The Red Siren (29 page)

D
ajon led his horse down Hasell Street toward the Westcott home. Well past midnight, no need to hurry. Everyone would have retired by now. After he’d watched the
Red Siren
sail away, the HMS
Enforcer
had encountered a foundering merchant ship, taking on water through a rotted hole in her side more rapidly than she could pump it out. He and his crew had spent the rest of the day and part of the night assisting them with a temporary patch and then hauling them into port. After he’d spent the night on his ship, he’d awoken to pressing business from the Admiralty that had stolen his entire day and most of his evening.
      It had taken every bit of his will to remain at his tasks, to not drop everything and dash off to see Faith—to see how she fared after her harrowing capture and release, how her renewed faith was settling in, and where her true feelings toward him lay.
      He thanked God that no one else on the ship, aside from Borland, had actually seen Faith. No one else knew her true identity. Her flag had not been raised. The
Red Siren
painted on the hull had not been visible from the side they boarded, and she had fired only one shot, a warning shot he easily explained away as the means of an inexperienced captain’s daughter to get the merchant ship’s attention.
      The marines had been quite satisfied with his explanation of mistaken identity. The distraught captain’s daughter had only been searching for her missing father after the poor man had been abducted and forced into slavery aboard a ship by a vindictive merchant in payment for an exorbitant debt he owed.
      No one recognized Lucas. No one knew Faith, save Borland, and Borland was Dajon’s lifelong friend, his partner, his confidant. He accepted Dajon’s promise that Faith had vowed never to pirate again.
      Then why did guilt continually churn in Dajon’s gut?
God, forgive
me for my lies, but I did not know how else to save her.
      Daring a glance into the black sky, he hoped for some sign of absolution. Nothing but dark clouds broiled over a sliver of a moon.
Lord, no harm was done. In fact, quite the opposite—a known pirate has repented. Then why do I feel like You have abandoned me?
      Regardless, Dajon could not imagine having taken any other course. Because the only other course available was one that led to Faith’s neck in a noose.
      Agony choked him at the thought, and he took a deep breath of the night air, fragrant with earth and jasmine. A vision of Faith in breeches and waistcoat stormed through his mind.
      A pirate.
      He smiled. By the powers, what an incredible woman. He yearned to see her, to take her in his arms, to express his sincere devotion to her; it would have to wait until morning, though, for no doubt she had retired hours ago.
      Dismounting, Dajon led his horse through the back gate of the Westcott house. He nodded at Lucas and handed him the reins. “Good evening, Lucas, or good morning, rather. My apologies for keeping you up so late.” The air hung like a heavy curtain around them. Not a breeze, not a whisper of wind stirred the thick folds of humidity.
      Lucas grunted and took the reins. Unusual for the normally cheerful groomsman, but then, Dajon had caught him at piracy. Perhaps he was concerned for his future. “Never fear, Lucas, I have no intention of arresting you for your part in Miss Westcott’s piracy. She explained that your participation was only to assist and protect her and that you have no desire to pirate again.”
      Lucas shifted his stance but said not a word.
      Trying to determine his mood, Dajon peered at him, but the groomsman’s features were lost in the shadows. Even the outline of his hair blended into the ebony night.
      “Never mind,” Dajon said. “We shall discuss it later. I’m spent and wish to retire.”
      Lucas didn’t move.
      A thick silence waxed between them. Dajon drew in a deep breath of air burdened with the smell of horseflesh and human sweat. An uneasiness, borne from many battles, pricked his fingers, causing them to grip the hilt of his sword and peer into the darkness surrounding them.
      
“You may lead him to the stables, Lucas. I am home for the night.”
      Lucas cleared his throat. “Forgive me, Mr. Waite, but I can’t be doin’ what ye ask of me.”
      Before shock could settle in, the snap of a twig and the crunch of gravel drew Dajon’s gaze toward the house, where a form appeared out of the darkness. A curvaceous form in a light-colored gown that swished when she walked.
      Faith.
      He took a step toward her in expectation.
      “That will be all, Lucas. Leave the horse where it is.” Her harsh tone froze Dajon in place. “Mr. Waite will be leaving shortly.”
      Dajon gave a humorless laugh. “What are you saying? I have only just arrived.” Removing his bicorn, he dabbed at the sweat on his forehead. By thunder, ’twas a muggy night. Perhaps the soggy air had somehow seeped into Faith’s brain, befuddling it.
      Dropping the reins, Lucas hesitated, shifting his weight back and forth, but one look from Faith sent him shuffling away.
      “Why are you awake at this hour?” Dajon asked, beginning to believe that he wouldn’t like her answer at all. He held out a hand, hoping she’d take it and relieve him of the fear that now prickled his scalp.
      But she did not. Instead, she turned, took a few steps, and positioned herself by his horse. Was that a sword strapped to her side? “I must protect my sisters.”
      “From whom, pray tell?”
      “From you.”
      Dajon took a step back, as if an icy wall of water had crashed over him. Peering into the darkness that seemed to stretch for miles between them, he searched for her eyes but could only make out two simmering black coals.
      Fear gave way to anger. He had done naught to deserve this ill treatment. “What has gotten into you? Yesterday—”
      “Yesterday, I thought I knew you,” she snapped and crossed her arms over her waist, where Dajon thought he saw the dark shape of a pistol shoved into her belt.
      
Knew me?
Dajon swallowed, sending what felt like lead pellets into his stomach. The hoot of an owl echoed across the garden. Dajon had the odd feeling the bird was somehow warning him to flee. “Miss Westcott, if you’ll forgive me, I am in no mood for games.”
      
“I’m not the one playing a charade.”
      Dajon bunched his fists. Nothing was making sense. It was as if he had walked into a playhouse where one of Shakespeare’s tragedies was being performed. Only he was up onstage. “Whatever are you talking about? And why do you all of a sudden feel you need to protect your sisters from me? I have done you no harm—in fact, quite the opposite.”
      She snorted. “Unfortunately, Lady Marianne Rawlings cannot claim the same.”
      All hope, all joy drained out of Dajon, soaking into the ground beneath him. Only an empty shell of shame and horror remained. Now he understood. “Who told you?”
      “Sir Wilhelm.”
      Ah yes. Dajon should have seen it coming, should have told Faith the truth, but he longed to bury his past forever in the hope that he could forget it as well.
      “Tell me it’s not true.” Faith’s stalwart voice broke in a slight tremble.
      The owl repeated its eerie call from somewhere above them. No more lies. He would tell no more lies tonight. “I cannot deny it.”
      She flinched and stepped back, bumping into his horse, who protested with a snort. “Though I am truly thankful for all you’ve done, I must ask you to leave immediately and never come back.” Grabbing the reins, she held them out to him.
      Sweat slid behind his collar and down his back—putrid beads of shock, of pain, of remorse. But he could not leave. “Your father left me in charge, Miss Westcott. I cannot abandon my post.”
      “My father did not know what kind of man you are.”
      “Perhaps, but I thought
you
might have discovered that truth these past weeks.”
      “As I said, you play a good charade.” The venom in her voice stung every nerve within him.
      “I still cannot leave you and your sisters unprotected.” He may have lost Faith. He may have lost her love, he may never recover from the gaping hole in his heart, but he still had a duty to perform. “So if you’ll permit me.” He grabbed the horse’s reins and felt her flinch when their fingers brushed. Was she frightened of him or simply repulsed? He started for the stables. “I promise I shall make every effort not to offend you with my presence.”
      “Which you will find quite easy since you no longer reside here.”
Faith’s seething voice scraped over him, but he stepped around her, leading the horse toward the flickering light in the stables.
      The swish of a sword being drawn sliced the thick air. Something sharp pricked his back. “Not another step, Captain.”
      He slowly turned to face her, just as a cloud eased away from the moon, revealing her tear-stained face. The silver glint of the sword formed a bridge between them, and he wished it were that easy to span the painful gap that now threatened to separate them forever.
      “Are you going to kill me, Faith?”
      “I will do what I must to keep my sisters safe from men like you.”
      “You know I would never harm you or your—”
      “I don’t know anything anymore!” she shouted. Her sword wavered.
      In her state of mind, he wouldn’t put it past her to run him through. He didn’t know exactly what Sir Wilhelm had told her, but if it was anything close to the truth, she now believed him capable of forcing himself upon a decent lady—a married lady at that—stealing her away from her husband and home in the middle of the night, only to have her killed along with their child.
      As the point of her sword etched a quivering trail across his chest, he reached for his own sword and drew it in one quick swoop. He batted hers from her hand and onto the ground with a clank that sounded muddled in the humid air.
      Faith gasped. Backing away from him, she plucked out her pistol, cocked it, and pointed it at his chest. “Please leave,” she sobbed.
      Until now he’d heard only the anger in her voice, the spite, but now he heard the pain, like a wail of anguish piercing through the air and into his heart. He had hurt her terribly, and the thought gutted him as if she had indeed run him through with her sword. “Very well. I will leave.” Turning his horse around, he faced Faith. “If it means anything at all to you, I am truly sorry.” He headed for the gate.
      She sniffed. “I suppose you’ll turn me in for piracy now.”
      “Why?” He shrugged and halted. “Nothing has changed. You will not go back on your vow to quit?”
      “No.”
      “Then I have no reason to turn you over to the authorities.” He could only pray to the Lord that she wouldn’t turn away from God, as well. “Besides, I still love you.”
      Dajon mounted his horse in one leap and grabbed the reins. He
risked one more glance at the woman he’d grown to love and admire. She held the pistol out before her, leveled upon his heart. Did she really believe he would hurt her? The thought sank him to the depths of the sea. “If you need anything, you know where—”
      His words faltered on his lips.
      The owl gave his eerie hoot for a third time, announcing Dajon’s exit back into shame and regret.
      Nudging his horse, he rode off into a darkness so thick, so black that he truly believed it would never be light again.

“Why we goin’ to the ship?” Lucas asked, bringing his horse alongside Faith’s.
      “I told you. I have to clean it out. Get all of our things removed. Bring Morgan home. ’Tis not my ship anymore.” Faith adjusted her straw bonnet against the rising sun. “I must return it to Mr. Waite.”
      The thought saddened her. The
Red Siren
had been a faithful friend these past five years. Her ticket to the sea, to wealth, to freedom. But that was all gone now. Perhaps Mr. Waite would have allowed her to take the ship out upon the seas now and then, once she proved to him her pirating days were over—and after the name
Red Siren
was scraped from the hull, of course—but that was no longer an option.
      She now longed to be rid of anything associated with Mr. Waite. “I still have a hard time believin’ he let ye go like that,” Lucas said as the trail narrowed and they entered a thick patch of trees.
      Beams of glittering morning sun streamed through the forest like ribbons of hope, transforming the leaves of hickories and sweet gums into sparkling emerald and their barks into columns of amber. It appeared more like a magical forest from a fairy tale than a Carolina woodland.
      Faith huffed. Just like her short-lived romance with Mr. Waite. Destined to live only in a storybook where endings were always happy. Not in real life where they never were.
      As if mimicking her faltering mood, the air thickened around her with the earthy, pungent smell of rotting wood and dank moss. Something stung her neck, and she slapped a mosquito.
      Lucas struck his arm where another blood-sucking beast had landed. “An’ especially after ye near run ’im through with yer blade last night.” He snickered.
      
Faith made no reply as the events of the night drilled through her mind for the thousandth time. So enraged at Mr. Waite’s betrayal and the revelation of his true character—or lack thereof—her only thought had been to put as much distance between the loathsome man and her sisters as she could. She hadn’t considered that he held the power to throw her in prison, not until after she’d pointed the pistol at him.
      Why had she confronted him? Perhaps deep down, despite the proof stamped upon documents now littering her drawing room floor, she hoped it wasn’t true—that Dajon…Mr. Waite would deny the allegations, would offer some explanation. But when he hadn’t, when he had only confirmed her biggest fears, she flew into a rage. She would rather see him dead than harm her sisters.
      “The day is young, Lucas. Mr. Waite could be alerting the authorities about us as we speak.” The daunting thought had occurred to her even before she’d opened her eyes that morning. She wanted to believe Mr. Waite would stick to their bargain, she wanted to believe he was a man of his word, but she’d been trusting a man she no longer knew. Dread consumed her. It was as if Faith, her sisters, and her father were lined up before a loaded cannon and Mr. Waite stood nearby, holding the linstock that would set off the blast.
      A bird the color of a turquoise sky flitted across their path, chirping a cheerful tune, followed by several of his friends. Faith envied their carefree life.
      “Mr. Waite’ll not be turnin’ ye in.” Lucas loosened his neckerchief then used it to dab the back of his thick neck, revealing the pink tip of a scar beneath his shirt. Faith cringed. She had never gotten used to seeing the molten stripes marring her friend’s back. Yet even after being nearly whipped to death as a boy, Lucas now allowed God to give him hope for the future.
      “The man loves ye; any fool can see that,” he said.
      “The only fool here is me.” Faith dipped her head beneath an over-hanging branch. “For I believed Mr. Waite was the God-fearing man he claimed to be. A man like him is incapable of love.”
      They rode side by side in silence. Only the clump of their horses’ hooves over the sandy trail and the orchestra of birds and buzzing insects accompanied them.
      The faint snort of a horse sounded, and Faith grabbed her pistol. Lucas did the same. They both scanned the thicket of trees then shot
a glance behind them. Nothing. Not many people dared to venture into the backwoods surrounding Charles Towne, especially with all the Indian attacks recently. Most likely a trapper or a lone Indian, neither of which would be a threat to them.
      Returning her pistol to her baldric, Faith tugged on the leather straps, hoping for a breeze to ease inside her cotton gown and cool her searing skin.
      Lucas shifted in the saddle and stretched his broad back. “I’s praying fer you, mistress. An’ fer Mr. Waite.”
      “You need not bother, Lucas,” she retorted. “Mr. Waite was a man of prayer, a man of faith, but he turned out to be naught but a scoundrel who preys on the affections of innocent women.” Faith’s heart shriveled even as she said the words. “Just like all men.” Then she bit her lip and glanced at Lucas. “Yourself excluded, of course.”
      Lucas flashed a set of pearly teeth that matched the whites of his eyes. “Why, thank ye, mistress. But whate’er Mr. Waite done, ’twas a long time ago, eh?”
      “Aye.”
      “Thanks be to God that He not only forgives but forgets the sins o’ our pasts.”
      “Only if we repent of them.” Faith slapped another mosquito and wondered for the first time if Mr. Waite had been sorry for his actions.
      Not that it would matter to Faith.
      Lucas scratched his hair. “Seems to me Mr. Waite ain’t nothin’ like this man you done heard about.”
      True. Mr. Waite had proven himself to be naught but an honorable, God-fearing man these past few weeks. A clump of moss hanging from an almond pine grazed over Faith’s shoulder as she tried to brush away thoughts of the man’s admirable character. He was a swindler. That was all.
      “Perhaps. Perhaps not,” she said. “But I cannot forget the abuse of an innocent woman. Not after what has happened to Charity and to Hope.”
      “God changes people. He already be changin’ me, mistress.”
      Faith studied her first mate, groomsman, and longtime friend, unable to deny the new lightness in his bearing and hope in his eyes. “I must forbid you to spend any more time with Molly—or Miss Grace, for that matter.” She gave him a playful grin. “I find I prefer the old
nefarious Lucas”—she deepened her voice—“first mate on the pirate ship
Red Siren
, than this charitable, high-spirited optimist.” They both laughed.
      Lucas grew serious. “I just hoping ye don’t lay blame fer Mr. Waite’s failings on God.” Concern warmed his dark eyes.
      Did she? No. She knew that would be pure foolishness, for that would thrust her right back where she started, blaming God for everything wrong in the world and in her life. Truth be told, God had never left her or her sisters. He had more than proven that with His miraculous rescue of Hope. Then what Faith had felt in the cabin of her ship when Dajon had confronted her, what she had felt in her chamber—the very presence of God, the love, the hope, the forgiveness that had blanketed her—was more real than anything she had known. In fact, it seemed to be the only reality she could count on anymore.
      “No, Lucas. I fear that I, too, have been forever changed.”
      They rode the rest of the way in silence, battling the insects and the heat, and finally emerged onto the lagoon where the
Red Siren
floated in the midst of a glassy pool fringed in green moss and algae. The bare masts of the ship thrust into the sky, blending with the myriad trees surrounding them. No one would see the ship unless he happened to emerge right at this spot, and even then the anchor chain was bolted by a hefty lock that would forbid it to be raised. So far, the ship had remained safe.
      After dismounting, Faith assisted Lucas in uncovering a nearby canoe, and then together they paddled out to the ship and gathered her flag, Morgan, some of her books and charts, a small chest of doubloons and rubies, and the silver swept-hilt rapier she’d captured from a French privateer. By the time they made it back to shore, the heat rose like steam off the tepid swamp.
      As she and Lucas silently loaded her things into packs they had slung over their horses, Faith swallowed down the sorrow clogging her throat and avoided gazing at her ship. This might be the last time she would ever see it and definitely the last time she would call it hers, the last time she would march across its decks as they rose and fell over the tumultuous waves, the last time she would be in command. She didn’t regret her change of heart. She knew now that what she had done was wrong, but it didn’t seem to dull the pain of loss she felt—not only the loss of her ship but the loss of Mr. Waite.
      
A harsh scuffle sounded behind her, followed by a thud and a gurgle.
      “Avast! Head for the shoals! Head for the shoals!” Morgan squawked from his perch on the saddle horn.
      Gripping the handle of her pistol, Faith swerved around to see a beefy man, his thick arm clamped around Lucas’s neck, pointing a knife at his throat. Her first mate’s pistol lay useless on the dirt by his feet, and the fear flickering in his eyes seemed more for her than for himself. The beast of a man behind him slowly widened his mouth into a grimy, yellow-toothed grin.
      In an instant, Faith had her pistol cocked and pointed at the intruder, but before she could utter her ultimatum, the sound of footsteps scraped across her ears. She spun her weapon in the other direction. The gun nearly fell from her hand when Sir Wilhelm Carteret emerged into the clearing. His periwig perched atop his egg-shaped head, slanted precariously as if at any minute it would slide off. Powder-muddied sweat oozed from beneath it onto his forehead and down his bloated, reddened cheeks.
      “Load the guns! Load the guns!” Morgan screeched, and the flap of his wings filled the air as he, no doubt, headed for the safety of the trees.
      
Coward.
      “Well, well.” Sir Wilhelm placed one hand on his hip and the other in midair. “I daresay, what a surprise, my dear.” His pretentious gaze combed over the
Red Siren
.
      “You followed me,” Faith spat as she tried to surmount her shock and plot her next step.
      “You can’t say I didn’t warn you. I told you that you would pay for your refusal and your insolent behavior. Did I not?”
      “I will shoot you where you stand.” Faith’s finger itched over the trigger, longing to put an end to this miserable man’s life, while at the same time knowing she could not take another’s life, even when her freedom and her very life were at stake.
      “Nonsense. You will do no such thing.” He smirked and gestured toward Lucas with a nod of his head. “Not unless you wish to see your slave here die.” He loosened his cravat from his neck and flapped it through the air, trying to banish the swarm of gnats enamored with his wig.
      Faith dared a glance at Lucas. A line of blood marred his bronze
neck, but his eyes carried more annoyance than fear.
      “He is not my slave. He is my friend.”
      “No matter.” Sir Wilhelm waved a hand of dismissal toward Lucas. “You will put down your weapon, or I will order my man to slit his throat.”
      Faith studied Sir Wilhelm’s icy gaze and knew he meant it. He would kill Lucas and get away with it. Lucas was a Negro and a pirate, after all. Releasing the cock, Faith tossed the pistol to the ground.
      Sir Wilhelm’s thin lips broke into a malicious grin. “So—you are indeed the notorious Red Siren? I am all astonishment.” He nearly giggled with glee. “This is most fortuitous.” His normally dull eyes blazed with a hard, calculated look.
      Ignoring the fear and nausea spinning in her stomach, Faith planted her fists on her waist. “What is it you want?”
      “Hmm.” Approaching her, he took her hand and rubbed his clammy, cold fingers over hers. “You know what I want.” He leaned toward her, inundating her with the stench of snuff and starch. “You will marry me.”
      Yanking her hand from his, Faith retreated. “I will not.”
      “Then I shall be forced to turn you in for piracy.”