry.
The lanterns unlit except for the one closest to the bed, Lochlanaire took solace at the moon-bathed window. He stole himself amidst the glinting sea, having relinquished the captaincy to Grayson earlier so he could nurse his ill wife.
Siren eventually retrieved a path from lunacy and found Lochlanaire standing far distant. Unaware of how long she’d slept, she could see that darkness shaded the ship. Siren’s shaky hand fumbled to the cloth bathing her forehead and withdrew it. “Lochlanaire?”
He moved to her and sat on the bed side. “You’ve been stricken by illness.” His palm caressed Siren’s forehead. “The fever’s broken.”
She studied his uniquely colored eyes. Siren lay backward on the feather-stuffed mattress. “I’m cold. Sleep with me.”
Lochlanaire huffed. “I herald this unwise.”
“Are you afraid to be with me, Lochlanaire?”
He shook his head, standing. “You’re ill and require sleep.”
Siren chastised, “I’ve slept the day. You said my illness had broken, did you not?”
“Aye. It is, nevertheless, wise for you gain more solace in rest.” He intended to escape.
Siren clasped his fingertips, halting him. “I want you to lie with me, Lochlanaire. Please.”
He shook his head. “I hail you erroneous, Siren. That’s not what you said in your slumber.”
Concerned, she sat up. “What did I say?”
Lochlanaire declared, “I’ll only confess that what you said reveals your true feelings.”
Siren couldn’t comprehend what he suggested, although he appeared wounded. “I was lost to nightmares, Lochlanaire. I saw you execute my mother in a dream. It terrified me, but it
was only a dream.”
Stricken, he jostled his fingers loose of hers. “No, Siren. I did assassinate your mother.” Siren’s eyes begged, and Lochlanaire nearly couldn’t resist, but he dragged himself away. He throttled the wine decanter, tossing the uprooted cork on the desk. He guzzled.
Siren glided to her husband. Her defiant fingers feathered around his stiffened back, for he braced himself forefront of the window, drinking gluttonously. Siren scorched the muscles of his chest, his heartbeat thumped, crazed under her touch.
Oh, how he desired her. Lochlanaire could no more refute that than he could oppose the power to breathe. He took a deep gulp of wine and eased himself from her grasp, shifting closer to the glass. “I trust, Siren, it is wise for us to keep our distance.”
“I do not wish to keep distant, Lochlanaire.”
He faced her and was extraordinarily sorry. Siren’s shirt laces were drawn and the silken mantle exposed the flesh of enticing breasts. Lochlanaire’s mouth became parched. He fought to withdraw his eyes, jolting them to hers, which dared. “Our plight is such that we must…”
Siren cocked her head sideways. “We must, what, Lochlanaire, love each other as wild animals baring no conscious? Is this what you intended to say?”
“No, I,” Lochlanaire couldn’t think with her standing here, seducing him. “I’m the executioner of your mother.” Shaking his head, he strode to the cabin’s middle, dredging an inkling of sanity. “My brother, Zore’s kidnapped your sister. My devilishness in this ruin cannot be forgotten or forgiven, Siren.”
“I’m aware of all you’ve said.” Siren altered the subject, “The only portrait you’ve never enlightened me about is why Zore is so starved for your blood, Lochlanaire, that he drags innocents amongst his depravities?”
Lochlanaire sighed. “Zore’s vengeance is warranted.”
Siren rejected his paltry revelation and walked to him, stilling at his back. “There’s far more to Zore’s blood-thirst than you utter, Lochlanaire. Why is he on a hunt to destroy you? You owe me an explanation. My sister’s captive because of whatever grieves you both.”
“I do not remember the sordidness. Grayson filled the blackness of the void. Years ago, it seems, Zore courted a noble lady. He tangled the woman in a false tale where he contrived the stature of nobleman. Zore hoped to wed her, acquiring her love and fortune. He introduced me to her at a ball. She was bewitched and fell for me. While enveloped in an illicit tryst, Zore caught me in the arms of his love. He drew pistol and shot, seeking to kill me, however, the ball struck the woman, for she shoved me aside. Simone did not die at first, but she refused to unveil to others who could assist her, that she had been shot. She felt guilty for entangling Zore in a trap where he would surely die beneath the felling of a broad ax for his crime in shooting her. Sadly, Simone died long after the shooting. To her family, she wrote a missive which stated that she’d shot herself. Zore faults me for everything, including the fact that I received a position of prominence as the king’s huntsman. Zore perceives that I was victorious and with his failure to win Simone’s hand, and with her death, he received nothing. For all this, he pursues vengeance.”
“It’s a dreadfully tragic tale, but it was not your fault that Simone died. She chose to save your life, Lochlanaire.”
“Aye. My guilt, alas, cannot be dispatched, Siren. If I had kept my distance of Simone, Zore might have achieved his heart’s desire.”
“You honestly think that Simone wouldn’t have unmasked his lies?” Siren appeared dubious.
Lochlanaire shrugged, lounging against the desk, setting the wine on its top. “Perhaps he could have seduced her to love him so deeply that she would never have exposed the truth.”
Siren blanched. “Women are not always the foolish simpletons you men declare us, Lochlanaire.”
This he could believe.
“What do you remember concerning Simone’s death?”
“I’ve endured a vision of the shooting. Blanching my mind, I see Zore wielding the pistol. I recall Simone pushing me away and her being shot. That’s all.”
“The memory is pure?”
Lochlanaire nodded. “As I said, Zore’s vengeance is just.”
“Love cannot be silenced on a whim, Lochlanaire. If Simone fell for you, she never loved Zore. Your only guilt is that you courted the woman, and as she was not betrothed, nor wedded to Zore, she was free for the doing. You’re guiltless.”
Lochlanaire reclaimed the wine and took a lengthy drink. “I’m never guiltless, Siren, in anything I’ve reaped.” He lowered his head, despondent.
Sidling between his parted legs, Siren urged him to explore her eyes. “I care nothing about your guilt, Lochlanaire. This moment I lust for you to love me.”
“How do you ache for my touch, knowing all my travesties?”
“I’m your wife, that’s all that matters.”
Lochlanaire couldn’t accept her confession, but when she drew his lips to hers, kissing him, he longed to trust her.
A knock beating the door commanded Siren to withdraw her lips from Lochlanaire’s. “Aye?” he shouted, his gaze lured off hers, for she licked her lips, firing his blood to boil.
“Grayson requests ye at tiller, Captain.”
Lochlanaire craved to shoot the crewman standing behind that door. “I return in a moment.”
Siren’s eyes drooped. Lochlanaire caressed her chin and kissed her, famished for more than merely one celestial kiss. On the verge of abdicating his captaincy, and seizing this woman in frenzied lust, Lochlanaire heralded the crewman’s disturbance astute. He withdrew from Siren’s embrace and sauntered to the door, never looking backward.
Disappointed, Siren wandered to the bed, pondering the signet, curious what the chart borne of the two bridged together signifies, coveting to lace herself in the wickedness designed.
Unfortunately, instead, in her blistering daydreams, Siren saw Lochlanaire’s surreal eyes and fell, spellbound by the sorcery he wreaks.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Lies
Nightfall, days later, pirate vessels blockaded.
Satan’s Victory and the Ranger were pitched amid a bloody conflict catapulted by the ships that slung grappling hooks across each vessel. Pirates boarded, shooting pistols, swiping bloodied cutlasses and stabbing jagged knives. Screeches haunted the air in the swarm.
Below stairs, inside the captain’s quarters, Siren was unaware of the carnage until cannon shots bolted her to her feet. She tugged on boots, laced her shirt and removed the saber pegged upon the wall. Siren rushed through the night-darkened corridor toward the main deck. Frigidly she halted, seeing the two ships of which caged Satan’s Victory in the bloodbath, the Ranger as well engaged in a crusade to the death. From the secluded stoop, Siren witnessed as Grayson and Lochlanaire vaulted off their bridge to their rival’s, they swept across crowded decks, leaving little alive as they thrashed their cutlasses.
Siren prayed for a swift conclusion to the clash and for her husband’s survival and grasped the saber’s hilt. Mystically, she sensed the existence of a ghostly specter. Siren’s skin crawled. She took a step and twirled to see who hovered amidst the passage with her. A shadowy apparition lingered where no lantern light dared touch. Siren immediately realized the identity of the ghoul. “You skulk the darkness as Satan, slayer.”
Thorn icily proclaimed, “I disguise myself for reasons not concernin’ you, lass.”
“What demands that you spill blood aboard my husband’s ship?”
Thorn arched one eyebrow, although Siren couldn’t see his response to her question. “Your husband? Do you continue to name Lochlanaire such after hearin’ of the treachery he’s guilty of committin’?”
Siren lifted the saber, its tip pointed at him. “Yes, I do trust that he’s my husband. Reveal yourself, brigand, or I’ll run you threw.”
Thorn shook his head. “I’d shoot ere you could swipe your blade once, Siren. Do not tempt me,” harshly he imparted.
&nb
sp; Siren lowered the weapon, certain she’d not be gallant enough to kill him anyway. “You have me at a disadvantage, but you were aware of that, were you not?”
Thorn snapped, “Aye.” Calculating, he portrayed, “You are different, Siren. Somethin’ is altered, why?”
Siren couldn’t imagine what he spoke about. “I know nothing of what you suggest, killer.”
Thorn huffed. “Killer? Do you think that word more appropriate for your executioner husband? Do you possess any hint of what he’s capable of inflictin’ or of how many people Lochlanaire’s torturously slain?”
Siren took a stride to cross the stairs’ landing. “You obviously do. You’re clearly acquainted with my husband. How? Are you someone he’s wounded in the past? Or, perhaps you seek revenge for some other infraction he’s guilty of enacting?”
“Oh, Lochlanaire’s guilty. Never question it.” Thorn rubbed his chin. “The slayings thus far I’ve committed, Siren, they are a hollow frivolity to you. But, they mirror wickedness. Lochlanaire’s wickedness.”
“What do you suggest?”
“I’ve stripped them from Lochlanaire’s ignominious past. They paint in death those poor souls assassinated by your husband’s freed venom. Each reflection is precise.”
Siren’s stomach began to churn. “You mean…”
“The beheaded man disbanded with the stock, the hanged tyrant swingin’ among the cargo hold, the pirate with his fingers chopped off, boiled in a blood cauldron in the galley, the dead brigand found inside the longboat, a knife impalin’ his stomach, all these murders represent of your husband’s kills. I dispatch the men in our time, presentin’ a mirror image for Lochlanaire to remember his degradations.”
Siren accused, “You’re crazy...”
Thorn snickered. “Am I, or is he? Lochlanaire’s said to be insane. His memory’s destruction sanctions the conclusion, do you agree?”
Siren remained silent, observing, for he soldiered nearer. She still couldn’t see his face sufficiently to describe him. She could, however, see the spark the pistol glimmered of which he carried.
