The Red Siren (5 page)

“Come in, Faith. Come in.” Faith’s father stood at the fireplace later that same evening, lighting his pipe from a stick he pulled from the coals. Mr. Waite had long since bid them all farewell and returned to his ship, and everyone else in the house had retired to their chambers. Sir Wilhelm rose from his chair and gave her a salacious look that nearly sent her scampering from the room. Instead, she took a few steps inside, keeping her distance from him yet staying close to the door should she need to escape. Her mind swam through a thousand reasons why her father had requested her presence in the drawing room after dinner, but now that she saw Sir Wilhelm, only one possibility—one dreadful possibility—surfaced.
      The admiral rubbed his temples then glanced at Sir Wilhelm before taking a puff from his pipe. “I have some wonderful news for you, my dear.” But the look on his face was not one of joy or excitement, but rather the look a parent gave a child when she was about to be punished. “Please sit down.”
      Faith threw back her shoulders. “I’d rather stand.”
      “I insist!” he bellowed, pointing with his pipe toward the sofa.
      Lowering herself to the soft cushions, Faith tried to stop her heart from crashing against her chest. Across from her, Sir Wilhelm laid the back of his fingers to his nose and retook his seat, never letting his eyes leave her.
      
“Sir Wilhelm has made a most generous offer.” Her father laid a hand on the mantel and smiled at Sir Wilhelm.
      Faith clenched her fists in her lap and glanced out the door into the dark foyer, feeling like a condemned prisoner about to receive her sentence.
      “He has asked for your hand in marriage.”
      
A death sentence.
The words sped across the deck of her mind, waiting for the final cannon blast to blow them into the water.
      “And I have given him my approval.”
      
Hit and sunk.
Faith rose from the sofa slowly, methodically, trying to curb her fury. “I have not given
my
approval, Father,” she spat through clenched teeth. “I will not be married off like chattel.”
      “You will do as I say!” He pounded his fist onto the mantel, sending a porcelain vase crashing to the floor.
      Faith jumped and stared at the pieces of jagged painted glass littering the wooden planks like the shattered pieces of her heart.
      “I know what is best for you.” His voice lowered but still retained its fury.
      Clasping her hands together, she faced Sir Wilhelm with as much civility as she could muster. “My apologies, sir, if my father has misled you. I do not wish to insult you, but I have no intention of marrying you or anyone else.”
      Tugging at his lopsided wig, Sir Wilhelm plucked out his handkerchief and fidgeted with it. “Admiral, I am surprised a man of your standing would allow such insolence in his home.”
      The admiral puffed out his chest until it seemed to double in girth. “Faith, I will have no more insubordination from you. It is already arranged. You will marry Sir Wilhelm.”
      Panic clambered up Faith’s throat. Desperate for any reprieve, she willed tears to her eyes, hoping to soften his resolve. “Father, please reconsider. What of our bargain? I need more time.”
      The admiral’s face swelled red. “Time for what, girl? All the time in the world will not grant you the fortune you need to remain independent. Besides, you are four and twenty, well past time for a proper union. In a few years, no man will have you. Or perhaps that is what you are hoping for?”
      “I want to choose my own husband.” Faith gave him her most innocent, pleading look—the one that usually pried through the crusty casing around his heart.
      
The admiral’s harsh demeanor softened just a bit, giving Faith a flicker of hope. He took a puff from his pipe. “So you want to choose your own husband, is it?” He paused, and a hint of compassion flickered in his eyes. It was the look she’d often seen when her mother had been alive. “Fine. We shall compromise. Either you will find a suitable husband by the time I return from Spain, or”—he let out a sarcastic snort—“make a sizable profit from this soap-making business you claim to be running, or mark my words, you will indeed marry Sir Wilhelm.”

T
iny pellets of rain blasted over Faith, stinging her face like a hundred needles. Bracing her boots on the foredeck of the
Red Siren
, she yanked the tricorn from her head and allowed the saturated wind to tear through her tangled curls. She flung her arms out wide and closed her eyes, hoping to forget the events of the evening as a wall of salty air, spiced with the scent of rain and sea, crashed over her. While some people went to drink for comfort, Faith went to sea. The thunder and crash of massive waves, the endless horizon, and the freedom of the wind in her hair never failed to soothe her nerves. But for some reason, tonight she could not shake the sickly face of Sir Wilhelm from her mind or his licentious gaze slithering over her when her father had announced their betrothal. She shuddered.
      Footsteps sounded beside her, and she turned to see Lucas. Water dripped from the corner of a hat that hid his eyes in its shadow. He smiled.
      “I doubt we’ll be findin’ any ships worth pillaging on a night like this, mistress.”
      Faith gazed out over the swirling cauldron, dark, save for occasional strips of white foam illuminated by a half-moon that danced betwixt the clouds. Rain formed droplets on her lashes, and she brushed them dry. Lucas was right.
      “Not that I mind none,” he continued with a snort. “Ye knows I like the smell o’ the sea far better than the smell of them stables.”
      “I suppose I just needed to think.” Faith gripped the wet railing, stunned by the chill that ran up her arms. “But truth be told, it would have been nice to take a prize tonight.”
      “We done good so far, mistress. That cargo last month of silks and coffee brought us a fair price.”
      
“But I need more.” Faith slapped the railing. “Far more.”
      “I hear ye, mistress. But never ye mind. There’s lots o’ treasure to be had in these waters.”
      Lucas probably thought her greedy, but her father’s announcement had only incited Faith’s urgency. That her father was willing to marry her off to so foul a man as Sir Wilhelm was bad enough, but Hope would be next on his list, and then sweet Grace. Were all the admiral’s daughters doomed to lives of abuse and misery? She would not stand for it. She had made a promise to her mother to take care of her sisters, and she refused to allow them to be sold off like prize horses to the highest bidder. She had yet to meet a man she considered worthy to marry—especially so-called Christian men.
      Hypocrites, all of them.
      Faith glanced at her first mate. Though enormous in size and much harsher in appearance than her father, Lucas Corwin was nothing like the admiral. He understood things like humility, compassion, and loyalty to family. “Thank you for sailing on such short notice, Lucas, and thank the men for me, will you?”
      “Aye, they’s happy to come.” Lucas slapped the air with his hand. “All ’cept Grayson and Mac. I couldn’t rouse them from their drink so quick.” He snickered.
      The loyalty of her crew astounded her. When they weren’t out pirating, they spent their time gambling and drinking in town, waiting for her next call. Despite the humiliation of taking orders from a female captain, most of them had chosen to follow her from England to the colonies.
      Lucas shifted his weight and fumbled with the hilt of his cutlass. “They’s good men fer the most part. And they follow ye ’cause yer fair and ye don’t hurt no one like most pirates. They’s not after no killin’—just the treasure.”
      Morgan cawed from his post behind her. “Shiver me timbers. Shiver me timbers.”
      Lucas tugged his waistcoat tighter around him. “That bird be right ’bout one thing. It be so cold tonight, the timbers are quakin’.”
      Faith nodded as a blast of wind sent a chill through her sodden shirt. Unusually cold for August, to be sure. Not a good omen of things to come.
      Lightning etched the sky in the distance, highlighting the wild
dance of the sea—the lawless, tumultuous sea. How she loved it!
      A sail cracked above them, and Lucas turned. “Reef the topsails!” he blared to one of the men before facing Faith again. “I thought we was caught fer sure when that cap’n showed up at yer house.” He scratched his chin. “Don’t knows why he didn’t recollect me.”
      “You were bald four years ago. Remember, the lice?” Faith plopped her tricorn back on her head. “But fortune smiled upon us, for it seems he didn’t recognize me either.” She shrugged. “Or perchance he just plays with us. But thanks be to Go—the powers that be, that the man had the courage to turn down my father’s request to be guardian over me and my sisters, or I fear we would be seeing much more of him.”
      Thunder drummed across the sky in an ominous echo of her statement.
      “Yer guardian?” Lucas laughed.
      “Yes, and not only that. The Royal Navy has sent him here to hunt pirates.” She gave Lucas a sly grin.
      He slapped his thigh. “Why, I’ll be a pickled hen. God has a sense o’ humor, after all.”
      “I doubt
God
has much to do with any of this.” Faith grew somber.
      The ship bucked, sending a spray of seawater over them. Faith shook the water from her waistcoat and adjusted her baldric. Dressing in men’s clothing always made her feel more in control—a feeling she had come to crave more with each passing year.
      “As soon as my father sails for Italy, we will take the
Siren
out as often as possible,” she instructed Lucas, who nodded his head and gave her a mischievous grin.
      Her father would be gone for at least six months. With a little luck and a lot of pluck, she and her crew could pirate these waters clean of all their treasures. But what to do with Mr. Waite? The last thing she needed was an HMS warship lurking about. He presented a problem indeed. He no longer appeared to be the half-witted lackey she had met five years before. Controlled and cordial, he carried himself as a man of honor. Strength and intelligence shone in his handsome blue eyes. She saw the way he looked at her. And she could not deny the tingle of warmth she felt in his presence.
      Nevertheless, she must avoid him as much as possible. The less he knew about her and her family, the less suspicious he would be of her nighttime activities. Not that he would ever believe that the daughter of
an admiral was a pirate. But she must play it safe in any case. She had come too far, accomplished too much to get caught now.
      “Hard about, Lucas. Back to port,” she ordered, eyeing the massive black clouds on the horizon. “For I fear a storm is on the way.”

Dajon knelt before the wooden altar. A chill from the stone floor seeped through his breeches into his knees. Above him on the brick wall, the cross of Christ, his Lord, hung as a reminder of what the Son of God had sacrificed in his stead. He closed his eyes, shutting out the candlelight that illuminated the narrow brick Congregational church of his friend Rev. Richard Halloway. Dajon needed wisdom. He needed comfort, and he sought it from the One who never failed him.
      Some time later, after he had poured out his heart to his Father, the scuffle of footsteps accompanied by baritone humming jarred Dajon from his meditation. He opened his eyes to see Rev. Halloway flipping through the pages of a book in the shadows by the communion table.
      Clearing his throat, Dajon rose from the altar.
      “Ah, my friend, you startled me,” the reverend exclaimed as he came into the candle’s glow, a wide grin on his ruddy face. He cast a glance behind him where the faint gleam of a new day brightened a window in the back of the sanctuary. “’Tis early. What brings you here at this hour?” His bushy brows knit together.
      Dajon shifted his weight and clutched the hilt of his sword. “I could not sleep.”
      “Something amiss?” The reverend led Dajon to a pew. “Sit. Tell me.” He closed the book on his lap.
      Dajon squinted at the title on the volume, unsure whether he should share his fears with his friend. “Richard Allestree’s
Whole Duty of Man
?”
      “Aye, have you read it?” The reverend lifted the book.
      Dajon shook his head and sat beside him.
      “I shall lend it to you when I am finished. It will strengthen your faith. But you did not come to discuss what I am reading.”
      Dajon squeezed the bridge of his nose. “I did not come to talk at all, only to pray.”
      The reverend patted him on the back. “Then you have already done what is most important.”
      Rev. Halloway’s green eyes sparkled in the candlelight. The crinkle
of his leathery skin and the gray flecks in his curly blond hair were the only things that gave away his age. He exuded a genuine concern that always pulled Dajon’s darkest secrets out of hiding.
      “Admiral Westcott requested that I act as guardian to his daughters while he is overseas.”
      The reverend let out a deep laugh. “Yes, the Westcott daughters. Newly arrived from England. I have heard men in town speak of their beauty.”
      “Then you know my dilemma.” Dajon sprang to his feet and paced before the altar.
      “You speak of Lady Rawlings?”
      “Aye.” A heavy weight entombed his heart as memories of a past life resurrected. “My answer was no, of course. But I fear my career will suffer for it. He doesn’t understand my refusal. But what choice did I have?” Dajon released a heavy sigh.
      “’Twas a long time ago, Dajon.”
      “Not long enough.”
      The reverend slapped his hand on the pew. “When will you forgive yourself for what God has already forgotten?”
      “How can I? It was my own foolish passion that caused her death.” He gazed at the cross. “And I have vowed to God that I would never repeat that mistake.”
      “He has heard you. He knows your heart. And He will not give you a temptation you cannot resist.”
      Dajon sighed and gave the reverend a lopsided grin. “Have you seen Miss Faith Westcott?”
      “If you mean the redhead, aye, I have.” The reverend nodded. “I have taken notice of her as much as the good Lord allows.”
      “Even though I’ve just made her acquaintance, something comes over me when she is near. A flame that burns in my gut and befuddles my brain.” Dajon plopped down on the pew again and propped his elbows on his knees. “I have the strange sensation that I have met her before, but I know that’s not possible.” He shook his head. “Of all the men under his command, why did the admiral have to ask me? I have spent the past four years making all the right choices, doing my duty to God and country.”
      “Perhaps that is why. That he trusts you with his most precious treasures—his own daughters—says a great deal about your character.”
      Dajon snorted. “If he only knew.”
      
“You are not the man you once were.” The reverend leaned back against the pew, the aged wood creaking beneath his weight.
      “Perhaps. But it will be a long time hence before I can make amends for what I have done.”
      The reverend touched Dajon’s arm. “You can never pay the price for what God has already paid, my friend.”
      “As you keep telling me.” Dajon attempted a smile. “Nevertheless, I find I am not ready for such a temptation.”
      “If you were not, God would not have sent it your way.”
      Dajon clenched his hands together. “It matters not. I turned him down and now must suffer the repercussions to my career.”
      “Surely the admiral will not punish you for refusing such a personal favor?”
      “You do not know him. He is not called the ‘Iron Wall’ for nothing.” Dajon snickered. “No one who has ever come against him has walked away unscathed.”
      The door of the sanctuary swung open and crashed against the wall. A stiff breeze whipped through the narrow room, sending the candle flames flickering.
      Dajon turned to see two uniformed men marching toward him. He stood. They saluted him, and the one closet to him held out a piece of paper. “For you, Mr. Waite.”
      Dajon took the paper and broke the seal. It was from Admiral Westcott. As he read, his blood turned to ice.