Blackheart

by Raelle Logan

  Lochlanaire squirmed. “Constable, it is an injustice. I assure you I did not, well, I did, actually. What I intended to say is… Siren married me of her own volition.” He glanced at Siren, his widened eyes pleading for her assistance.

  “The situation, Constable, is complicated. I may explain if you’ll kindly allow me the opportunity.” Siren smiled, attempting to woo the constable.

  “At once. Please, do accompany us to the jail. I shall incarcerate this wily rake and we may speak genteelly, my lady. And the name is Chass.” He smiled, brandishing straight white teeth. The constable motioned for Lochlanaire to step from the chamber ahead of him and Siren. Enduring a hearty shove, Lochlanaire descended the stairs, dutifully walking to the prison. Inside, the constable prodded him to step within an iron cage and slammed the barred door, tugging on the gate, sure his prisoner is secure. He swaggered to the forefront of the log structure, Constable Chass gestured for Siren to sit at his desk. He motioned for her to raise her wrist while he employed a skeleton key, which released her of the manacle and its cumbersome chain.

  “Gratefulness, Constable Chass. Unfortunately, as you are unaware, Lochlanaire and I have…well…we were already wed before we anchored at your lovely island.”

  “Truly? Then why were you trussed in beastly manacles and presented to the rector for an unnecessary union to transpire? Seems rather absurd if you’re already wed.”

  Siren hesitated, peeking at Lochlanaire. His arms loosely crossed the iron bars of the cage. She must admit she did take fiendish delight, seeing Lochlanaire suffer for all his travesties. “So I’ve said, it is complicated. Sincerely, Lochlanaire intended for no harm to befall me.”

  “I beg difference, my lady. You were obviously so frightened you ran. I observed such myself. You took possession of a horse and fled from this menace.”

  Damn it to bloody Hell, this was not progressing satisfactorily. “You see, Constable, Lochlanaire and I endure a courtship that has been rather, may we say, untamed, bizarrely twisted. This said, I do confess that Lochlanaire’s never wounded me, not severely, and has, quite courageously, rescued me from numerous disasters.”

  “Why, then, have you been tethered in irons for the purpose of marriage?”

  “Lochlanaire couldn’t trust that I’d wed him again otherwise.” Siren shrugged.

  “Oh?”

  She was, apparently, not convincing the constable of her husband’s innocence. “Constable, may I be honest?”

  Chass nodded. “Indeed.”

  “The fact is Lochlanaire and I have quarreled as clawing cats and biting dogs from the beginning of our acquaintance. We possess savage tempers, which entice us to strangle each other’s throats. At the same time, however, we’re so impassioned for one another that our lust is insatiable. Surely a man of your great glory and handsomeness understands being embroiled by starvation for a woman who is so desirous of you that you cannot breathe without her?”

  “I understand implicitly. However, it is my longing, and I deem it wise, lass, for you to be removed of this blackguard for the eve. Perhaps time apart will shed light, and you shall see that your hunger for the cad is unwarranted. We may, adroitly then, propose a fashion for you to break your tainted marriage vow.”

  Plying all her womanly attributes Siren could not seduce the constable to free Lochlanaire, at least for the night. She sighed. “If you wish, Constable Chass. I leave Lochlanaire to you. Alas, I fear time parted from him shall not assuage the depths of my feelings.”

  Chass nodded. “Nevertheless, the charlatan is going to remain locked in my jail for the eve ‘til I may speak to his men and see to the wickedness surrounding his crimes.”

  Siren felt disgusted by her own ineptness and gazed dishearteningly at Lochlanaire. She wandered to the door. Her glance searched her defeated husband’s for a moment and then she departed, stepping over the threshold.

  On the opposite side of the jail, Siren ran, breaking apart the noble flocks stifling the hamlet to the pier where she scampered to the anchored longboat. She asked a man to toss her the rope trussing the unwieldy craft and Siren struggled to row the longboat to Satan’s Victory. Aboard ship, Siren cut the mass of crewmen to Grayson. Harried, she informed him about Lochlanaire’s confinement.

  “God Almighty, Lochlanaire must be beside himself,” Grayson said, thrusting his fingers to streak his black hair. Under her expression of bewilderment, Grayson recovered his wits, and remembered that Lochlanaire had not yet enlightened Siren of his years squandered in prison for murder.

  “Why? The constable said it is only for a night.”

  “Aye, he said that but it is not such a word he’ll keep, Siren.”

  “He intends to keep Lochlanaire prisoner? Why?”

  Grayson nodded. “The constables of these secluded hamlets have been sent here because of prior grievances, most of which have trounced them in these positions at the ruin of their own blisterin’ lapse in judgment and unlawfulness. They’re as much snakes as the lawless men they usually seize for prisoner. He’ll knit a fairy tale of lies, convict Lochlanaire and hang him by moonrise on the morrow. It is favored for the gathered masses, an amusement for them to partake of the pleasures denied them due to their isolation of Britain. Hangin’ a man in England is a sacrament that baits those men and women who witness the debauchery to imbibe in lavish celebrations, balls, drinkin’, gamin’. It is no difference here. Trouble is, they rarely take captive a man who is so flagrantly guilty of his insufferable crimes. Under the offense of his enslavement of you, Lochlanaire’s succumbed to his ills. The constable begs no need of dredgin’ further evidence by which to convict Lochlanaire. Lock’s condemned himself by draggin’ you off to the rector in manacles.”

  Siren paled. “He plots to hang Lochlanaire for marrying me?”

  “Not so much for marryin’ you as for enslavin’ you so the world bore witness.”

  “It is a terrible injustice. Grayson, we must free him.”

  Grayson chuckled, “You’re suggestin’ a jail break, lass. Such is defamation which may seduce us all to a hangman’s noose, especially since we are cutthroat pirates, swimmin’ these waters, clandestinely masked.”

  “You’re not going to abandon your brother to die?”

  “Oh, Hell no.” Grayson scratched his whiskered chin, his gaze wandering down Siren, head to toe. “If you’ve a mind, I could use your services for intrigue.”

  “My services? How?” Disconcerted, Siren explored Grayson’s glinting eyes and wondered about his devilish leer.

  “Aye. You are exactly the temptress required to employ a wee bit of trickery, seducin’ a fiendish constable onto his knees.”

  Siren couldn’t say what he was suggesting, but she suffered the distinct feeling that she was about to be drawn amidst a twist of sorcery unknown to her.

  Siren bore no clue of what deviousness Grayson’s sorcery entailed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Jail Break

  Siren must learn the tyranny of a whore. Glum, she sat aboard the Ranger in the captain’s quarters, watching Aynore strut back and forth, her hips swishing with every footfall. Siren attempted to mirror Aynore’s footsteps. She, instead, giggled, struggled for her footing and flopped upon the bed anchored against the wall.

  Disgusted, Aynore rolled her eyes. “You must try harder, Siren. Everythin’ depends on you lurin’ the constable within an illicit temptation.”

  Siren laughed. “My temptation? I’ve never been a graceful lady, Aynore. How do I feign elegance?”

  Aynore shook her head. “No, you do not feign grace. You feign wickedness. A strumpet is aware of each swish of her hips, the flutter of her eye lashes, the seduction of her smile. She avails of all this for intrigue. She becomes an obsession that the entrapped can never untwist himself from. You’ve tangled Lochlanaire in this web, have you not?”

  Siren couldn’t say. Lochlanaire, she knew, thirsted for her, possessing her body to ecstasy voraciously. But to be an obsession he coul
d not liberate himself from, Siren couldn’t trust that. Wrenched out of her reverie, Siren glided beside Aynore, posing her hips as flaunted.

  “Fair enough. Now, we clothe you appropriately for your station. Grayson purchased a dress for you. No, do not ask how it was acquired, or from who. Such is irrelevant. However, it will not be to your taste.” Aynore approached the corner where she’d previously hung the forest green gown and whooshed the dress from secluding shadows. She twirled it to Siren.

  “When a serving maid at the Virginian, a tavern, I wore a low-scooped peasant’s shirt and skirt. The skirt bared my legs to the thigh,” Siren confessed, spellbound by the improper gown.

  “Do you remember how the men gazed upon you while you walked among them?”

  Siren nodded. “Yes, beholding lust.”

  “Exactly. Men are weak souls, intoxicated by their hotly surgin’ blood and desire for a woman’s curvy body. Yours surely would drive a man to nefariousness. It is why you were dressed so provocatively. The proprietor surmised that every man sittin’ in his tavern would be droolin’ to bed you. Now, we must enhance your glory to seduce and embrace your fiery sensuality.”

  Siren blushed under Aynore’s scandalous discourse, her grieved eyes lingering over the dress Aynore pitched toward her. The gown’s throat dipped broadly across gossamer shoulders, a fashion no regal woman would dare wear. The dress’ body-hugging bodice was formed by a bone corset sewn into the satiny cloth, its skirt slit on two sides, the hems sewn to nearly the waist, displaying a woman’s legs so there would be no question of her yearning to beguile a man. Siren hesitated. Aynore pushed her to an unfolded screen that awaited her timid footsteps.

  “While you swish along the crowd, you’ll envision yourself as a whore. They’re frightfully confident creatures, assured that the sovereignty they instill is unopposed by God. It is an evilness devils fire.”

  Siren adjusted the dress to fit over her body and asked, “How, Aynore, do you possess so much knowledge concerning a whore?”

  Dressed in pirate garb, Aynore lounged alongside the desk that stood by the window, her boots crossed at the ankles. “I was one myself, once. It is not a realm I wish to procure anew.”

  Troubled by her indiscretion, Siren peeked around the screen. “I apologize for my indelicacy, Aynore.”

  Aynore shrugged off the insult. “It was years ago. The malevolence of a whore is not gravely removed from a pirate, Siren. We simply plunder in a different manner. Come, let’s truss those lacin’s and discern our shameless treasure.” Tugging Siren to the full-length, anchored mirror, Aynore wrenched the black satin laces tight at the rear of Siren’s dress. The gown was cinched so to flair her hourglass body, waist to boldly depicted breast. Siren’s glance wandered down the dress, her voluptuous breasts spilling under each breath, shoulders flawless, a wisp of cloth fastening the gown there, the hem sewn to reveal milky legs. Siren was addled by her transformation amongst illicitness.

  Aynore whooshed Siren toward her and withdrew a palette, where she’d mixed liquid potions to apply in order to darken Siren’s eyelids -- a ruby dollop brightened luscious lips, glittering. Brush in hand, Aynore employed the potions, thereafter spinning Siren to stare at her reflection. Aynore combed Siren’s ebony hair to beautifully cascade over her shoulders, wispy tendrils tickling her cheeks, the mass anchored by a fan-shaped comb stabbed in its thickness. Disbelieving that it was her appearing in the mirror, Siren gasped.

  “Aye, you be the picture of a sultry wench. You, Siren, are a rapturous vision no man may defy.”

  Quivery fingers feathered down hourglass sides; Siren peered upon her image. She felt disastrously removed from the woman she is, that female somewhere hidden in an unknown shadow. Smiling, she flipped the skirt and cocked her leg outward, donning the slippers lying by her feet, which matched the dress’ color.

  “Sashay to me. Remember, you’re not the Siren you are acquainted with, but a trollop darin’ to seduce a man into your bed. Think of how to entice Lochlanaire. His image should suffice.”

  Siren swished her hips and strolled across the captain’s quarters, slyly gazing at Aynore, who nodded her approval. She then surrendered a gold locket to the woman, which Siren draped over her head and let fall between her heavy breasts.

  “Aye, you are prepared. We retrieve Grayson.” Aynore gestured for Siren to cross the doorway threshold and to the passage.

  “Aynore, why did Grayson not ask you to feign that you’re a whore if he’s aware of your past?” asked Siren, intrigued.

  “The constable’s desirous for a tussle in your arms.”

  “He is?”

  “Aye. It is the main reason that he covets Lochlanaire’s death; he wants you. Grayson unveiled this fact from the men inside the tavern. Wine usually weakens the flappin’ tongues of men, that and a wee bit o’ gold coin spread here and there.” She leered as they boarded the ship’s main deck.

  Grayson slumped along the Ranger’s port flank, his foot thumping. He glowered upon the hamlet of King George. Prodding his attention to the women who advanced on him, Grayson straightened. He scarcely recognized Siren, his bold eyes skimmed, coiffed head to her glittery toe. Grayson’s mouth fell parched, his body heating with the appearance of this gorgeous female. “If…you are prepared, Siren.”

  Siren was flattered by Grayson’s inability to not stutter. Smiling, she glided to the ship’s edge. Siren cautiously descended the wood ladder carved mid of the ship’s hull to the longboat where it swayed amidst the water. Grayson ripped his attention to rowing the boat. Unfailingly, however, his gaze fell, compelled to Siren. She saw where his attention lay, directly onto her indecently naked, heaving bosom.

  The boat skirted the plank pier. Grayson tossed a rope to the guard, who anchored the longboat to the dock. He jumped from the vessel and whipped his hand outward to Siren. She clasped his fingers and stepped to the pier, swaying her hips as taught. Siren defied the disapproving scowls of those women who advanced in her direction, afterward bewitching the lusty gazes of the men who stared at her. Siren was enthralled by her devilishness.

  To the jail, they hastened.

  Grayson released Siren’s elbow and allowed her to continue onward alone. He, afterward, crouched in the bushes beside the cabin that no lamp light touched. Raising her skirt, Siren ascended a scant set of stairs, knocking on the closed cabin door. She waited patiently for the constable to answer.

  Constable Chass threw inward the entry, startled upon finding a vision of loveliness standing in front of him. His scalding eyes faltered from her bulging breasts to the supple leg she curved forward. Siren’s skirt brushed aside for him to see her naked flesh.

  Siren licked glittery lips. “Constable, I wonder if I might have a word and perhaps a drink,” she suggested.

  Shifting aside for her entrance, Constable Chass’ glance never slid from her hips. His heart thudded.

  Directly Siren looked at Lochlanaire. He had been lazing on a lumpy bed.

  With her astonishing appearance, Lochlanaire vaulted to his feet and rushed to the cell door. Just as he began to stutter a reprimand, Siren dashed her hand to her chest and gestured for him to remain silent.

  Turning, Siren approached the unsuspecting constable. “You were correct, Constable. My feelings for Lochlanaire have altered. I find you enthralling.” She leaned upon his desk, flaunting her breasts to his floundering observation. “Would it be terribly wicked for me to suggest that we stroll in the moon light and drink of this lovely decanter you have just waiting for such a splendid occasion?”

  “No, no, certainly not. It would grant me immense pleasure.” Constable Chass gathered the decanter and its twin goblets and hurried to the door, motioning for her to depart ahead of him so he could look over Siren’s body from behind. She took her leave.

  Moon-bathed, they roamed for the white sand shore. Siren clasped the constable’s free hand, threading her fingers with his, noticing that his eyes were baited by her chest. Siren deviously smiled, cer
tain he was fully entrapped in her deception. Behind her, unseen by the constable, Siren ushered her free hand and signaled to Grayson that the jail is unattended.

  Unnoticed by friend or foe, Grayson pierced the darkness, observing Siren’s departure, the constable in tow. He rushed to the stairs, and tiptoed into the prison, quietly shutting the door. He found Lochlanaire yanking on the cage door’s bars, frenzied to liberate himself. Grayson recovered the keys for the cells and applied each to the lock barring Lochlanaire from his exodus.

  “What the Hell is Siren doing?” Lochlanaire scolded.

  Anxiously Grayson’s glower whipped to the door. “Distractin’. The lass is makin’ sure your escape shall not be realized ‘til too late for the constable to seize any action.”

  “What do you mean? Grayson, you endanger Siren’s life.”

  “No. She took on the task heartily, Lochlanaire. No one forced her to this seduction.”

  “She looks…” Lochlanaire couldn’t speak further.

  “The picture of a stunnin’ whore?”

  Lochlanaire nodded, his body heating, for he remembered how his wife appeared upon her astounding entrance at the jail.

  “Splendid, then Aynore did not squander her time by teachin’ Siren the sensualities of a trollop.”

  “What ruin have you wrecked, Grayson?”

  “What I must, Lock,” cleverly he spoke, spearing the lock, finding the correct key to open it.

  The cage door screeched open.

  Lochlanaire stomped across the jail, closely followed by Grayson. Both men lit amongst the island’s disguising foliage, trailing the sunken footprints of Siren and the constable to the point at which they lingered ashore. The two mused upon the ocean waves as a courting couple.

  “I love the sea at night. Do you think it gorgeous?” Siren asked.

  Constable Chass’ eyes withdrew to her. “I think you gorgeous.” He bridged a step, intending to kiss her. Siren shied away, removing the wine decanter and its goblets. She skipped off in the distance, uncorked the wine and sat on the sand, pouring the liquid in the chalices. Stealing his chalice off to the side of her cocked leg, Siren flipped the locket’s lid gracing her chest, clutched the delicate bottle, and poured its contents to swirl the wine, sight unseen. Giggling to conceal treason, she offered the constable his wine. He accepted the goblet and sat next to her. Before he could ever sip the libation, Chass stole a kiss from Siren, who denied herself the desperation to push him away. He cradled her breast. Siren almost screamed under his frosty violation. Achingly, she denied the yearning to run, and instead moaned, seducing him to trust that she longed for his caress.