The Red Siren (17 page)

Holding a lantern, Faith knelt in the kitchen by her soap crates to investigate the vile brew’s progress. It was well past midnight, and she couldn’t sleep. Perhaps it was because of the unusually strained atmosphere at supper that night that stretched across the dining room like a rigid spar. With both of her sisters angry at her, Faith had done her best to ease tensions with light chatter and whimsical jests, but to no avail.
      
Perhaps it was her fear of the noose, brought on by the captain’s suspicion of her piracy. Or perhaps it was that she was beginning to realize, as she examined the molten slop in the crates, that she had no idea how to make soap.
      “Confound it all, what is that smell?” Mr. Waite’s deep voice startled Faith. Springing up, she faced him, one hand subconsciously reaching for her cutlass, which, of course, was not there. Instead, she flung the hand to her breast.
      “My apologies, Miss Westcott, I saw the light and wondered who might still be awake at this hour.” He bowed and sauntered into the room, looking ever so dashing in his blue uniform.
      “’Tis twice now I have caught you wandering about in the kitchen at night.”
      “I could say the same of you, Miss Westcott.” He raised his nose and took a whiff, his forehead wrinkling. “But the last time we met here, the aroma in the room was much more pleasant. Methinks I should be relieved that I missed whatever was served for supper.”
      “’Tis not supper you smell, Mr. Waite, but the batch of soap I made today.” Pride lifted her voice, false as it was.
      “Indeed?” He approached, the hint of a smirk curving his lips.
      Stepping aside, she gestured toward the wooden crates filled with her greasy concoction and prayed Mr. Waite knew no more about soap than she did.
      He leaned over them but quickly shrank back as if someone had punched him. “I do hope you intend to add scented oil, Miss Westcott, or I fear you’ve created the cure for overpopulation.”
      “How dare you?” Faith stormed. “I have already scented them. What you smell is all part of the curing process.” She had no idea why they continued to emit such a foul odor.
      His boots scuffed over the floor behind her. Warm breath heated her cheek, and she winced at her own stench. She had soaked in a hot bath for hours—Molly had insisted on providing oceans of hot fresh water in hopes of removing the smell—and scrubbed her skin and hair until they were squeaky, but for some reason, the abhorrent odor still clung to her.
      But why did she care what Mr. Waite thought?
      “New perfume, Miss Westcott? I believe I may not succumb so easily to your charms tonight.” He took another whiff and then withdrew slightly.
      
Faith spun around. “Believe me, Mr. Waite, when I tell you that I have since regretted that moment of insanity last evening when we nearly…we nearly…”
      He grinned. “Then you have nothing to fear from me.”
      Faith studied his eyes, those crisp ocean blue eyes that seemed to hold as many secrets as the depths of the sea.
      
Does he know? Is he toying with me?
      He hid his feelings well behind a wall of sarcasm and wit. Her gaze drifted down to the strong lines of his jaw shadowed with a hint of evening stubble. One lock of hair hung over his left ear, and she wondered if under his facade of obedience and dutifulness there didn’t exist a streak of rebellion just like this one mutinous strand.
      Her heart took on a rapid pace as he returned her stare with equal intensity. Yes, there was more to this man than he revealed. Something untamed, something dangerous lurked behind his eyes—eyes that were now fixated upon her lips. He swallowed—the long, hard swallow of a man dying of thirst.
      Truth be told, Faith’s throat had gone dry as well. A flush of heat blasted over her, though the coals in the fire were naught but embers now. What was wrong with her?
      Nevertheless, she would not back down from this man, whatever game he was playing.
      He cocked his head slightly and grinned—not his usual sardonic playful grin, but a warm, tender one. Then, reaching up, he caressed her cheek with his thumb and cupped his hand around her jaw.
      Faith closed her eyes beneath the heady sensations that swirled through her.
      When she opened them, his lips hovered over hers.
      “I thought I had naught to fear from you,” she whispered.
      “I thought you had forsaken your insanity.”
      He drew closer, and Faith found herself suddenly wishing he would either arrest her or kiss her. Either way, this madness would end.
      “Miss Faith! Miss Faith!” Edwin’s shaky voice snapped her back to reality. She jerked away from Mr. Waite.
      Edwin barreled into the kitchen, his belly quivering.
      “What is it, Edwin? Whatever is the matter?” She darted to him, alarm spiking through her.
      “’Tis Miss Hope,” Edwin managed between gasps.
      
“Hope?” Faith had checked on her not three hours past, and she had been fast asleep. “Is she sick?”
      “A man came to the door.” Edwin’s gaze flitted between Faith and Mr. Waite.
      “What man? What of Hope?” Faith grabbed his shoulders and shook him.
      “A friend, a footman from the Brewton home.” Edwin plopped into a chair.
      Mr. Waite came alongside Faith. “What did he say, man? Spit it out.”
      “Miss Hope is in trouble.”
      Faith could make no sense of his jabbering. “In her chamber?”
      “Nay, miss.” Edwin glanced up at her, a look of hopelessness tugging at his eyes. “Downtown at the Pink House Tavern.”

P
ressing his handkerchief to his nose, Sir Wilhelm strutted into the dark, sooty room of the tavern. A stout man with greasy hair coiling around his shoulders bumped into him, his tankard of ale sloshing over the sides. “Look out where yer goin’,” he slurred.
      Sir Wilhelm pushed the man aside and wiped his handkerchief over his velvet waistcoat where the lout had touched him. “How dare you, you vile sot. Don’t you know who I am?” Sir Wilhelm offered the man a vision of his profile as he adjusted his periwig, but the sailor simply gave a derisive snort and went his way.
      
Of all the…
Sir Wilhelm huffed. This was precisely the reason he never graced these filthy havens with his genteel presence. His mother had been right. Commoners never appreciated the immense responsibility of those in authority nor that the freedoms they enjoyed were only by the sacrifice and grace of their lords. How could they, with such miniscule, narrow brains?
      Sir Wilhelm sniffed, his nose burning against the rancid alcohol and body odor that seeped through the air like a fetid fog. As he peered across the shadowy room, littered with indescribable rabble, bloodshot eyes gave him cursory glances before returning to their ale. Why, dressed as he was in black velvet breeches fringed in gold, white satin shirt, and fur-trimmed waistcoat, surely even these miscreants recognized nobility. At least the proprietor of this devil’s haven should greet him and lead him to the best seat in the house—he glanced over the crumb-encrusted, liquor-saturated, marred tables and scrunched his nose—if there were such a seat.
      He tossed his nose in the air. The devil take them all. Could they not tell he had money to spend—more money than the whole lot of them put together? Hesitating, he longed to turn on his leather heels and
storm out. That would show them. But he had heard that Mr. Waite’s first lieutenant, Mr. Borland, frequented this vulgar alehouse, and he must speak to him. If Sir Wilhelm’s intuition was correct—as it usually was—he might find an ally in Borland.
      Sir Wilhelm took another step, holding one hand aloft, and scanned the filthy faces. He had hoped to arrive sooner, before the entire building crawled with vermin, but he had crossed paths with Miss Hope and that pretentious peacock Lord Falkland. Why Mr. Waite allowed the young girl to roam the streets at night with such objectionable company, Sir Wilhelm could not understand. From the looks of her, she had already imbibed too much alcohol. He supposed he should have stepped in and escorted her home, but alas, the admiral had not chosen him as guardian. Instead, he had chosen that nincompoop Waite, and the admiral would have to pay the price for his stupidity.
      In the far corner, a blur of blue navy coats crossed Sir Wilhelm’s vision. Starting toward them, he weaved among the tables, careful not to touch anything—or anyone—but angry voices slithered out like snakes nonetheless, sinking their insulting fangs into his conscience.
      “Look, gents, if it ain’t our proprietor. Have ye come down from yer castle to the mire to visit the peasants?” one man trumpeted.
      “Where were ye when we needed ye?” another man taunted. “When the Yamasee attacked and stole all our food?”
      “Ain’t you supposed to be protectin’ us and not stealin’ our money and land?” a doxy spat at him, the mounds of her breasts quivering above her tight-fitting bodice.
      Ignoring the taunts, Sir Wilhelm kept his eyes straight ahead, his gaze above the squabbling riffraff. He and the other proprietors had done all they could to protect the settlers against the massive Indian attack. But what were they supposed to do in face of such a savage enemy? Unappreciative louts!
      Mr. Borland turned as Sir Wilhelm approached the table. Setting his mug down, the young officer rose and brushed the crumbs from his coat. “Sir Wilhelm, how good to see you.” Lines formed between his narrowed eyes. No doubt he was surprised to see Sir Wilhelm in such a debased place.
      Sir Wilhelm nodded in greeting as relief lifted his shoulders. Finally, someone who offered him the respect he deserved.
      “Sir Wilhelm Carteret.” Mr. Borland gestured toward his friends,
who had also stood. “May I present Mr. Copeland and Mr. Willis.”
      “Sir Wilhelm is a descendant of one of the original proprietors of Carolina,” Borland added.
      The men bowed. “A pleasure, sir,” Mr. Copeland said.
      Sir Wilhelm nodded in agreement then faced Mr. Borland. “May
      I speak with you alone? ’Tis a matter of grave importance.”
      “Of course.” He turned toward his friends, raised his brows, and jerked his head to the right.
      Frowning, they grabbed their mugs, nodded toward Sir Wilhelm, and shuffled away.
      “Won’t you have a seat, Sir Wilhelm?” Mr. Borland gestured toward a chair beside his and then snapped his fingers at a barmaid across the room. “A drink, perhaps?”
      “Thank you.” Sir Wilhelm flapped his handkerchief across the chair, scattering the noxious crumbs. But upon further inspection of the seat, laden with globs of unidentifiable origin, he spread out the cloth and sat upon it. “It is I who shall buy you a drink, Mr. Borland, if you’ll allow me.” He eyed the near-empty mug of ale in front of the man. “Perhaps some rum?”
      Borland’s grin told him the lieutenant enjoyed his liquor. Perfect. A couple of glasses of rum, and Sir Wilhelm would have the man agreeing to anything.
      The barmaid arrived with one hand on her bounteous hip and a look of boredom that her painted lips failed to disguise. Sir Wilhelm plucked a shilling from his pouch and dropped it into her sweaty hand. “Bottle of rum, if you please, and keep the change.” The shiny gold lit a greedy fire in her blue eyes. Like flies to the light, these rustics could be controlled with a simple coin. Sir Wilhelm shook his head as she scampered away.
      “Begging your pardon, sir, but what brings you here?” Mr. Borland sat back in his chair and folded his hands over his stomach, drumming one set of fingers over the other.
      Sir Wilhelm noted the glaze covering Mr. Borland’s eyes and gave him his most congenial smile. “I believe we have a common interest.”
      Borland cocked his head and narrowed his gaze. “I cannot imagine what that could be.”
      The barmaid returned with an open bottle of rum and two glasses, and Sir Wilhelm quickly poured some into Borland’s glass and slid it over to him.
      
“It concerns your commander, Mr. Waite.” Sir Wilhelm wrinkled his nose against a new foul odor wafting his way as he tipped the bottle to his own glass.
      “Ah…yes. The great Mr. Waite.” Borland gave a sardonic chortle and reached for his rum. “What do you wish to do, give him another medal, have a parade in his honor, or perhaps appoint him to Parliament?” He took a swig.
      Sir Wilhelm grinned. Just as he had suspected. “Have another drink.” He poured another shot into Borland’s cup.
      Borland grabbed it, tossed it to the back of his throat, then set the glass down. “I don’t mean any disrespect, sir, ’tis just that Dajon—I mean Mr. Waite and I do not always agree on things.” He twisted his thick sandy mustache between two fingers and stared at his empty glass.
      The sounds of the tavern surged around Sir Wilhelm like a hundred ignorant voices pounding in his head. He rubbed his temples. How did people relax in such a place? Even before the thought left him, the crash of a table, the blast of insults, and the smack of fist to face sounded from the front door as a fight broke out. Borland peered through the haze toward the commotion.
      “Mr. Waite has cheated you out of promotions that should have been yours, has he not?” Sir Wilhelm drew Borland’s attention back to him.
      Borland snapped his gaze back, grabbed the bottle, and poured himself some rum. He shrugged.
      “No need to reply. I have keen eyes for this sort of thing.” Sir Wilhelm plucked out his snuffbox. “And I can also tell a man of worth when I see one. A man with the wits and courage to command.” Taking a pinch of the black powder, he sniffed some up each nostril then snorted against the burn. “And a man who is none of those things.”
      Borland’s dark gaze wandered over Sir Wilhelm like a bird in flight trying to find a place to land. His lips wrinkled in a half smile.
      Sir Wilhelm sighed. “You, sir, are the one who should be in command of the HMS
Enforcer
, not that ninny Waite.” Withdrawing another handkerchief from his waistcoat, he wiped the rim of his glass—only God knew if they ever washed these things—and took a sip. The liquor sped a burning trail down his throat, instantly warming his belly. “Let me guess. He is the type of man who sidles up to the Admiralty like a trollop to a plush merchant—just as he did with Admiral Westcott.”
      Borland swayed and raised his glass. “But what is it to you, if I may
ask?” His wavering cup finally found his mouth, and he took a sip.
      A string of foul curses muddied the air behind Sir Wilhelm, and he cringed. The sooner he could leave this place, the better. “’Tis only that I am a man of justice, as well as a proprietor who wishes our city to be protected by the best man possible. Truth be told, I would sleep far better knowing you were in charge.”
      Borland leaned his elbows on the table. “Well, what’s to be done about it?” he slurred, shrugging again.
      “Come now, Borland. You must think like a leader, like a commander.” Sir Wilhelm slapped him on the back, nearly toppling him. “Pray tell, how do you confront an obstacle, Mr. Borland?”
      “I remove it.”
      “Precisely!”
      Mr. Borland labored to his feet, wobbled, then clung to the edge of the table and thrust his face at Sir Wilhelm. “What are you suggesting, sir? I will do no harm to Dajon. I have called him friend for far too long.”
      “Harm? Nay, of course not.” Sir Wilhelm scrunched his face into what he hoped was a look of complete abhorrence. “Sit down, Borland, if you please.” He stood and eased the man down into his chair then wiped his hands with his handkerchief.
      Sir Wilhelm reluctantly took his seat again. “All I am suggesting is that we
persuade
Mr. Waite to break some naval code or rule—something that will do him no more harm than to get him dismissed.”
      Mr. Borland threw his head back and let out a loud chortle that drew the gaze of the crowd around them. Placing his elbows on the table, he leaned toward Sir Wilhelm. “You do not know Mr. Waite, sir. He would never break a rule.”
      Disgust soured in Wilhelm’s mouth. “Egad, he’s not God, Borland. Perhaps that is why you cannot defeat him. You think he is some divine being. But I assure you, he is human like you and me.”
      Hot air blasted in from the open window. The light from the flame flickered across Borland’s inebriated expression, twisting his features into a tortured snarl. Sir Wilhelm snorted. How did these navy officers manage themselves in battle?
      “He has weaknesses, has he not?” Sir Wilhelm held two fingers to his nose.
      From the other side of the room, the eerie sound of an aged fiddle
screeched a ribald tune that grated over Sir Wilhelm like the talons of a huge bird.
What is his weakness, lad? Tell me before I go mad in this place.
      Swirling his glass, Borland stared inquisitively into the rum as if it contained the answer to the question.
      “Aye.” He finally nodded and lifted his gaze, a hazy gleam in his eye. “He has a weakness for the ladies, I am told. Some tragedy from his past involving a woman.”
      A slow grin spread over Sir Wilhelm’s lips. Since Mr. Waite had only recently arrived from England and no one knew of him here in the colonies, Sir Wilhelm had dispatched one of his men overseas to gather what information he could on the good Mr. Waite’s past. From the sounds of it, he would not be disappointed with the results. Power surged through him, strengthening him. Things were going better than expected. He leaned toward Mr. Borland. “Pray tell, what is the consequence for an officer in His Majesty’s Navy for, say…ravishing a woman?”
      Borland shrugged. “Depends on the woman, I suppose. If she were a lady, possibly death. If she were a trollop, most likely no charges would be leveled. But if she were a decent woman, an officer could be cashiered.”
      “Cashiered?”
      “Dismissed in disgrace.”
      “Perfect.” Sir Wilhelm adjusted his periwig and leaned back in his chair. Borland belched and shook his head. “Again, sir, you deceive yourself. Mr. Waite would never commit such an act.” He slumped in his chair.
      Sir Wilhelm gritted his teeth. How long must he spoon-feed this buffoon? “Do you want command of the ship, or do you not, Mr. Borland?”
      “Even with him gone, there is no assurance I will be made commander.” Borland drummed his fingers over the ale-sodden table.
      Sir Wilhelm raised one eyebrow, feigning patience. “You forget to whom you speak, my dear sir. My grandfather was the comptroller of the navy. My family still has the ear of the Admiralty.”
      Mr. Borland raised his shoulders. His glassy eyes locked on Sir Wilhelm’s. “But why would you do this for me?”
      “As I said, I would sleep much better with you patrolling the coast.”
      Borland nodded, his expression lifted with hope, but then his smile
suddenly sank. “Still, we must get him to do the deed, and I assure you, he will not.”
      Sir Wilhelm huffed. “I can assure you, it matters not what Mr. Waite does or does not do.”
      Borland’s inquisitive gaze met his. A slick smile alighted upon his lips and spread until it seemed to take over his face.
      After glancing around them, Sir Wilhelm laid his handkerchief on the table, placed his arm over it, and leaned toward Borland. “Now this is what we shall do.”