Blackheart

by Raelle Logan

  Lochlanaire quickly crossed the cabin to his desk and made a notation within the parchment log, applying a white-feathered quill and ink vessel sculpted in the form of a dragon. Concluding his task, Lochlanaire spoke to his inattentive wife, “I thought to escort you ashore, Siren. We shall dally at anchor for a day, perhaps longer filling the coffers.”

  “I’d rather remain aboard, in seclusion.”

  Lochlanaire was exasperated by her answer and trudged to Siren. He tugged on her arm and drew her to face him. “I did not ask you to accompany me, Siren. I demand that you venture with me to the island.”

  Noting his fingers, which whitened as they held her, Siren snapped, “Demand? Whatever for?”

  “A rector takes residence here. One who beholds ties to the British realm. We’re marrying, lawfully.”

  “We’re already wed, Lochlanaire,” Siren coldly reminded.

  “Not by a rector who may witness our union and favor us with parchments sanctifying the marriage as legitimate.”

  “Parchments? This is…”

  Lochlanaire interrupted, “Not necessary? If you cradle my child in your womb, our marriage must be without contestation. No gypsy ritual will ever be christened such, Siren.”

  She balked, distressed. If she weds Lochlanaire in a ceremony for all to agree is in proper license, she’d have to accept that she’s eternally bound to her mother’s cruel assassin. “I dare not.” Her eyes lowered toward the floor.

  “If you force me to, I’ll chain you in irons and drag you to the rector as my infuriated slave, you will marry me,” Lochlanaire brazenly insisted.

  Siren jerked on her restrained arm. “You cannot force me, Lochlanaire. You do not lord that sovereignty over me.”

  “Therefore, you offer me no choice.” He dragged her to the desk, Lochlanaire wrenched a drawer open and withdrew a chain and iron. Siren yanked on her limb and stomped on his booted foot. Her actions merely baited Lochlanaire to throttle her tighter. “Damn it, Siren, cease this bloody tussle or you’ll wound our child. Is such your desire?”

  She venomously spewed, “I’ll never submit to you, Lochlanaire. I refuse to marry you.”

  “So you’ve hissed time and again, Siren, you already are wed to me. I simply seek to prove the sincerity to the world. If I die under Zore’s unleashed venom, you’ll possess evidence in your grasp which acknowledges our union as valid. That truth may spare your life once you confront King William, especially if you coddle my child.”

  Siren must agree with his assumption, although neither of them bore proof that a union tying them would protect her.

  Lochlanaire leered and the chain lolled in his hand, its iron swaying eerily in front of her embattled eyes. He broached afresh, “Do you surrender in defeat and shed this ridiculous war, wedding me without further resistance, or am I to tug you about the hamlet as a slave?”

  Unwilling to relent and lord him a victory over her, Siren smugly growled, “I’ve been a prisoner since the day Zore kidnapped me and with your boarding of his dastardly ship. I, therefore, pronounce myself captive everlastingly. If you insist on wedding me, do so, but you’ll not receive my acquiescence.”

  Lochlanaire ringed the iron shackle ‘round her wrist, studying Siren’s scowl. He jerked on the chain, forcing her to walk the passage, boarding the main deck. By the ship’s edge, he ordered her to step down the rope and wood ladder flanking the vessel.

  Siren snootily declined.

  Lochlanaire unsheathed his pistol and pointed the weapon at her.

  Siren knew he’d not wound her. She stood her ground.

  Holstering the pistol, lunging his arm underneath her legs, Lochlanaire cuddled her in his arms. Recklessly, he jumped off the ship to the water. Siren screeched. Desperately, her arms circled Lochlanaire’s neck. He swam toward the longboat, tugging himself and Siren to the craft. He lifted his water-dripping wife inside the vessel. Siren seethed, watching him heave himself inward of the boat. He clenched the oars, drawing them to swish the water toward the pier. Lochlanaire seized the chain and tugged Siren onto the island’s wood plank dock. Without regard, he stepped between startled villagers who murmured at his water-sodden advance. Lochlanaire proudly parted the ranks to the rector’s forest sheltered cabin. Prying eyes never hampered.

  He dashed open the rector’s cottage door and Lochlanaire motioned for Siren to enter. She audaciously refused, so he lunged amidst the fire-fluttery structure, dragging her to trail him in the course.

  The gray-haired, skittish cleric scampered to Lochlanaire. “My Lord,” he nodded, observing first Lochlanaire and then the young lady who glowered at the man who detained her in irons.

  “Marry us,” Lochlanaire demanded.

  The baffled vicar retrieved a parchment book, cleared his voice and began to read aloud in Latin.

  Pulling on the chain imprisoning her to her abductor, Siren rashly objected, “Cease this instant!”

  The cleric studied Lochlanaire, awaiting his command.

  He motioned for the rector to continue the ceremony.

  “You’re a man of God. You cannot wed a woman to a man who has immorally chained her as his slave,” shouted Siren.

  The rector never acknowledged her.

  Siren understood. Quite obviously, the man was handsomely compensated for his decadent crimes. “Damn you, Lochlanaire. I curse this wretched union.”

  Lochlanaire taunted, “The union’s been cursed all along, Siren. This merely links us to each other for eternity. I cannot renounce you and you cannot defy me. Ever. We’re captive of our own sultry lusts.”

  Brutally Siren slammed her elbow against her smug captor’s chest, trampled Lochlanaire’s foot, and shoved him to falter backwards. Lochlanaire unwillingly released the chain, for Siren tore it free. Outward of the rector’s cottage, she ran to a horse that whinnied, the animal tied to a nearby stable. Siren yanked the reins loose of the post detaining the steed, pitched her foot into the saddle’s stirrup and mounted the horse. Kicking hard, she urged the mare to gallop up a hill.

  Outraged by his wife’s sedition, Lochlanaire grappled for his balance, he snapped at the startled vicar and hurried from the cottage, only to see his wife vanish from his sight. Lochlanaire jumped a man who sauntered by on horseback, dumping the cursing soul on the ground, where he sprawled in the dirt. Lochlanaire mounted the horse, muttered a hasty apology, and plucked the steed in the direction his feisty wife engaged in her crazed escape.

  Siren darted between knitted trees, all the time aware that escape was not forthcoming. Harried, she explored the forest for a refuge by which to conceal herself. She rode upon a beautiful dale of wild flowers and slowed the steed to a trot. Siren searched for anyone who might appear as champion in arms. Nary a soul did she find.

  His stallion faster than Siren’s mare, Lochlanaire wildly split the fragrant vale and rode straight toward her. Siren kicked her horse to a full gallop. Her wrathful husband caught up to her, alas, and arching across her animal, he warred to rip the reins loose of her bloodlessly cringed fingers. Siren darted the horse to her left and evaded. Lochlanaire leapt to her steed and wrenched Siren’s horse to an abrupt halt. Siren somehow wriggled from his hold and jumped to the ground. He followed in hot pursuit.

  Ere she could run, Lochlanaire’s arm encircled her stomach. He twirled her to challenge him. “Your little war grants you nothing, Siren. You will marry me.”

  She furiously renounced, “You’re an animal, Lochlanaire. I’ll never wed you.”

  “Oh? Deny me and I’ll not sail to rescue your sister. She’ll die at Zore’s titanic treason.”

  Siren was appalled by his threat. “You bloody bastard. You cannot discard Shevaun in Zore’s barbaric stranglehold. You’re not so monstrous, Lochlanaire.”

  “Dare me, Siren, just dare me. You’ll discover how monstrous I can be,” goaded Lochlanaire.

  Siren studied first his black eye and then the ghoulish gray and could see that he was not jesting. She pronounced, “I relen
t to your wickedness, Lochlanaire, but remember, I’ll never be tamed by you, no matter what you threaten.”

  Unwilling to forsake the beauty, Lochlanaire took Siren’s lips in a tawdry kiss. Her arms wafted around him. Blisteringly, she remembered his poison with forcing her to take his hand in wedlock. Siren bit down on his tongue. He wrenched away, but he refused to release her. Lochlanaire grit her chin and he kissed her ravenously afresh. Moaning, Siren couldn’t defy her passion for this sensual rogue. She relinquished the war, whimpering, for he caressed her breast through her silk shirt. Lochlanaire shattered the heart-stealing kiss, bemused by her misted eyes, which portrayed her lust for him. He tugged her to the horses, where they munched on knee high grasses and effortlessly he lifted Siren astride his stallion, throwing his leg for him to sit behind her. He wouldn’t permit her to run again. To the rector’s cottage, they rode. Lochlanaire’s arm cuddled Siren’s stomach; she fondled the bulging muscles of his flesh. Turning toward him, Siren savagely kissed him. Lochlanaire pulled on the reins, stilling the animals.

  Forsaking his desire, Lochlanaire severed their kiss, dismounting. He carried Siren from the horse, inward of the cottage.

  Siren was too feeble to protest, standing afoot of the rector and bit her lip. When the cleric summoned her to proclaim her vows, Siren searched Lochlanaire’s bewitching eyes. She was doomed and stuttered a coy ‘I do’. With his victory, Lochlanaire loudly pronounced his vows. The vicar scribed a parchment declaration that pronounced their marriage legitimate, took to his palm the gold coin offered for his compensation, and then he retreated to where his soup bubbled in a burnt cauldron simmering over the fire crackling its hearth.

  Lochlanaire gathered the chain tethering Siren’s arm and lurched her to the entry. They trod in the direction of where a boarding house stood erected. Just outside of the two-story log structure, however, Lochlanaire was confronted by a scruffily-clad, dirt-smudged urchin.

  The child gifted to him a piece of folded parchment. “This, my lord, be for ye. It was bestowed by a man aboard a ship that departed days ago.”

  Suspicious, Lochlanaire accepted the crinkly parchment and wondered about the boy’s quick leave-taking. He unfolded the letter.

  Loch,

  Your lass bears a signet, as well, the lady I presently imprison held a signet,

  which she claims Siren now grasps. These rings entomb something of

  grave importance. Ferry to me the treasure they disguise. This shall be my

  ransom for Shevaun’s life, that, and, of course, your painful demise.

  Zore

  Disconcerted, Lochlanaire whirled on Siren. “What is the relevance behind the signets?”

  Siren hesitated, confused by his question. “What?”

  “The signets, Siren, they enshroud something dire. Read his letter and tell me the truth. What do the signets mean?”

  Siren read the parchment Lochlanaire thrust to her and her shoulders drooped. Apparently, her sister comprehended the significance behind the rings given to them by King James II, but why was she not told that they are gravely important? “I cannot say what their exact worth is, Lochlanaire.”

  Unconvinced, Lochlanaire hastened inside the boarding house, drawing Siren in tow, and straight to the establishment’s proprietor, who guided them above stairs to a rather large chamber that was opulently furnished. An oversized, four-posted bed was dressed in a lacy coverlet, and the fire grate spattered wispy shadows, adorning two blue brocade tufted chairs. The proprietor offered to Lochlanaire a key and fled, sensing trouble brewing between the groom and his magnificent bride.

  Lochlanaire locked the door. His glower roamed over Siren’s stiffened body. She strolled across the chamber. “Exactly what do the signets shield?”

  Rubbing the flesh where it was raw from the iron as best she could, Siren approached the fire, warmed by dancing flame. “I do not know their significance.”

  Was she being honest? “But the rings seclude something valuable, something Zore’s unmasked. What?”

  Siren drooped upon one of the chairs. Her eyes crept to Lochlanaire’s gloriously sheathed, sinewy legs, then caressed his chest, arising to his disgruntled scowl. “Mother said the rings would deliver us a fortune. I assumed she meant that if we were to sell them once we grew into womanhood that the funds awarded to us would command fortunes for both Shevaun and myself. I never bore a clue that they could signify anything else.”

  “You think differently now?” Lochlanaire shifted to the chair opposite of hers and sat.

  “Days ago, as I lay on your bed, I remembered that you left my ring atop the desk. I cuddled it in hand and suddenly I saw the differences, which seemed irrelevant at first. Mother said the rings were exact in appearance, but as I looked closer, I discovered they are not. I thought nothing further until I dropped them on the bed. They joined together and, as I cradled them in my palm, I witnessed something astounding. They divulged a chart.”

  “What sort of chart?”

  “A seafaring chart, one similar to those scribed amid the log amongst your cabin.” Standing, Siren moved to Lochlanaire, she lifted his arm and withdrew the signet from his pinky. Ceremoniously, she eased Shevaun’s ring from hers. Siren anchored the rings together so Lochlanaire could see the island they depicted, for firelight twinkled across the gold and ruby rings. “I could not suggest what this talisman embodies. I, therefore, hid my discovery.”

  Lochlanaire withdrew the rings from Siren and studied the signets, troubled. “Were you not afraid that I might confiscate both rings in belief that they could award me some unknown treasure? Is this the true reason for your concealment?”

  Siren could lie. “I did question what could be your intentions, Lochlanaire. You said when you first abducted me from Zore that King William demanded for you to retrieve the signet for him. At the time, I did not presume your words were of importance. I cannot say now.”

  Lochlanaire mulled. “King William may have been hunting the signet all along, not truly wanting you, but in search of whatever your ring disguises.” A treasure, so Zore said in his cryptic letter. Could King James II have buried a treasure upon an island, a fortune that might assist him in a victorious revolution against his rival for the British throne? Were these rings carved so to shed light upon the chart with which to recover that fortune? Alas, King William was unaware that there are actually two rings, thus he’d be foiled if he gained only the one -- the ring which once glorified Siren’s finger. Honestly, Lochlanaire couldn’t say if his assumptions are precise or not. King William never yielded anything except that he imprison Siren, whatever the cost, and sail her to his damning midst. “It’s curious.”

  “Yes. But now we must exhume this treasure, wherever it is, and sail it to Zore.”

  Lochlanaire rebuffed, “Hellfire and damnation, we cannot even be sure there is a treasure, Siren. We’ve only Zore’s word that there is. Perhaps your sister lied to him in an attempt to spare her life. She could have twirled a web of falsehoods.”

  “I refuse to risk it, Lochlanaire. If a treasure exists and I do not ferry it to Zore, he’ll slay Shevaun. These rings impart evidence of something enormous. Why else would that chart be carved in the gold?”

  “It is a mystery, but a mystery it shall remain. We cannot gallivant across the ocean in want of a dastardly fortune. It’s ridiculous, Siren. We must sail to Zore, yielding me for ransom. We’ll say we searched and gained nothing. He’ll never learn the difference.”

  “At my innocent sister’s torment? No, Lochlanaire, I’ll assume the risk of seeking the treasure that Shevaun’s said is entombed on that island. It is the only way to save her.” Crossing arms over her chest, Siren haughtily stated, “If you refuse to assist me, I’ll beg for Grayson’s aid or Aynore’s, but I’m going to hunt the island, with or without you.”

  “And what will you say upon anchoring at Satan’s Labyrinth without me to offer to Zore for ransom?” chided Lochlanaire.

  He had a point. “I’ll t
ell him you died, shot by a pirate in the fray of battle, and your body was swept overboard in a storm. It is simple.”

  It was definitely plausible, he must agree. “I surrender, Siren. I’ll speak to Grayson. Perhaps he can unlock this bizarre chart the rings paint.”

  Smiling, she eased Shevaun’s ring into her possession.

  “Distrustful of me, eh?”

  Siren nodded. “As long as I possess my sister’s ring, you cannot discard me and hunt the treasure alone. You must keep me guarded, a heartbeat away.”

  Lochlanaire smiled.

  Brutish knocking battered the chamber door. Lochlanaire was prompted to answer without consideration. At attention, he found a dark-haired, similarly eyed fellow who was distinguished in appearance and stature, armed with a pistol clasped in his hand.

  The gent nodded to Lochlanaire, staring straight at the woman who shadowed him. “I was given to understand that you were in attendance of this chamber with the woman captive herein. Care to step aside so I may enter, sir?”

  Rankled, Lochlanaire backed off, his hands thrown upward in submission. “May I inquire as to what your grievance pertains to, sir?”

  The constable removed his pistol, holstering it by his side and affirmed, “I’ve been informed that you compensated the rector handsomely so this young lady would be wedded to you and she was incarcerated in wedlock, a slave, so the cleric attests.”

  Lochlanaire began to protest.

  Siren interrupted, “Sir, it is a grave misunderstanding.”

  “Oh? I witnessed a portion of his heinousness myself. You, lass, were chained in that iron currently adorning your wrist and forced along the hamlet earlier this day. Did my eyes deceive?”

  “No. But…”

  “Then I object and jail this rogue at once, for kidnapping as well as coercing you, a hapless innocent, to wed him under extreme duress.”