Authors: Raelle Logan
“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, certain 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.
Monstrously jealous, Lochlanaire shattered the shadows of the foliage he and Grayson secluded themselves behind. Grayson couldn’t oppose his scathingly fired brother. Lochlanaire dragged the constable to his feet and attacked him with his fisted hand. The constable was soon tossed, unconscious, to the ground where Lochlanaire meant to slaughter the debaucher for his licentious defiling. Siren vaulted to her feet and ran to her husband, clutching his fist or he would have pummeled the constable to death. Lochlanaire’s gaze scoured hers, which compelled him to reject his bloodlust. The feeling soared to an obsessive craving for her luridly bared body. He ripped Siren to lie in his arms. Lochlanaire kissed her.
Grayson shoved the lovers apart ere they lost themselves to lustful fires. “We must sail before the constable wakens, Lochlanaire.” Grayson and Lochlanaire clasped the constable’s arms, hauled him behind a rock, and left him where no one would stagger upon his battered form. Grayson hurried to the pier alone and rowed the longboat toward the shore upon which his brother and Siren waited.
“You did this for me?” Lochlanaire twirled a tendril of Siren’s hair.
“I had to free you, Lochlanaire; it was my fault that you were taken captive. If only I had married you without causing a fuss, this hellish incarceration would never have occurred.”
“How far did you intend to carry on with this absurd seduction of the constable?” chided Lochlanaire.
“Does it matter?
I
saved your life,” Siren attested, baring consternation.
Lochlanaire shook his head. “Grayson would have obtained another way by which to spare me without your depraved improprieties.”
“Are you so sure, Lochlanaire?”
“Yes,
I
am, Siren. You jeopardized your life
and
possibly the life of my child with your vulgar indiscretions.”
“You cannot be grateful and say such to me, can you? You must cause a quarrel to unfold between us. Why, Lochlanaire?”
“Why? Damn it, Siren, do you not
see
why?
Look at you.
You’re insanely bewitching. Do you possess any clue of what you do to me?”
Seeing covetous thirst glimmer amidst his fiery glare, she understood. “You’re fighting lust for me?”
“Is it not apparent that I want you more than I long to live?”
The longboat dipped ashore and distracted.
Lochlanaire trampled sand to the boat and Siren never found a chance to answer his bruising question. With a thrust of his arm, he gathered her to sit in the vessel. Lochlanaire and Grayson shoved against the boat, cutting choppy seas.
They waited eagerly for a cloud to engulf the witnessing moon so they could round the ships, unseen. Grayson and Lochlanaire soon swept the boat to the farthest side of the ship, dodging the prying eyes of the pacing sentries, which guarded King George. They boarded
Satan’s
Victory
. Entranced by his wife, who wandered over the threshold that would lead her to his quarters, Lochlanaire ordered the ship to sail at once. The men hastened to sever the anchor after raising and mooring the longboat over the ship’s edge.
Leaving Grayson to the captaincy, Lochlanaire rushed to his quarters.
Lust for Siren was far more than he could ever squelch.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Blistering Seduction
Siren approached the window in Lochlanaire’s quarters, feeling the rocking dip of the ship while it began its journey anew. Suddenly, she remembered that she and Lochlanaire never got the chance to speak to Grayson regarding the signets’ chart. Siren spun meaning to leave the cabin, thinking to find Lochlanaire. She hurried for the door.
Lochlanaire darted inside his quarters and lurched to a halt. “I…”
Siren stilled inches shy of his reach, still wearing the illicit gown Aynore had given her for the purpose of seducing Constable Chass. “You…
what
?” she asked, startled by the embers twinkling in his eyes.
Lochlanaire foraged for a bridge to sanity but it was forsaken, for she stood there with her body gowned so provocatively, the flesh of her breasts inflaming. Lochlanaire couldn’t strike off his obsession. He wrenched Siren to his chest, kissing her ruby lips, itching to possess so much more of her than a savage kiss. Lochlanaire shoved her against the door. His hand fluttered and caressed her breasts, feathering the flesh beneath his touch. Lochlanaire’s fingers dipped to the gown’s lacings, ripping, the dress loosened ‘round her body. Siren’s hand wafted over his chest. Lochlanaire’s muscles grimaced. She whimpered.
As Lochlanaire brushed the necklace, adorning the valley between Siren’s breasts, he tore his lips free. “What’s this?”
Passionately dazed, Siren dipped her eyes to the locket he dragged outward. “Aynore gave it to me. It is a vessel availed of to employ nefariousness.” She nuzzled Lochlanaire’s chin and kissed his throat.
Lochlanaire was nearly maddened by desire. He moaned and could hardly think. “What…sort of nefariousness?”
“Aynore said that if I poured the powder contained into the constable’s goblet, after moments, he’d be consumed by unconsciousness, easing your escape.” Siren kissed Lochlanaire’s chest.
“
This
is the treachery you proposed by seducing him?”
Teetering on her tiptoes, Siren kissed his lips. “We knew if he were baited by me that I could pursue trickery without effort. Lochlanaire, it is torturous, kiss me,” Siren begged. Her fingertips roamed underneath his shirt.
Lochlanaire almost surrendered to his desire. “Were… you told what the powder was inside the vial?”
Siren shrugged. “No. I assumed it would just knock him out. Such was our craving.”
Lochlanaire withdrew the gold chain over Siren’s head and sauntered toward the desk. Popping open the urn, he dabbed at the powdery substance dotting its throat. “I’d say it would do more than knock him out. This is poison. Belladonna.” Honestly, Lochlanaire couldn’t say how he knew about the poison. He imagined that it bore something sinister to do with his past.
Siren scurried to him, her eyes broadened. “I almost
murdered
him?”
“If the constable drank from the goblet this was stirred in, assuredly.”
“I’m grateful you attacked him before he drank from the wine.” Siren felt mortified. “Why did Aynore give me a potion intended to slay?”
Lochlanaire corked the urn and pitched it and its chain onto the desk. “Such is a question I do not possess an answer to, I’m certain, however, that she held her reasons. Perhaps Aynore suffered a prior scuffle with the constable and deduced death an answer to further issues. Murder usually ends any quarrel,” he quipped.
Revolted, Siren stared at the discarded urn. “If I had gotten the chalices mixed, I could have died.”
Lochlanaire decided to seduce Siren from her fright. His fingers laced hers. “Where were we ere I unmasked your debauchery, murderess?”
Her head tilted, Siren explored his magical eyes and surrendered to those feral pools that seduced her to never covet freedom. She slouched against the desk’s edge. “You were starved to rip my dress off my body.”
Bemused, he leered. “Indeed I was.”
“Are you still?”
Lochlanaire’s eyes wandered down her gorgeous face to the silken flesh of perfects breasts that itched for the kissing with each breath she took. His devilish gaze crawled to hers anew. Lochlanaire threaded ebony hair and tugged the comb loose, dropping it. Siren’s disheveled locks draped across her shoulders. Never could Lochlanaire imagine a woman as heart-tearing as this one. His lips snared hers. Swooping downward, never breaking the kiss, Lochlanaire wrapped her legs around his body and lowered her to sit on the desk. Siren’s arms wound around his neck. “Tell me you’ll never refuse me, Siren.” His mouth fluttered down her throat, his kisses firing her jittery pulse.
Almost vanquished by thirst for him, Siren muttered, “Never will I refuse you, Lochlanaire. Never.”
Raising the gown’s hem, Siren tossed the dress to the floor. She lifted his unlaced shirt and let it follow. Frantic hands ignited with every caress, memorizing the curves of famished bodies, Siren’s satiny smooth, Lochlanaire’s muscularly hardened. Lochlanaire moaned, besieged by this sorceress whose fingers dipped to the laces of his breeches, freeing his manhood. Easing her naked body to his at the desk’s ridge, Siren pierced the satin flesh at the juncture of her legs. Lochlanaire slowly took her at first, his thrusts torturous. Her legs braced his body. He rocked back and forth. Frenziedly kissing him, Siren’s lips surged flames to spread. She arched her back, ecstasy splintered from her legs in rivulets. Lightning splashed his body. Sated, Lochlanaire carried Siren to bed. There they fell.
Gazing upon his pleasured wife, Lochlanaire discovered Siren had fallen asleep. He caressed her stomach. He couldn’t question that he’d sired their child. Why did she remain unconvinced? Is it because she’s terrified that if it is so, she’d be locked to him eternally? With their
proper
marriage, she couldn’t reject him now. Why, then, renounce what she could never alter? Siren
was
his wife; nothing could spoil their union.
Lochlanaire raised her finger where the signet glimmered. He removed the ring without waking Siren and withdrew the one embracing his pinky. Pondering both signets, he linked them together. Standing, Lochlanaire retied his breeches and fluttered on his shirt, discarding the cabin for the ship’s bridge. Grayson held the captaincy.
Grayson swerved his attention to his brother, noting Lochlanaire’s heated approach. “We’re long away of King George. The
Ranger’s
not far behind. Aynore must have cut her anchor upon perceivin’ our escape.”
“I envision she was suspicious that someone might unravel her identity.” Or her treachery, Lochlanaire silently mused.
“Why?”
“The urn Aynore surrendered to Siren was filled with poisonous Belladonna,” cryptically Lochlanaire stated.
Mouth agape, Grayson looked astonished. “Aynore said the herb would only knock the constable unconscious. Why the deceit?”
“Perhaps she thought we’d never realize his death with our sailing. Other than that, I cannot say why Aynore would kill while under the guise of innocence, using my wife as the deliverer of wickedness. Unfortunately, I now fully distrust Aynore’s purposes, Grayson. Beware.”
“I will.”
Lochlanaire lifted the rings he cradled. “These are the signets. One ring is Siren’s. The other belongs to her sister. Before the constable arrested me, an urchin gave me a letter from Zore. This letter.” Disguised amongst a pouch within his breeches, Lochlanaire withdrew the missive.
Grayson read the letter Lochlanaire relinquished to him. “The signets disguise some sort of treasure?”
“So Zore insists. I cannot be convinced, neither is Siren. She says her mother told her the rings would bequest to them some kind of fortune. Siren assumed it wealth to be achieved upon selling the signets.”
“You believe Siren secludes nothin’ of the rings’ true relevance?”
Lochlanaire shrugged. “I question it, alas; I’ve no evidence to prove otherwise. Nevertheless, the rings, when linked, deliver this…” Lochlanaire anchored the signets together and displayed them for Grayson to distinguish the chart.
“Gracious God, it is a bleedin’ island,” Grayson said, bewildered by the image.
Lochlanaire nodded. “You recognize it?”
“The island? No. I must study the charts and see if I can gain a match.” Grayson removed the rings, leaving the captaincy to Lochlanaire.
“Grayson, be heedful. The rings’ loss could be tragic…to us all,” warned Lochlanaire.
Distracted, Grayson nodded and descended the stairs, disappearing within the ship.
Staring straight ahead, Lochlanaire became flogged by a crushing phantom.
A room mystically appeared in his mind, candle-brightened. The chamber beheld a gold-gilded, four-posted bed. A marble hearth was centered in the bedchamber and it snapped invitingly, gold wardrobes garnished a parlor off to the side. Above the fire’s elaborately carved mantle hung a huge portrait of a kingly man. The rooms were luxurious enough for a god’s leisure. From the shadows, a man approached. Lochlanaire did not recognize him. His royal gown and diamond-encrusted crown, however, declared him king. His nose was long, his eyes daunting, and lips were thin, his face oval. He, obviously, was not King William. He sternly addressed Lochlanaire, who fell to his knees and bowed at the feet of this sovereign lord who ordered him to, thereafter, arise. Lochlanaire heard words spoken between them. They were indistinguishable, but suddenly he understood two of them and he addressed this man…King James.
Lochlanaire realized--the disturbing vision was of him once being summoned to an audience at the request of King James II, Siren’s father. It made sense, certainly. He’s the king’s huntsman. His vow would be tendered to any monarch. But why the surreptitious audience? Again, he heard words uttered between himself and King James. Those words were disconcerting.
As brazenly as it formed, the vision dispersed. Lochlanaire returned to the ship and understood the absolute worst…
He’s a dual assassin.
Moments after Lochlanaire’s apparition ghostly faded; Grayson ascended the stairs to him. The signets he cupped in his palm. “Legend.”
Lochlanaire wrestled to regain a foothold, defeating the ignominious past. “Legend?”
“Aye. The signets chart Legend Island. It swims days distant of Satan’s Labyrinth, ironically.”
“What about this island?”
“It is barren with rocks and dead or dying trees. It’s said to be cursed by witches and sorcery and has been condemned so for centuries. I believe the curse was uttered in order to keep pirates at bay along with anyone else who might be curious of its unknown spoils,” mused Grayson.
“You’re sure the signets embody this island?”
“Aye, Lochlanaire. It is distinctive. I merely held the drawin’s of those known islands next to the rings and it emerged, glorious as you please.” Grayson confessed, “As well, the Latin words carved depict its position. I’m fluent when it comes to readin’ Latin.” Grayson rubbed his chin. “Why would King James II hide a fortune on an island?”
“My assumption is that he intended to sail to it once able, to use the amassed gold in order to purchase the alliance of others who may be high enough in stature to assist him with regaining the British crown. Or, he wanted his daughters to be provided for in a manner he could not derive, because of his banishment.” Lochlanaire removed the rings from his brother’s palm, which he poised onto both his pinky fingers. “I’m a dual assassin, Grayson.”
“Dual?”
“I’ve envisioned an apparition of me addressing King James II within his private bedchambers,” Lochlanaire spoke grimly.
“My lord. Do you think you tricked both sides into trustin’ you loyal?”
“I fear it may have been my craving. Question is…why? Did I hope to gain something colossal, pursuing treason against both?” questioned Lochlanaire.
“The consequences for such folly would be death if your mutiny was realized by either side.”
“Perhaps, Grayson, my betrayal is partly at fault for my traitorous incarceration. Possibly the duel I fought against Larnon was a shadowy deception, a fashion for which to steel me from the contest arranged by one or both kings.”
“It is possible. We may never learn the truth. What now, Lochlanaire?”
“We sail to Satan’s Labyrinth as designed.”
“What of the treasure the signets portray?”
“Yes, Lochlanaire, what about the treasure?” Outraged, for Lochlanaire feigned defeat when in her presence, Siren seethed, chastising, “You
bloody
lied, Lochlanaire. You said we would sail in search of the treasure.”
“Hellfire, I trust this treasure a ruse cast for illicit trickery and little else,” Lochlanaire irritably bit, ignoring his pirate-attired wife. Siren’s sea blue shirt swathed silhouetted breasts with the wispy breeze, while her sable breeches hugged her curvy legs, boots clasped to the knee. She enraptured Lochlanaire.
Grayson excused himself and vanished amid the darkness beside the ship’s crescent rim, eyeing his disgruntled brother.
“Damn it, you
promised
me, Lochlanaire,” Siren reminded.
“Aye, Siren, but it is frivolity. Zore will simply accept me for ransom and be done with it. Shevaun will be returned to you as agreed.”
“By unburying the treasure, perhaps we can win both her freedom
and
yours, Lochlanaire. Do you see? The treasure wields supremacy in our clash.”
Lochlanaire shook his head as Siren advanced from the stairs’ landing. “No, Zore’s thirst for blood must be satisfied. Only my sacrifice assures your sister’s freedom. Nothing else will do.”
Siren scolded, “I disagree implicitly, Lochlanaire. She’s
my
sister. I say we assume the risk or Shevaun could die regardless of your surrender to Zore. He’s suspicious. It is why he’s asked for further ransom. Zore’s commanding us to prove that we can be trusted.”
Lochlanaire considered. “You think he’ll not release Shevaun even with my defeat at his sword thrust?”
“I’m saying the more we seclude on our side of the battle, the more Zore’s sure to relinquish to us. He may not smother the rage he possesses against you for Simone’s death and all his tragic losses, but this could lure him to be less of a bloodthirsty titan than he has become. Do you not agree?”
Lochlanaire shook his head. “It’s ridiculous, Siren. What if we receive nothing with scouring the island and days are exhausted for no purpose?”
“At least we gave it our all…for your life
and
Shevaun’s.”
“Grayson, turn this bloody brigand ship toward Legend,” Lochlanaire droned, annoyed by his request.
With Grayson’s departure, as he gruffly shouted orders to the crewmen, Siren looked to Lochlanaire for an explanation. “Legend? What’s Legend?”
“Legend is the island carved in the signets’ gold.”
Siren’s eyes dipped to her finger, only then realizing that her sister’s ring was not decorating her hand. “You stole Shevaun’s ring? You said we would speak to Grayson together.”
“Yes, but since you lolled in sleep after my bedding of you, I proclaimed it shrewd to seek an immediate answer without you.”
Blushing, Siren sashayed to Lochlanaire. Her fingers snaked down his arm. With little effort, she lifted his hand off the ship’s tiller and withdrew the signet of his pinky, using her enfolding mouth and teeth as he had hers countless times. Lochlanaire’s breath faltered, his legs weakening. Removing the signet from her mouth, Siren shoved the ring onto her finger, leering, witnessing his hunger for her.
“Still suspect of me?”
“Do I possess a reason not to be?” Siren declared.
He wrapped one arm around her body and jerked her to lie against his chest. The wind murmuring through her hair, Siren faced forward. Lochlanaire steered the ship. It was while embroiled in tranquility that her eyes drifted to the carved figurehead. Siren saw the glimmer of a pistol, which was lantern lit and held in the grip of a man who stood partially secluded by a wine cask’s rim. The weapon appeared to be fully trained on her husband. Chilled, Siren recognized the fiend. Fright flooded her heart, for with a flick of the monster’s finger, Lochlanaire would be dead, the shooter unknown, never seen. Dipping his wrist, the libertine poignantly navigated the pistol, beckoning for her to come to him.
She could see no other recourse, for he’d kill Lochlanaire if he squeezed the trigger. Siren kissed her husband’s lips, and slipped under his outstretched arm as he shifted the tiller. She trotted off the bridge and raced to the ship’s harshly diving stem, tempting no intrigued attention to herself.
Crimping the ship’s rail under bloodlessly whitening fingers, Siren stared straight ahead. She searched the night-darkened sea, her torment heightened by the slayer that skulked about the ship.
Thorn un-cocked the pistol, leering.