The Red Siren (22 page)

Borland tapped lightly on the captain’s door. He had heard Dajon return just before dawn, and from the sound of his pounding boots and the slam of his door, he assumed all had gone according to plan. Now, unable to wait another moment, he risked disturbing the captain’s sleep with some minor detail of the ship.
      
He tapped again.
      “Enter,” the gruff voice laden with sleep bellowed, and Borland pushed aside the oak slab. As he scanned the room, he spotted Dajon sitting on the edge of his rumpled bed, head in his hands.
      “What is it, Borland?” Dajon rubbed his eyes.
      “Henderson wants to know if he should grease the masts today, Captain.”
      “You woke me for that?” Dajon gave a disgruntled snort.
      “My apologies, Captain. It
is
after eight bells, but I see now you had a rather late night.” He delighted to see the dark, swollen splotches beneath Dajon’s half-open eyes. “Is everything all right, Captain? Did you encounter some mischief last night?”
      “Whatever would make you think that?” Dajon stood, annoyance hardening the lines in his jaw.
      “You slept in your uniform. ’Tis unlike you to be so untidy.” Borland took a tentative step toward him and pointed at his breeches. “And you’re covered in mud.” Truth be told, he’d never seen Dajon in such a state of disarray, and that could mean only one thing.
      Sir Carteret’s plan had worked.
      Dajon slogged to his desk. “I had a most eventful evening.”
      
Excellent.
Borland could almost hear the constable and his men—or better yet, the marines—marching across the deck to arrest Dajon. He could almost see himself obligingly having to assume command of the ship as they dragged Dajon away.
      “Eventful, sir?”
      Fisting his hands on his waist, Dajon stared out the window. “Aye. But nothing I couldn’t handle, I assure you.”
      
Egad. Nothing he couldn’t handle.
Mrs. Margaret Gladstone, who was both the wife of a rich tradesman—a silversmith—and a woman in possession of less-than-sterling morals, had been the perfect lure. The only thing that bothered Borland was why the authorities had not been alerted last night as soon as the woman’s brother caught Dajon in the reprehensible act.
      No bother. It would happen soon enough, and finally the great Dajon Waite’s luck would run out like so much seawater through a deck scuttle. Then Borland would assume the command he should have been given long ago. Justice would be served at last.
      “Borland…Borland?”
      
Borland snapped his focus back to Dajon, who had turned to face him with a quizzical look. “Yes, Captain.”
      “I said to tell Henderson to proceed in greasing the masts, if you please.” He rubbed the stubble on his jaw. “Now will that be all, or do you have some other pressing emergency?”
      “No, Captain. That is all.” Borland shifted his boots, unable to force himself to leave without trying once more to discover what had occurred last night. “Are you sure all is well? You seem distraught, Captain. Perhaps I can help.”
      Dajon eased out of his crumpled coat and tossed it onto a chair with a huff, but when he faced Borland, the harshness in his eyes had softened. “You are indeed a good friend, Borland. I thank you for your concern.” He approached and clasped Borland’s forearm then released it with a sigh. “But it seems I must bear this particular burden on my own.”
      A pinprick of guilt prevented the grin that strained to rise upon Borland’s lips. He could manage only a nod as he reminded himself that his so-called friend had stolen what was rightfully his. Saluting, he turned and dashed out the door before Dajon’s friendly demeanor did any more damage to his resolve for justice.

Dajon stared at the thick oak door long after the echo of its slam had faded. Mr. Borland was behaving rather oddly. Whatever had gotten into the man? Had he taken up grog so early in the morning? After the events of last night, Dajon wondered if the whole world had gone mad. Rubbing the back of his neck, he walked to the stern window that looked out upon Charles Towne Harbor. Ships of all sizes, ranging from schooners to brigantines to merchant frigates, rocked in the bay, their decks a flurry of activity as men loaded and unloaded merchandise before the heat of the day made the work unbearable. Off in the distance, Shute’s Folly Island floated upon the water like an alligator’s eye surveying its surroundings. Beyond it, James and Sullivan’s Islands formed the entrance to the port of Charles Towne, protecting it from the ravages of the Atlantic.
      But also providing an excellent point of entry for pirates—big enough for a large ship to sail through, but small enough to form a blockade and hold the city hostage. Which was precisely what Blackbeard had done not three months earlier.
      
Dipping his fingers in his waistcoat pocket, he pulled out the shiny round pearl, hoping to pull out a pebble instead, a lump of coal, anything but the conch pearl—hoping he had only dreamed that he’d found it in Faith’s chamber. But there it perched betwixt his dirty fingers, winking at him in the sun’s rays that beamed in through the paned window. Amazing how one little jewel could turn his life into a pool of bilge.
      He tossed it in the air and caught it then dropped it back into his pocket. He had already set in play his plan to trap the notorious Red Siren. And now he must pray—pray with all his heart—that the villain was not Faith Westcott. Gripping the window ledge, he squeezed the rough wood until his knuckles whitened. If he was forced to arrest her, what would happen to her sisters? Her father? Not to mention to Faith herself?
      She would be hanged.
      All convicted pirates were hanged.
      Something solid like a ball of tangled rope stuck in his throat, nearly choking him. How could he go through with it?
      He slammed his fists down on the ledge. A splinter jabbed his skin.
      Yet how could he not?
      Four years ago, he’d vowed to live his life for God and country and nothing else. He would not make another mistake based on foolhardy emotions.

F
aith dropped another lump of sugar into her tea and offered the silver bowl, stacked full of sweet clusters, to Hope, sitting beside her on the flowered settee. Her sister shook her head then continued to stare down at the cup of coffee cradled in her hands. It had been a week since the traumatic incident at the Pink House, and although the doctor had pronounced Hope physically well, she had not been her usual exuberant self since. In fact, neither a single complaint nor critical remark had escaped her mouth, not even a plea to go shopping or attend a party. Sad to say, Faith preferred the old petulant Hope to this shell of a woman.
      “Grace, have you any plans today?” Faith turned toward her other sister, who sat straight backed in the Queen Anne upholstered arm- chair, sipping her tea.
      “Am I permitted to have plans?” Grace tilted her head, her voice carrying a sarcastic sting.
      A light breeze stirred the curtains that flanked the open french doors leading out to the veranda. Faith caught the scent of the sea and took a deep breath, shifting in her seat. Oh, to be out upon those vast, carefree waters instead of sitting in this stuffy room with her equally stuffy sisters. She had thought spending the morning with them in the drawing room would be a good start to a cheerful day together, but she found their humors had not improved overmuch since yesterday.
      Faith had remained home the entire week, not daring to take her ship out after Mr. Waite had discovered the pearl in her chamber. Unfortunately, she’d been forced to endure Sir Wilhelm’s company on two separate occasions: first when he’d come to inquire after Hope’s welfare, and second when he’d intruded on their dinner to invite Faith to a concert at Dillon’s Inn. Both times she had ushered him quickly out
the door, spouting excuses of ill health and dour humor. But she knew the man would not be put off forever.
      However, during her time at home, Faith had been able to keep a stricter eye upon her sisters and spend much-needed time with them, as well as curb their foolish ventures into dangerous territory.
      But from the tight expression souring Grace’s face, she doubted her sister had been pleased with Faith’s constant attentions.
      Setting her cup down on the silver service tray with a clink, Grace pressed the folds of her plain muslin skirt. “I had planned to deliver a basket of fresh peaches and bread to the Baker widow. She has four children to feed, you know.”
      Faith clenched her jaw and felt a knot form in her stomach. “But if I understand correctly, her home is far outside the city walls. Nearly at the Ashley River.”
      Hope looked up from her coffee. “There have been several Indian attacks there of late.” Her monotone voice belied the danger in her statement as she stared into the empty space of the room.
      “Indeed, Hope.” Faith laid a gentle hand on her arm but kept her firm gaze upon Grace. “And that is precisely why you will not go.”
      Grace smoothed the side of her raven hair as if a strand had dared to come loose. Which never happened, of course, because she kept them all drawn so tightly in a bun that Faith often wondered if that wasn’t the reason her expression seemed so rigid.
      Grace’s green eyes snapped toward Faith. “It has been most pleasant having you home, Faith, but Father did not leave you as caretaker over us.”
      Hope glanced out the window as another breeze swirled through the room. “No. He left Mr. Waite.”
      “Where
is
the glorious Mr. Waite?” Grace smirked. “Perchance you have scared him off, Faith?”
      “I have no idea.” Faith fingered the lacy trim on her blue cotton gown as the tea bit her stomach. Pressing a hand over her complaining belly, she glanced at the intricately carved crown molding then at the Dutch floral oil paintings her mother had collected that decorated the violet walls, trying to avoid both of her sisters’ imperious gazes.
      “I should rather suppose navy business keeps him away.” But she knew better. She had learned from Lucas that Mr. Waite had spent every night in the guesthouse, always leaving before dawn. Clearly he’d been avoiding her. She pictured the look on his face when she had
told him—lied to him—about the pearls, how his brows had pinched together, how his eyes had widened, and how a look of disbelief and sorrow had passed through their blue depths. Most likely he had spent the week gathering the evidence he needed to arrest her. But what proof could he find?
      
Her ship
.
      Perhaps he had discovered her ship—or rather
his
ship. Still, he would have no way to link the vessel to her. Lucas had traveled there twice this past week to feed Morgan, and the
Red Siren
had been anchored in the same spot, seemingly undiscovered.
      A pang of guilt made her shift in her seat. Guilt for the lies she had told, guilt for the life she had chosen. What was wrong with her?
      “Clearly he is quite taken with you, Faith.” Grace gave her a smile that revealed a bit of sauciness beneath her prudish exterior.
      “Absurd.” Setting down her cup, Faith jumped to her feet. “Pure rubbish.” She strolled to the window and looked out upon the gardens below where Molly’s purple bougainvillea climbed the white fence that guarded the side of the house. “He merely looks out for us as instructed by Father.” Then why did she feel a sudden elation at Grace’s statement? No matter. Even if Mr. Waite had felt some affection for her, it surely would have suffocated by now beneath his growing suspicions.
      “Regardless, I owe him my life,” Hope said.
      “You owe God your life,” Grace retorted. Faith swung around just in time to see Molly enter with a tray of biscuits and another kettle of tea. She nodded toward the cook, who set the tray down on the mahogany table in the center of the room. The buttery smell of the biscuits danced beneath Faith’s nose even as her stomach lurched at the thought of eating.
      She headed back toward her sisters. “Grace is right. ’Twas a miracle if ever I saw one.” And although Faith still had a difficult time believing exactly what she had seen, she could not deny it, either.
      Hope set her cup down beside the tray. “It was no such thing. Mr. Waite rescued me.”
      Molly clasped her hands together. “I beg your pardon, Miss Hope, if you’ll forgive me for interrupting, but Mr. Corwin can’t speak of nothin’ else.” Her eyes widened. “How there was a shield of light in front of Miss Hope and how those ruffians couldn’t even see her until Mr. Waite arrived. Then how they was held off by some force while you got away.
Why, I never seen Mr. Corwin so excited. He’s behaving like he’s just been made governor of Carolina.”
      Hope snickered.
      “But you, Miss Faith”—Molly shook a long slender finger at her— “you shouldn’t have been there at all. A lady in such a place. The shame of it.”
      “If your God can protect Hope,” Faith said, her voice a bit more caustic than she intended, “then He can protect me as well, can He not?”
      Molly snorted. “He can do what He wants, I suppose. And you should be thanking Him that He kep’ you safe. But the both of you best be staying out of such places, or He may not the next time.”
      “God always protects me when I journey to do His will.” Grace straightened her back and clasped her hands together in her lap. “However, if you’re out of His will, no wonder you found yourself in harm’s way.” The sanctimonious look on her face suddenly collapsed into folds of confusion. “Yet…”
      Hope scowled at her sister. “Then why, pray tell, did He protect me, Grace?”
      “I thought you insisted He did nothing of the kind?” Grace smirked.
      Narrowing her eyes, Hope collapsed into the settee with a huff. “I’m still not saying He saved me. I’m simply pointing out that your conjecture is flawed.”
      Faith eased beside Hope. Her sister had not relayed any of the details of that night to anyone, despite frequent prodding. In fact, this was the first sign of emotion she’d exhibited in a week, and despite the argumentative nature of Hope’s words, Faith was happy to see the old Hope come back to life.
      Molly grabbed the tray of empty cups. “All I kin say is, it thrills me to know that the Almighty is still active and powerful and kin save us even from our own follies.”
      “He is the same yesterday, today, and forever.” Grace laid a hand on Molly’s arm and smiled.
      “That He is. I kin see that now. And Mr. Corwin is starting to see things different as well.” Molly winked at Faith as if they shared a secret, but Faith wanted no part of this holy alliance. If Lucas decided to follow such an untrustworthy God, then he had best do so on his own time. Turning, Molly began humming one of her conscience-grating hymns as she exited the room.
      
Faith sighed. She must take the
Red Siren
out. One more good raid, one more shipload of plunder and she would be able to care for her sisters properly, hire protection for Grace—an army if she had to—and Hope would no longer have to vie for the affections of such wretched men as Lord Falkland.
      Yet why did she have the nagging feeling that no amount of wealth would be enough to tame her two sisters?
      As if in answer to Faith’s question, Hope crossed her arms over her chest. “When can I see Arthur…Lord Falkland?”
      “I beg your pardon.” Faith gave her sister a scorching look. “Is he not the one that got you into that mess at the Pink House? He abandoned you. Don’t you remember?”
      “How do you know that?”
      “Your friend Miss Cormac told us.”
      “You spoke with Anne?” A strange expression of shock fringed with humor danced over Hope’s face. “I wouldn’t believe her. She rarely tells the truth.”
      Why Hope would befriend someone who was devoid of honesty was beyond Faith, but that was another issue. “She had no reason to lie. Lord Falkland left you all alone in that heinous tavern to be ravished and God knows what else. You cannot deny he was the one who brought you there.”
      Hope begrudgingly nodded but would not meet Faith’s gaze.
      Faith took her hand in hers. “Please, dear. You must see what type of man he is. He doesn’t love you.”
      “He does love me.” Hope jerked her hand away. “You don’t know him. ’Twas unavoidable. He was called away on a matter of great urgency.” Her eyes glistened with tears.
      “Could he not escort you home first?”
      “He asked Mr. Ackers to do the honor.”
      “And who, pray tell, is Mr. Ackers?”
      “A loyal friend of Arthur’s.” Hope swallowed and gazed down at the Chinese rug warming the floor at their feet.
      “And why did this Mr. Ackers not escort you home?”
      “I don’t know. He disappeared.”
      “Disappeared? Of all the…” Fury exploded within Faith, sending sharp pains into her belly. She wanted to drag one of her cannons to this Lord Falkland’s home and blast it to rubbish. “Seems your Lord
Falkland invokes no more loyalty among his friends than a thief in a room full of magistrates.”
      “’Twas Mr. Ackers who left me.” Hope’s lip quivered. Tears slid down her cheeks. “I didn’t know what to do.”
      Faith wanted to tell her she shouldn’t have been there in the first place, but instead, she plucked a handkerchief from her pocket and handed it to Hope. “If it weren’t for Mr. Waite—”
      “And God,” Grace interjected.
      “I loathe to think what could have happened to you,” Faith continued.
      “What difference does it make?” Hope swiped at her tears. “I’m already sullied.” Leaning forward, she dropped her head into her hands.
      Faith’s heart crumbled into ashes. She glanced at Grace, who returned her agonized gaze.
      Rising, Grace approached them and sat on the other side of Hope. “You are not sullied in God’s eyes.”
      “God is not here,” Hope muttered. “And He does not have to live in a society that allows men to dominate women and then holds the women accountable for the outcome.”
      Faith waited for Grace’s usual retort; instead, tears flooded her sister’s eyes, and she put her arm around Hope, saying nothing.
      Truth be told, Faith couldn’t agree more with her sister’s assessment, but what was to be done about it? It was the way of things. Wealth was their only salvation, and until she could garner enough of it, she must stop Hope from destroying what was left of her life. “Nevertheless, I insist you stay away from Lord Falkland.”
      Hope raised her glassy eyes to Faith. “You cannot order me about.
      I will see whom I choose to see.” No anger tainted her tone, no defiance, no desperation. She had simply uttered the statement as fact.
      A chill iced Faith’s bones. Rebellious, stubborn girl! How could she make her see the error of her ways before it was too late? “I assure you, Lord Falkland will cause you naught but pain. Why do you insist on destroying yourself?”
      “The good Lord may not come to your aid next time, Hope.” Grace brushed a honey-colored lock of hair from Hope’s face.
      “I care not.” Shrugging from between her sisters, Hope rose and took a deep breath. “How many suitors do you see lining up at our door? I’m two and twenty already. And I love Arthur…Lord Falkland. He
may not be perfect, but he loves me and he has enough wealth to keep me happy.”
      Faith stood, feeling every muscle tense. Enough of this defiance. If she had to, she’d put her sisters under guard to keep them from harm.
      
Oh, Mother, I’m trying so hard to protect them, but you didn’t exactly give me much to work with.
“Hope, you will not—”
      Edwin appeared in the doorway, his face even paler than usual. “Mr. Waite to see you, miss.” His droopy eyes darted around the room. “He has two gentlemen with him.”
      “Gentlemen? Officers? Are they in red uniforms?”
      “One of them is, miss.”
      She coughed, gasping for air, and then held a hand over her aching stomach. Had he come to arrest her? She scanned the room looking for a place to hide and then realized how ridiculous that was.
      “Edwin, please tell him I’m not feeling well. In fact”—she glanced at her sisters with a pleading look—“tell him we are
all
not feeling well.”
      “Very well, miss.” With a sigh, Edwin left, but no sooner had he disappeared than a scuffle sounded in the hall and Mr. Waite’s deep voice bounded through the room.
      “Not feeling well? All three of you?” He marched into the room as if it were the deck of his ship. He leveled a hot and loaded gaze straight at Faith.