The Red Siren

by Marylu Tyndall

  Edwin moved beside Mr. Waite, arms crossed over his chest, a superior look on his puffy face. But Faith knew how to handle him. It was this new intruder, this resolute captain, who gave her pause.

  “Miss Hope,” he began. “I will address you first since your father left specific instructions for you.”

  “He did?” Hope’s eyes lit up. She scooted to the edge of her seat.

  “It is your father’s express order that you have no dealings with a”—the captain peered at the paper—“Lord Arthur Falkland.”

  Hope shot to her feet. “Impossible! I will not suffer it. Arthur—Lord Falkland—is my beau. We are courting.”

  “He is also a scoundrel, dear Hope. Everyone in town knows it.” Grace twisted the button at the top of her throat.

  “Nevertheless. . .,” Mr. Waite sighed, rising to his feet. “It is your father’s desire that you not see him nor a Miss Anne Cormac.” He broadened his stance as Faith imagined him doing when commanding his men aboard his ship. But to his obvious chagrin, it did not have the intended effect on Hope, for she began to sob, fisting her hands at her sides.

  “Anne is a friend of mine, and if my father cared enough to stay home, he would know Lord Falkland to be a gentleman.” She fell sideways on the sofa, and Faith threw an arm around her and glared at Mr. Waite.

  The captain tugged his collar. “You may address this issue with the admiral when he returns. In the meantime, you will abide by his wishes or answer to me.” He pressed that rebellious strand of hair behind his ear, and Faith suspected he wished he could restrain the three of them as easily. But she had to admit she rather enjoyed the pink hue rising up his face, the twitch of his lips, and the beads of sweat forming on his forehead. His eyes met hers, and he raised a brow as if he saw through her charade.

  He flipped the papers in his hand. “Under no circumstances are any of you to travel this city unescorted. Lucas, Mr. Huxley, or myself, when I am not at sea, must be with you at all times whenever you leave this house.”

  “’Tis impossible.” Grace shook her head defiantly, drawing the captain’s shocked gaze.

  Grace sat up straight and folded her hands in her lap. “My charity work takes me all over the city. Surely you know that when the good Lord calls us on a mission, we must go immediately. I cannot always wait for an escort.”

  “What happened to honoring our father?” Hope snickered.

  Grace raised her pert nose in the air. “God’s work comes first.”

  Mr. Waite sent Grace an indulgent, if somewhat stiff, smile. “I appreciate the divine nature of your work, Miss Grace, and I am sure Edwin or Lucas will happily accompany you whenever possible, but these are the standing orders, and they will be obeyed.”

  Shifting her gaze away, Grace sank back into the sofa.

  “Or what, Mr. Waite—will you lock us in the hold of your ship?” Faith teased.

  “If I have to, Miss Westcott.” His lips curved in a sardonic grin. “And I would not test me on that if I were you.”

  h

  The thumping of regimental drums began pounding in Dajon’s head, cautioning him to conclude his business and be gone—back to the sanity of his ship. He flipped through the papers, determined to spout off the remaining rules without further interruption.

  “All monies will be under my control,” Dajon continued in a hurried tone. “Aside from necessities, which will be provided, please come to me or Mr. Huxley for anything you need.”

  “I daresay, Mr. Waite.” Faith’s lips twisted in a mocking grin. “We are big girls and can handle our own money.”

  “I care not for what you perceive you can and cannot do, Miss Westcott. It is only what you will do that concerns me.” He threw back his shoulders and gave them all his sternest look.

  Faith widened her eyes. “Do you never break a rule, Mr. Waite?” The pert look on her face was at once alluring and infuriating, and he nearly choked at the tantalizing hold it had upon him.

  “Not if I can help it, Miss Westcott.”

  Intelligence shone behind her sparkling auburn eyes. Was she testing him? He marched to the fireplace and faced them with his most intimidating stare. Surely if he could command a ship full of men, he could control these three women.

  Ignoring him, Hope turned toward her sister. “What about that new gown Father promised to buy me?”

  “You have no need of another gown, Hope.” Grace shook her head. “You should give the ones you have to the poor.”

  Hope gave her sister a scowl.

  Dajon cleared his throat and raised his voice. “These are the rules. When I am not present, Mr. Huxley is in charge. Is that understood?”

  Edwin pointed a jagged finger at the girls. “Mark my words. Your father will hear of every infraction.”

  Hope tossed her nose in the air. “I will not give my gowns to the poor and go about town wearing rags like you do, Grace.” She stomped her foot.

  Scooting to the edge of her seat, Faith took her sister’s hand in hers. “Come now, Hope; of course you will not be forced to sell your dresses. Ladies, let us not forget we have a guest.”

  Hope eyed Dajon. “He is not a guest anymore. He is our new father—or might as well be. He is just like him.”

  Dajon dropped his gaze and rubbed the sweat from his forehead. He felt like a zoologist charged with taming a flock of screeching, fluttering jungle fowl.

  A bird squawked somewhere upstairs, confirming his assessment.

  When a knock sounded at the front door, he prayed it was the admiral returning home, having discovered his orders were in error.

  “Pardon me.” Edwin gave Dajon a look of pity and left the room as the girls continued arguing.

  “Sir Wilhelm Carteret to see Miss Westcott,” Edwin announced when he returned.

  The white-wigged, sickly man slithered into the room with one hand on his hip, the other hanging in midair, and leered at Faith like a sly serpent.

  A pained expression crossed her features as she rose slowly to her feet. “Sir Wilhelm, this is unexpected.”

  His eyes narrowed. “I heard your father left suddenly and thought you might need company, but I see Mr. Waite has beat me to it.” He pursed his lips in a semblance of a grin and bowed toward Dajon.

  “Sir Wilhelm.” Dajon set the papers down on the desk, feeling as if he had been snatched from the lion’s den. “You are most fortunate in your timing. My business here is finished.”

  Hope sprang from the couch and rubbed her temples. “Forgive me, but I feel a headache coming on.” She nodded to Dajon and Sir Wilhelm and hurriedly made her way to the door like a rabbit under a hawk’s gaze.

  “I shall help you to your chamber, sister.” Grace followed quickly on her heels, leaving a befuddled Faith in her wake.

  Throwing back her shoulders, she faced Sir Wilhelm. “Mr. Waite has offered to take me for a stroll.” She turned to face Dajon. “Have you not, Mr. Waite?”

  Dajon could not mistake the pleading look in her eyes, nor the disgust he’d seen souring within them the moment Sir Wilhelm had entered the room. Did she hate this man so much that she preferred Dajon’s company? He shifted his gaze between her urging glance and the rancor burning in Sir Wilhelm’s eyes. By thunder, the last thing he needed was to prance about with this red-haired beauty on his arm. Yet the other two girls seemed to hold her in some esteem. Perhaps he could recruit her assistance in keeping order at home. Before he realized what he was doing, he agreed with a placating nod.

  “Perhaps we can visit some other time, Sir Wilhelm?” Faith’s sweet smile dripped with venom. “But do inform us ahead of time when we can expect your visit.” She turned to Edwin. “Please take Mr. Waite’s things to the guesthouse.”

  With a flutter of lashes and a smile that would melt any man’s heart, Faith thrust an arm through Dajon’s and pulled him into the entrance hall and out the door, leaving a rather disgruntled Sir Wilhelm behind.

  Chapter 7

  Faith shielded her eyes from the sun
as she clung to the wobbling jolly boat. Up ahead, the dark hull of the HMS Enforcer swelled like a leviathan rising from the sea. Two bare masts towered over her as they thrust into the blue sky, contradicting her belief that sloops were purely single-masted vessels. Truth be told, this ship appeared more the size of a small frigate than a sloop. As they neared the hull, nine gun ports gaped at her like charred eye sockets from its side. That would put the ship’s guns numbering at least eighteen—provided there weren’t any more on deck—eighteen to the Red Siren’s sixteen. Still, not terrible odds if their paths should cross at sea.

  Faith’s gaze drifted to Mr. Waite, seated stiffly at the head of the boat. He smiled then returned his stern face to his crew as they rowed in unison over the choppy waves of Charles Towne Harbor. How she had managed to convince him to give her a tour of his ship, she could not fathom, but she hadn’t been able to resist asking him, even if it meant she would have to spend more time with the man she had vowed to avoid. She could not deny that he had come in handy today as a diversion to Sir Wilhelm’s slobbering attentions. And she could not expect to completely elude a man living at her home. Besides, since he clearly did not recognize her—or he would have had her arrested already—perhaps she could use Mr. Waite after all.

  Nevertheless, excitement coursed through her at the chance to inspect one of His Majesty’s Royal Navy ships. It certainly couldn’t hurt to learn as much as she could about the ships that pursued her—something her father had never given her a chance to do. “A navy ship is no place for a lady,” she could still hear him say.

  “Oars up!” one of the men shouted. The eight-man crew hefted their oars straight above their heads as the boat thudded and splashed against the ship’s hull.

  Faith glanced up at the planks of damp wood that rose above her like the impenetrable walls of an enemy fortress—impenetrable to obvious foes, not clandestine foes like her. For like a tiny white ant, she intended to bore her way through the ship, seek out its weaknesses, and devour it from within.

  “Captain’s coming aboard!” someone yelled from above.

  After the men secured the jolly boat with ropes, a bosun’s chair was lowered over the side.

  Faith rolled her eyes. She had hoped to avoid this demeaning way men had devised to hoist women aboard ships—as if they were cargo. She could climb the rope ladder as well as any man.

  But she couldn’t tell that to the captain.

  Mr. Waite rose and extended a hand to Faith. “I’m afraid this is the only way we have to bring you safely aboard, Miss Westcott.”

  “I am sure I will manage.” She smiled as she settled into the swaying chair and grabbed the ropes on each side.

  Mr. Waite gave the signal to hoist her aboard, and the baritone command “Heave, heave!” poured over the bulwarks as the ropes snapped tight and her chair rose.

  “Side by side, lively now, men,” another man yelled from above as the captain sprang up the rope ladder with the ease of a man who spent more time aboard a ship than on land.

  As Faith rounded the top railing, dozens of eyes shot her way, but the crowd of sailors quickly resumed their forward stares. A line of men near the railing raised whistles and blew out a sharp trill as drums pounded behind her.

  Mr. Waite grabbed the rail and jumped on board. “Atte–e–e–en–tion!” Every sailor removed his hat, and the captain responded by touching the tip of his.

  “Welcome aboard, Captain.” A young, uniformed officer with a thin mustache stepped forward just as Faith’s shoes tapped the deck. Two seamen assisted her off the wobbling chair.

  “Thank you, Mr. Borland,” Mr. Waite replied as the rest of the crew dispersed to their duties.

  Faith stood amazed at the formality and organization of the sailors, even at port.

  “Miss Faith Westcott.” Mr. Waite gestured toward her. “May I present Mr. Reginald Borland, my first lieutenant, as well as a good friend.”

  “At your service, miss.” The young man bowed and allowed his narrow brown eyes to drift over her. Then, slapping his bicorn atop his sandy hair, he straightened his blue navy coat. A line of gold buttons ran down the center of each pristine white lapel, winking at Faith in the sunlight.

  “Miss Westcott is my temporary ward,” Mr. Waite explained, “and has requested a brief tour of the ship. Since we have no current orders to sail, I thought to oblige her.”

  “Very well, Captain.” Lieutenant Borland offered a sly wink toward his captain before turning to leave.

  Ignoring him, the captain extended his elbow toward Faith and led her down a set of stairs into the bowels of the ship. Men hustled to and fro but quickly snapped to attention when their captain passed. Dozens of gazes pierced Faith from all directions—even from deep within the shadows. Mr. Waite placed his warm hand over hers as they continued. The protective sentiment sent a spark through Faith that she immediately dismissed.

  She had no need of a man to protect her.

  “I am at a loss as to how to address you, sir,” she said as they turned and proceeded down the aft companionway. “Are you not simply a lieutenant?”

  Mr. Waite stiffened beside her and stretched out his neck as if pulling a cord tight. “Indeed, I am.”

  Pleased that she had flustered him, Faith grinned, knowing her expression was concealed by the shadows. “Yet my father calls you a commander, and your men refer to you as ‘Captain.’”

  “There is no formal rank between lieutenant and captain, miss. But because I am the commander of this ship, my men must call me Captain. You may address me as either Mr. Waite or Captain, if you wish.”

  Oh, how kind of you. Faith shook her head at the man’s impudence as she examined the narrow hallway. Lantern light cast monstrous shadows across the low deckhead. With each flicker of the wick or rock of the ship, they altered shape and crouched, ready to pounce upon them—upon her. Not that she hadn’t seen a dark companionway on a ship before, but on this ship full of enemies, the shadows seemed more threatening—as if they knew what mischief she was about.

  The captain showed her the master’s cabin, clerk’s cabin, and two storerooms before he approached a large oak door at the end of the hall.

  “Allow me to show you the captain’s cabin, Miss Westcott, and then I shall give you a tour around the top deck before I escort you home.”

  Faith blinked. “What of the rest of your ship, Mr. Waite? Surely I have not seen it all.”

  “’Tis a big ship, miss,” he said, reaching for the door handle. “Many areas are not fit for a lady to enter.”

  Faith let out a huff before she realized it and covered her mouth, pretending to cough. “I beg you to change your mind, Mr. Waite.” She eased beside him, a bit closer than propriety allowed. “What have I to fear with you by my side?” She tried to flutter her lashes, but they felt like maniacal butterflies upon her cheeks.

  “Have you something in your eyes, Miss Westcott?” The captain leaned toward her, a curious look wrinkling his forehead.

  Faith lowered her shoulders and scowled. “Nay, but I beg you. I had my heart set upon seeing the entire ship, and now I find you were naught but teasing me.”

  She scrunched her lips into a pout as she had seen Hope do so often, but instead of swooning at her feet, instead of apologizing for being so obstinate, instead of offering her everything she wanted, the captain simply laughed and turned away. “Nay, my apologies, miss, but I fear your sensibilities are far too fragile.”

  My sensibilities? Good heavens. Faith’s head began to pound. “My curiosity demands it, sir!” She hadn’t meant to shout, but she had to do something to get this buffoon to show her his ship.

  Releasing the door latch, Mr. Waite studied her curiously, his eyes narrowing as if he were plotting some battle strategy and she were but a chart laid out before him. “Very well, we would not want you to think me a tease, Miss Westcott, now, would we?” And though his tone was all politeness, the look he gave her was one of a cat about to devour a mouse.

&n
bsp; The stench of mold, sweat, and urine assaulted her as he led her down a ladder, past the wardroom then down another ladder into the bowels of the ship. Flinging a hand to her nose, she coughed and took a step back.

  Not that she wasn’t accustomed to such smells aboard a ship, but this ship housed a lot more men than her small brigantine. And her crew didn’t live aboard her ship for more than a day, whereas the men on an HMS warship were oft at sea for months. The captain lifted his lantern to reveal stacks of crates and barrels crowding them on all sides. The patter of tiny feet joined the creak of the wood.

  “The hold, miss.” He shifted his playful gaze her way. “And as we discussed, ’tis where I throw wards who misbehave.” His lips curved slightly, and Faith longed to slap them back into a straight line.

  “Watch your step, miss,” Mr. Waite warned as a furry beast skittered across Faith’s shoe.

  She hated rats. Abhorred them, actually, and longed to kick the smelly rodent into the corner, but for Mr. Waite’s sake, she let out a tiny yelp and flung her hand to her chest.

  When she glanced up at the captain, a smirk sat upon his handsome lips.

  He was doing this on purpose. He wanted her to faint dead away from the smells and the rats so he could prove he had been correct in his assessment of the softer gender. The insolent, unchivalrous knave.

  “Had enough, Miss Westcott?” He gave her a smug look.

  A storm began to brew within Faith.

  “Why no, Mr. Waite. I have only just begun.”

  But she soon found she had misjudged her resilience, for the captain seemed intent on showing her the most atrocious parts of the ship: empty stalls that not long ago had housed animals from the crossing from England and still retained a stench that would knock a hardened farmer on his back; the bloodstained operating table and floors of the sick bay that seemed to hold the eerie screams of the dying; and the galley, complete with a bubbling pot of slimy gray stew that reeked worse than the animal stalls. Faith caught a glimpse of weevils digging tunnels through the biscuits laid out for the day, and she held a hand over her mouth and gulped down a clump of bile, ignoring Mr. Waite’s smirk. Perhaps she wasn’t the tough pirate she claimed to be. For in all her plundering, she had not seen much blood, nor had she been forced to house animals or even hire a cook for her crew. Since she couldn’t be away from home for longer than a night, she chose her victims well. Never British vessels. Always small merchantmen, undermanned and undergunned. And not one of them had given her much resistance.