Siren watched the door to her newest prison open. She recoiled and rebuked her captor’s every move. Once he tossed the decanter onto the desk and advanced on her, she scurried for the bed’s farthest end.
Lochlanaire throttled her right hand and drew it outward.
Siren fought him.
His biting hold never wavered, however, and as her eyes brushed his scarred wrists that irons once trussed, Lochlanaire tore the ruby ring off her finger.
Siren’s arms wrapped around her legs. “Why?”
He moved off to the rain-washed window. Lochlanaire slipped King James II’s signet onto his pinky and searched rolling waves. Dully he spoke, “Who are you, Siren Rain?”
“You kidnapped me. You should know who I am,” she reprimanded.
Lochlanaire questioned, “Why did Zore accost you?”
“Who is Zore?”
“Zore is the captain that held you prisoner aboard the Vengeance.”
“I never saw the tyrant until he came to the Virginian in Norfolk,” Siren admonished.
“The Virginian?” Lochlanaire removed one silk shirt from a shelf. He unlaced the soaked shirt that clung to his body and divested himself of it.
The witchery of his eyes captivated hers and then Siren’s gaze caressed his chiseled flesh, which tapered to his waist. Lochlanaire’s shirt was thrown to the captain’s chair. Siren’s breath wrenched, her glance touched the flog scars that desecrated his body.
Lochlanaire turned his body away so she couldn’t see his chest or back.
Siren recovered her wits. “The Virginian is a hall. I served the men food and drink while they gamed.”
Lochlanaire fluttered the shirt to cover his body; the laces remained untied to his waist. He fully faced her. “This is where you met Zore?”
Siren replied angrily, “I never met the bastard, in the manner you suggest. He kidnapped me in the alley and caged me as his prisoner aboard his vile ship. All he said was that he intended to return me to England. He would not even tell me his bloody name, leaving me alone for months in that hellish cabin. I have no hint of what I’ve executed that prompts such sacrilege.” Glaring, for he sat on a chair, Siren demanded, “My ring?”
Lochlanaire casually retrieved another decanter. He tore the cork loose, and hurled it to the desk. He shook his head, mulling upon the ring glinting on his finger. “The ring is mine.”
Siren seethed, “That ring is all I possess of my father. I want it.”
His eyebrow arched. “You were acquainted with your father?”
“No, I’ve never met him. My mother gave me the ring. It was a token of his love for her. I command my ring’s immediate return,” she ordered.
Lochlanaire never uttered a word.
Siren dared his piercing scowl.
A knock clattering the door battered the anxious silence. “Captain? Grayson requests a word.”
Lochlanaire vaulted onto his feet, dropped the decanter upon the desk, ignored his captive and retreated to the door.
Siren yelled, darting to her feet, her fists clenched, “My ring…give me my ring!”
Lochlanaire strode to her. He clutched the neck of Siren’s shirt, his eyes seared hers, and then they fondled her heaving breasts.
Siren breathed greedily, searching his fiery stare that journeyed to hers. Siren’s lips challenged.
Lochlanaire pushed her to sprawl across the bed. Hunching, his arms splayed around Siren’s sides. He snarled, “No.” Spinning, he walked to the door, unlocked it and departed.
Siren faltered to sit and crept a hand to her racing heart. My God, what sordid trap had she stumbled into, and why did her flesh quiver under this sorcerer’s eyes?