The Red Siren (28 page)

L
eaping from the cockboat, Borland stomped down the wooden dock, feeling it quake beneath his angry march. Raising the collar of his frock against the rain that blasted across his path, he headed toward his favorite tavern.
      He needed a drink. A good, long, strong drink.
      Anything to squelch the incessant howling in his head. Egad, Miss Westcott was the Red Siren. As soon as he’d heard her voice, as soon as he’d watched her flounce across the deck to Captain Waite, as soon as he’d seen that tiny thread of red hair dancing across her neck, he knew. Yet the captain had the audacity to set her free.
      Borland should be overcome with joy.
      He would not have to do a thing. This woman, this pirate, would be Dajon’s undoing. The event could not have gone better if Borland had spent years planning it—and even then, he could never have conceived of such a fortuitous outcome.
      Rain stung his cheek. He lowered his chin and folded his arms across his chest before darting across the muddy street. The screech of jarring wheels and the irritated whinny of a horse jolted him from his thoughts.
      “Watch where yer goin’, ye bird-witted laggard,” the driver of the buggy yelled before flicking his reins and continuing onward.
      Thunder roared an angry admonition as Borland plodded forward, the mud clawing at his boots like demons dragging him to the underworld.
      Pulling from their grasp, Borland trudged up the stairs of the Blind Arms alehouse and shook off the eerie feeling that he had somehow escaped a perilous ending.
      A ribald tune floated through the open window upon flickering fingers of candlelight, beckoning him inside. Borland doffed his bicorn and slapped
it on his knee, licking his lips as the smell of ale wafted over him.
      “Mr. Borland!” shouted a familiar voice from within the pounding rain.
      Peering through the darkness, Borland made out a fashionable calash as it lumbered through the mud and stopped before the tavern.
      A footman, with coat dripping and hair plastered to his face, jumped down from the driver’s bench, placed a box step in the mud, and held an umbrella aloft as Sir Wilhelm Carteret emerged from the enclosed carriage. He stepped uneasily onto the box then dashed beneath the porch as if the rain would somehow melt him.
      “Sir Wilhelm.” Borland nodded, annoyed at the delay to his evening’s drink. “What may I do for you, sir?”
      Sir Wilhelm’s lips flattened into a haughty line as he clutched Borland’s arm and dragged him to the side. “Why have I not heard of Mr. Waite’s arrest?” Sniffing, he raised a hand to his nose. “Mrs. Gladstone refuses to see me.”
      Borland ripped from his grasp. “You haven’t heard then?” He snorted. “Mr. Waite didn’t take the lovely Mrs. Gladstone up on her offer, as I informed you he would not.”
      Sir Wilhelm growled. “That matters not. The brother should have caught them in an embrace, and her word would seal the captain’s doom.”
      Borland drew a shaky breath of the rain-spiced air and tried to quell the searing fury in his belly. “Nay, I fear the lady was so smitten with the chivalrous Mr. Waite that she reneged on our agreement and hailed him her rescuing knight.” Borland waved a hand through the air in a royal gesture.
      “Gads! I cannot believe it.” Sir Wilhelm turned and gripped the railing then snapped his hands from the soggy wood. “This is inconceivable.” He swung about, his white periwig slightly askew.
      “Aye, and her husband trumpets the captain’s praises all about town, even offered him a reward.” The vision of Mr. Gladstone all but bowing down to worship Dajon etched green trenches of jealousy in Borland’s mind.
      
Captain Waite’s never-ending good fortune.
      Sir Wilhelm gritted his teeth. “I must get the blasted man out of the way! Surely you know of some other way—anything that will ruin him.” He pounded the air with his fist, lace flopping at his wrist.
      
Yes, Borland did indeed know of a way to ruin Mr. Waite. He longed to tell Sir Carteret. The juicy news perched on the tip of his tongue and heralded its call so loudly Borland was sure Sir Wilhelm would hear it. But he snapped his mouth shut. He could not do it.
      Not yet.
      Dajon would not only be ruined. He would be executed.
      Borland felt like Satan himself holding the cursed apple. But if he offered the vile fruit to Sir Wilhelm, ’twould be the great Captain Waite who would fall—not only fall but die as well—and while Borland longed to take back from Dajon what was rightfully his, he was not ready to cause the death of his longtime friend.
      He slid a finger over his moist mustache and gave Sir Wilhelm a look of defeat. “No, I told you. Captain Waite is perfect.”
      Sir Wilhelm sneered and waved a hand in dismissal. “Not as perfect as you think. There is another way.” His thin lips spread in an insidious grin. “I received some very interesting news from London today.” He patted his waistcoat pocket and turned to leave.
      “News of Dajon?”
      “Of his past,” he shot over his shoulder.
      “Enough to discredit his naval service? Or more?”
      Sir Wilhelm swung about. “Nay, but enough to discredit him with Miss Westcott.” Carteret flicked his eyebrows then climbed into his carriage.
      Borland’s shoulders sank. If Sir Wilhelm only knew the weapon Borland held, he would no doubt pay handsomely for its possession. Then not only would they both be rid of the infuriating Captain Waite, but Borland would be a wealthy man, as well as the commander of the HMS
Enforcer
. How could any man pass up such an opportunity? Besides, it was his duty to report Dajon to the Admiralty. If he didn’t and didn’t do it quickly, then he, too, would face a court-martial for withholding the information.
      But to inform Sir Wilhelm would mean a certain death sentence for Dajon. And Borland needed to exhaust every other means to discredit his commander before he resorted to such dire measures.
      The footman snapped the reins, and the calash lumbered down the street. Borland watched until darkness enveloped the retreating coach before he ducked into the tavern.
      He needed that drink now more than ever.

A daring ray of sunlight peeked through a crack in the heavy curtains hanging in Faith’s chamber. Pushing aside her coverlet, she slid from her bed and darted to the window. She’d hardly slept at all and had lain in bed the last hour waiting for the sun to rise. Grabbing the curtains, she flung them aside, allowing the morning sun to wash over her, cleanse her, warm her. It was a new day.
      A new life.
      A tingling sensation radiated from her heart, bringing with it such peace and love as she had not known before. It was the presence of God. She knew because she had felt Him all night long as she spoke to Him from her bed.
      “Oh Lord, I have been so foolish. But You never left me.”
      Moisture filled her eyes, and she closed them as she knelt on the wooden floor and bowed before the holiness, the power, and the love of a God who, even though she had given up on Him, had never given up on her. Tears spilled down her cheeks, plopping onto the floorboards below like sparkling diamonds. She released a tiny chuckle. These tears of joy, tears of submission, were far more beautiful than the worldly jewels she had sought to obtain.
      Though she still could not understand the reason behind all her family’s tragedies, somehow now deep within her, she knew. She knew God was in control, and His love for them, His desire for their best, had prompted all that had occurred.
      “I thank You, Lord. I thank You for saving me from the noose, though that is surely what I deserve—and far worse. I thank You for saving Hope and for keeping all of us safe in Your arms.”
      Rising, she pulled on her robe, opened a drawer of her dressing chest, and began flinging out petticoats, ribbons, frilly caps, and scarves onto the floor. It had to be here.
      Then she saw it hidden among the folds of a chemise. Her Bible.
      Grabbing it, she hopped onto her bed and opened it, tracing her fingers over the holy pages. How long had it been since she’d read it? Six, seven years? Even then, it had not made much sense to her. Yet oddly, she had kept it safely tucked away all this time. She flipped a few pages, and her eyes landed on a scripture in Psalms: “Though I walk in the midst of trouble, thou wilt revive me: thou shalt stretch forth
thine hand against the wrath of mine enemies, and thy right hand shall save me. The L
ORD
will perfect that which concerneth me: thy mercy, O L
ORD
, endureth for ever: forsake not the works of thine own hands.”
      Yes, God had revived her, had preserved her life. Not only hers but her sisters’ lives as well—even in the midst of terrible trouble.
      
But not your mother’s life.
The subtle whisper slithered into her mind even as a chill overtook her.
      Faith bit her lip. True, her mother had died, but perhaps taking her home was a form of saving her. Perhaps physical death was not the most important thing God desired to save them from. Besides, her mother was the most pious woman Faith had ever known. Surely she did not lament the glorious place where she now resided.
      And God hadn’t said her family would encounter no trouble, only that He would save them through it. Glancing down at the verse again, Faith locked her gaze upon the phrase “The L
ORD
will perfect that which concerneth me.” God had a purpose for her, a plan, a reason for everything that happened. But she had stopped trusting Him. Stopped believing that He cared. And sailed off on her own course.
      She gently closed the book. “Oh Father, help me to trust You no matter what calamities may befall me or my family.”
      Her thoughts sped to her mother again, and renewed sorrow burned behind her eyes. Yet despite the pain, God had worked everything to the good. He had brought her Dajon.
      Dajon. Thoughts of him bubbled within her like new wine. Honorable, God-fearing, kind, strong, brave—a million adjectives swept across her mind, each one proclaiming his virtues. Not only was he all those things, but he respected women as well—a rarity among the cads she and her sisters had encountered of late. And he was honest. He would never deceive her, never hurt her, never hurt anyone. She hadn’t known men like him existed. If she had, perhaps she wouldn’t have been so opposed to marriage. Surprise sent her head spinning. Surprise that the thought of marriage had even occurred to her, let alone made every inch of her shiver with joy.
      Perhaps Dajon was the answer to her problems. A God-sent answer. A union with him would provide the protection and support she needed—they all needed—giving her time to find proper suitors for her sisters. Not to mention that she would no longer be obliged to marry Sir Wilhelm when her father returned.
      
Yet she knew the price Dajon had paid to release her. The cost of going against everything he believed in: truth and duty and obedience. Not to mention the risk he took with his own life.
      Truly, he must love her.

“Good morning, Hope, Grace. Isn’t it a lovely day?” Faith floated into the dining room, anxious to see her sisters, anxious to express her affection for them, to tell them that things would be different, that now all would be well. She was met by the tantalizing scent of oatmeal, honey, sweet cream, and orange marmalade. Her stomach rumbled.
      Hope, modishly dressed in a cotton lavender gown trimmed in silver lace, gave her a curious glance before returning to her coffee.
      “Hope, let me see you.” Faith clutched her hand and pulled her to standing, then she studied her sister’s sweet features, the golden gleam in her hair, her thick dark lashes surrounding sapphire eyes. Had Faith ever really seen her before? Had she ever really looked at her as anything other than a nuisance? “Such a lovely lady you’ve become.” She hugged her, but Hope was so stiff it felt as though Faith hugged one of the masts on her ship.
      When she pulled back, Hope’s face had contorted into confusion.
      Faith gulped. Was it so unusual for her to express affection to her sisters?
      “And Grace.” Faith skirted the table in a swish of lace, but her sister flinched and backed away, looking at Faith as if she were the devil himself.
      Ignoring her, she took Grace’s hand in hers and squeezed it. “Such constant faith in God. What an inspiration you are to us all.”
      Grace exchanged a glance with Hope then frowned at Faith. “Oh my. Tell me you haven’t taken up that vile devil’s brew—and so early in the morning?” She rose and began sniffing around Faith’s mouth.
      “Nay, something far better.” Faith squelched her rising frustration and turned to stare out the window.
      “Miss, would you care for some tea?” the serving maid chirped be-hind her.
      “Yes, Miranda, thank you.” Faith took her seat, and after the maid had poured her tea, she plopped two lumps of sugar into the steaming liquid.
      
Sipping the sweet, lemony tea, she enjoyed the warm trail it made down her throat and into her belly. “Things will be different around here,” she began, raising her voice in excitement. “I shall be home more often. We shall attend to our studies—art, literature, science—take up the pianoforte, perhaps. Make Father proud.”
      Hope blinked. “Whatever has come over you? Are you ill?” She pressed the back of her hand to Faith’s cheek then waved it through the air. “Please do not make any more promises you never intend to keep.”
      Faith sighed, feeling as if the sugar had turned to lead in her stomach. She placed a gentle hand on Hope’s arm. “Forgive me for being such a horrible sister, will you?” She glanced at Grace. “And you as well? Can you both ever forgive me?”
      Footsteps sounded behind her. “What’s this about being a horrible sister?” Molly set a tray of cakes down on the table.
      “Call the doctor, Molly. I fear some savage fever has captured our sister’s brain,” Hope said in all seriousness.
      Molly leaned over to examine Faith. “Something different about you for sure. A glow, a brightness in yer eye.” She straightened her stance. “Well, whate’er has gotten into you, I hope it stays.”
      “God has gotten into me.” Faith grinned.
      “God, did you say?” Molly clapped her hands. “The Almighty Hisself? Well, praise the Lord. Jest what I’ve been praying for.”
      Grace cast a hopeful glance toward Faith. “Truly?”
      Faith gave her a reassuring nod.
      Hope dropped her cup into her saucer, the clank echoing through the room. A look of horror marred her face. “Now what is to become of me? I am surrounded.”
      Faith and Molly laughed.
      “Sir Wilhelm Carteret to see you, Miss Westcott,” Edwin announced from the doorway.
      
Carteret.
He was the last person Faith wanted to see. Now or ever.
      “Escort him to the drawing room, Edwin. I shall be there shortly.” She stood, straightening her gown. “Not even Sir Wilhelm will dampen my mood today,” she promised her sisters. But as she made her way to the drawing room, her father’s ultimatum hit her in the chest like a boarding ax. Unless Dajon proposed, she would be forced to marry this buffoon when Father returned. And although she believed Dajon loved her, she had no idea of his true intentions.
      
Whom are you trusting?
echoed an inaudible voice within her.
      Herself again. Faith hung her head. Slipping back into her old ways so soon.
Forgive me, Lord.
She said a silent prayer as she entered the drawing room and barely glanced at the odious man.
      “Sir Wilhelm.”
      “Miss Westcott,” he said in greeting. Taking her hand, he placed a warm, slobbering kiss on it.
      Faith suddenly wished she had donned her gloves. Snatching her hand away, she took a step back and wiggled her nose at the smell of the pungent starch Sir Wilhelm lavished upon his wig.
      He seemed to be waiting with anticipation for her to say something—such as how good it was to see him or to what did she owe the honor of his esteemed visit—but she just stood, hands clasped before her and brows raised.
      “Well, you’re no doubt wondering the reason for my call.” He cleared his throat and adjusted the cravat abounding in waves of white silk around his neck. “I feel we should become better acquainted. We are, after all, betrothed.” His thin, pale lips spread into a catlike grin.
      The tea in Faith’s stomach churned into a brew of repulsion, and she pressed a hand to her belly, hoping its contents would stay put. “I fear you cannot claim that victory yet, Sir Wilhelm. Not until my father returns.”
      “Victory, ah, yes. It would indeed be so for us both.”
      Faith scratched beneath her collar, feeling a sudden rash creep up her neck. “Do not presume, sir, to assess my feelings in this matter.”
      “I make the presumption, Miss Westcott, based on any woman’s delight at the prospect of so favorable a future—especially a lady with no title or fortune to call her own.”
      “I may not have title or fortune, but I have a heart and a will to marry whomever I wish.”
      “Pshaw!” Withdrawing an embroidered handkerchief, he flapped it through the air. “Women do not have the capacity to make their own decisions, which is why these arrangements are best made between men.”
      Faith bunched her fists, digging her nails into her palms. “Sir Wilhelm, I do not wish to be impertinent, nor do I wish to offend you, but I must inform you that I am opposed to this match and will do everything in my power to prevent it from occurring.”
      Sir Wilhelm’s face blanched an even whiter shade than Faith had
thought possible. But then his mouth curved in a sly grin. “Ah, you play the coquette with me. So charming.” He took her hand in his, intending to plant one of his slobbering kisses upon it again, but Faith snagged it back.
      “I assure you, sir, I am playing no game.” She grimaced as anger tightened every muscle within her. This man’s bloated opinion of himself had surely swallowed all of his reason.
      “You will feel differently, dear, when we are married.” His slimy gaze perused her from head to toe as if imagining the event.
      “We will never be married,” she spat through gritted teeth.
      “I realize your aversion to the union, Miss Westcott.” Sir Wilhelm flung a hand through the air and left it hanging there as if waiting for some token. “A certain timidity is to be expected among genteel ladies. But I assure you, with my fortune and position, you will be most happy.”
      The mélange of angst and fury in Faith’s stomach nearly boiled over. “As I have said, I seek neither your fortune nor your position, sir, and I fear I must by good conscience inform you that I would rather broil over a savage fire than marry you.” She hated to be cruel, but in the face of such arrogant presumption, she had no choice.
      Sir Wilhelm swept back the long white curls of his periwig and straightened his silk waistcoat as if preparing to speak to an assembly. “’Tis that Mr. Waite, isn’t it?” His congenial tone turned caustic. “You prefer a poor commander with no wealth or title? Foolish woman,” he hissed and snapped his gaze from hers before he took up a slow pace across the room.
      “He treats women with dignity. Respect.” Faith crossed her arms over her chest. “Something you would do well to observe and learn from.”
      Spinning on his heel, Sir Wilhelm faced her, his snakelike eyes narrowing. “Perhaps this will change your mind.” He reached inside his coat and pulled out a stack of papers, unfolding them with a flap of his hands. “I have discovered that your esteemed Mr. Waite is not who he appears to be.”
      Sir Wilhelm’s confident tone sent a twinge of fear through Faith. “What madness is this? Would you stoop so low, sir, as to slander another man’s name?”
      “Slander, Miss Westcott, or reveal the truth?” The mole by his right ear seemed to throb with each vile word he spoke.
      
Faith tore her gaze from it and rubbed her arms. Unease prickled over her, the unease of impending attack, an intuition she’d honed during her years at sea.
      Sir Wilhelm gave a satisfied smirk. “It pains me to tell you that not five years ago, your priestly Mr. Waite was involved in quite the scandal outside Brent.”
      “Scandal?” Faith planted a hand to her waist and blew out a sigh. “Really, Sir Wilhelm. This is beneath even you.”
      “See for yourself.”
      Snatching the papers from his hand, Faith began perusing them, only half listening to his vainglorious drivel.
      “Seems your pious captain was known to be quite the coxcomb in his time. Apparently had an affair with a Lady Marianne Rawlings—a married woman.” Faith felt his piercing eyes lock upon her, but she did not look up.
      The words before her blurred into squiggly lines.
      “When she was found with child, he killed her to cover up the sordid event.”
      
Killed. With child.
The words scrambled in the air around her just like the sentences did on the page now quivering in her hands. Other words joined them in her memory—words spoken by Dajon in confession of a sordid past.
      Scanning the legal document, obviously from a barrister, Faith tried to focus.
Mishap…Mr. Dajon Waite and Lady Rawlings involved in a carriage accident…Slick roads…The Lady Rawlings and her unborn child died from injuries.
      Everything inside of her screamed a defiant
No!
      It couldn’t be true. Not Dajon.
      He wouldn’t have an affair with a married woman. He wouldn’t dispose of her and their child as if they were inconvenient trifles.
      “Treats women with dignity, did you say?” Sir Wilhelm withdrew his snuffbox and snorted a pinch into each nostril. “Now you see, my dear, since you must find a suitable husband before your father returns and Mr. Waite obviously falls short, you will have no choice but to marry me.”