The Red Siren

by Marylu Tyndall

  “Amuse and confuse, miss, for not an hour ago, you played the temptress below hatches on board my ship, and now you play the shrew.”

  “Of all the. . .I did no such thing.” Clutching her skirts, she picked up her pace and stumbled over a ladder. The boy perched on top ceased nailing a sign over a doorpost and clung to the wooden tips of the ladder for dear life.

  Dajon settled the tottering steps and gave the wide-eyed boy an apologetic shrug before turning to find the wayward redhead. A mob of workers had spilled onto the street from a two-story brick warehouse and joined a surging crowd of sailors and merchants who were headed toward the nearest tavern. Horses clopped by in every direction, weaving around the throng and spewing clumps of mud into the air from their hooves.

  Faith was nowhere in sight.

  Dread gripped Dajon. His first day as guardian and he had lost one of the admiral’s daughters—at night, in one of the worst sections of town. The crowd became a muted blur in the encroaching shadows as Dajon searched for a flash of red hair. Barreling through the throng, he bumped into a well-dressed man in a fine ruffled cambric shirt, swinging a cane. A curled gray periwig perched atop his head.

  “I beg your pardon,” Dajon said.

  The man clicked his tongue in disgust as Dajon dashed across the street before an oncoming coach. The horse reared, neighing in protest. Dajon jumped aside before the beast’s hooves could pummel him. They landed with two thuds in a puddle, spraying mud through the air.

  “Watch out, you bumpkin!” the driver yelled.

  Dajon glanced down at the thick mud sliding down his white breeches then scanned the street once more. No sign of Miss Westcott.

  His chest tightened.

  Feminine laughter bounced into the night—familiar laughter. He rushed forward, parting the crowd. A tall man with a portly woman on his arm ambled unaware in front of him. The woman blubbered in laughter at something the man had said, and Dajon darted to the left to bypass them.

  Up ahead, light from a crowded saloon spilled onto the street. Three men surrounded Faith.

  Sweat broke out on Dajon’s forehead. His mouth dried. He bolted forward when another couple stepped in front of him, blocking his way.

  Over their shoulders, Dajon saw Faith say something to a burly man then nod in Dajon’s direction. Two other men stood on each side of her, smirks on their grimy faces. Passersby quickly looked the other way and crossed the street. Why didn’t anyone come to her rescue? Angling toward the right, Dajon sped past the couple and shoved his way through a mob of sailors, ignoring the curses they flung at his back.

  Faith grinned before turning and strutting away.

  Dashing past an oncoming carriage, Dajon rushed to catch up to her, but the three men who’d been harassing her formed a barricade of human flesh in his path.

  The burly man lowered his thick brows and scowled. “The lady don’t be wantin’ ye followin’ her, sailor.”

  One of the other men took a brazen step toward Dajon. “You navy boys think to be gettin’ all the women.” Though gangly, the man’s frame rose far above Dajon’s as he peered down his hawklike nose. Greasy strands of hair stuck to his forehead like tentacles. The stench of sweat and stale fish burned Dajon’s nose.

  The third man spit onto the ground, cast a glance at the retreating Faith, and returned a surly grin to Dajon.

  A bawdy tune blasted over them from the tavern as some of its patrons crept out to watch the altercation. A few men stopped in the street and whispered among themselves. Dajon wondered whether he could count on their assistance or if they were merely assembling for the show.

  “Three against one.” The first man chortled. “Fair odds, says I.”

  “Let me pass at once,” Dajon ordered the men. In the distance, Faith suddenly halted and swung about, but he could not see her expression in the shadows. Blasted woman. Had she instructed these men to delay him? Surely not. She could not be associated with these ruffians.

  The burly man laughed. “Why don’t ye go back to yer boat and leave the lady alone.”

  Dajon drew his sword and leveled the tip beneath the man’s hairy chin. “Why don’t you step aside and allow me to pass.”

  The man did not flinch. Not a flicker of fear crossed his steady gaze.

  From the corner of his eye, Dajon saw Faith retracing her steps until she stood behind the men, hands on her hips. He wanted to warn her to stay back, but the men appeared to have no interest in her now.

  Her eyes shifted to Dajon’s. No fear, only annoyance burned within them. “I will have you know, gentlemen,” she began in an insolent tone, “that this is the captain of the HMS Enforcer, and he is an expert in swordsmanship.”

  Dajon grimaced and lowered his blade. What is she saying? He did not relish a fight. These scoundrels would only take her words as a challenge, especially in front of the crowd forming around them. His palms grew sweaty as he tightened his grip on his sword.

  The burly man let out a coarse laugh and slapped his thigh. The other man narrowed his flaming eyes upon Dajon and wiped the spit seeping from the side of his mouth. He eased one hand to his chest. “How are ye with pistols?”

  h

  Faith shifted her gaze between her crew and the captain. She’d meant only for them to delay Mr. Waite, not kill him. After she had instructed them to gather the rest of the men at the ship in the morning, her foremost thought was to hurry home, inform Lucas, and get some much-needed sleep, not stroll through town on the arm of the man who would put a noose around her neck if he knew who she was. Besides, the man gave her an unsettled feeling in her stomach, and she didn’t like it—not one bit. The less time spent in his company, the better. But she should have realized her men could not resist taunting a commander in His Majesty’s Navy.

  The captain’s eyes drifted to hers again, and in a flash, Bishop plucked a gun from inside his vest and pointed it at Mr. Waite before he could react. But the captain only glared at him—a confident, icy glare that sent a shiver down Faith’s back. Her fear for Mr. Waite’s safety suddenly shifted to a fear for her crew’s.

  In one swift motion, Mr. Waite yanked his pistol from its brace and pounded the handle on Bishop’s gun, knocking it the ground, then he whipped his pistol around by the trigger and pointed it straight at the man’s heart.

  “I can handle a pistol as well,” he said with an insolent smirk, cocking the weapon.

  A cheer rose from the crowd as the three men stood with their jaws agape.

  Mr. Waite wiped the sweat from his brow. “Now, if you please, I will be on my way.”

  Unwilling admiration surged within Faith as she watched the captain dispatch her hardened crew so quickly and with such skill. Without so much as a glance her way, he sheathed his sword, brushed by her men, who backed away from him, and took her arm. He tugged her through the crowd, his pistol still firmly gripped in his hand. When they were well away from the center of town, he housed it again then whirled her around to face him, seizing her shoulders.

  “Of all the preposterous, dangerous things to do—wandering around the port at night without an escort.” His gaze skimmed over her. “Are you hurt? No, of course you’re not hurt.” He snorted and released her. “Did you know those men?”

  “Nay.” She gazed up at him, barely able to discern his features in the darkness. A cloud moved aside, allowing moonlight to flood over him. Somehow the mixture of silvery light and sinister shadows made him appear far more dangerous than he did in full sunlight. Or maybe it was because she’d just witnessed him best three of her most skilled crewmen. And his height did naught but aid the impression. Rarely had Faith, who herself was taller than most women, met a man who towered above her.

  “They seemed to know you.” Suspicion sharpened his tone.

  “I only paid them a shilling to delay you.”

  “To delay me?” Mr. Waite said. “They could have killed me.”

  “You handled them quite well, Captain. And besides, I returned as soon as I
saw the situation escalate.”

  “To do what? Protect me?” He snickered and spiked a hand through his dark hair. “All you did was incite them further by telling them who I was.”

  “Nevertheless, I’m flattered that you were willing to engage them in order to escort me home.”

  Mr. Waite released a long sigh. “I do not wish to see you harmed. Regardless of your insistence that you can take care of yourself, Miss Westcott, I fear you do not understand the wicked intentions of most men.”

  Concern burned in his eyes—for her or merely for maintaining his position with her father? He took her hand in his, and the warmth and strength from his touch sent streams of assurance through her. She did not care for the unfamiliar sensation.

  A salty breeze blew in from the bay and played with the wayward strand of hair dangling over his cheek. The muted sounds of music and laughter from town swirled around them then combined with the orchestra of leaves fluttering from beech trees that lined the avenue.

  A horse and carriage clattered by, startling Faith back to her senses.

  “We should be going.”

  When they reached the Westcott home, the captain took Faith’s elbow and led her up the stairs to the porch. “Quite an interesting evening, Miss Westcott.”

  She swung about. “I’m glad I amused you, Mr. Waite.” She lowered her gaze to his muddied breeches and giggled. “But I see you have soiled your pristine uniform.”

  “A battle wound worth the pain for your sake.” Amusement heightened his voice.

  Faith eyed him curiously, finding surprising enjoyment in their repartee.

  “I must return to the ship for a few hours,” he said. “Afterward, I shall be in the guesthouse should you have need of me.”

  “And pray tell, why would I have need of you?”

  Cocking a brow, he gave her a condescending look. “Simply promise me, Miss Westcott, that you will stay put and not go strolling through the streets at night again.”

  “You can hardly blame me for what happened,” she snapped. “Good heavens, ’twas you who forced me onward with your insulting comments. I simply wished to return home in peace.”

  “What insulting. . .” He sighed and scratched his jaw. “In any case, you should not be so surprised if you draw the wrong sort of attention. Only unscrupulous women wander the streets at night.”

  “Why, Mr. Waite.” She pressed a hand to her bosom. “I am quite overcome with your concern.” She fluttered her lashes again but this time with every intent to appear as silly as she felt.

  He broke into a grin as he lengthened his stance. “I daresay, Miss Westcott, you have me quite befuddled. I do not know whether you are trying to allure me with your charms or stab me with your words.”

  Faith cocked her head and considered which strategy she indeed preferred. “Perhaps both.”

  A wicked playfulness danced across his eyes. “Until tomorrow.” He bowed, slapped his bicorn atop his head, and walked away.

  Faith entered the house and slammed the oak door then leaned against it with a sigh. What was she doing? Her plan had been to get home as soon as possible, not engage in witty banter with a man who obviously found her company disagreeable. Not that she wasn’t accustomed to that. Her tall stature, intelligent wit, and independent mannerisms never failed to keep suitors at bay. But what did she care?

  Confusion trampled over the new feelings rising within her. At least her day had not been a total loss, for she had learned the whereabouts of a treasure ship, and that alone was well worth enduring the captain’s company.

  “And where have you been?” Edwin crashed into the room, wringing his hands.

  “Why, you know very well, Edwin, I was with Mr. Waite.” Faith sashayed into the room.

  “He should inform me when he will have you home past dark,” Edwin huffed.

  “I shall be sure to tell him the next time I see him.”

  “Very well.” The lines etched in his ruddy face deepened. “I should inform you that Miss Hope went missing most of the day as well.”

  Alarm knotted Faith’s stomach, but she couldn’t show Edwin her concern. No doubt the jittery steward would go running to Mr. Waite with the news. “I am sure she was here. Perhaps she was just avoiding you, Edwin. You worry too much.” But Faith well knew her sister’s propensity for wayward adventures—one that had become a perpetual thorn in Faith’s side. While Faith risked her life to ensure a future for Hope, her sister was intent on destroying it. “Is she here now?” Faith’s breath halted as she awaited his reply.

  “Yes, miss.”

  “Then all is well.”

  Edwin released a big sigh that shook his sagging jowls. “I knew there would be problems.” He turned on his heels and headed toward the back of the house. His whiny voice faded down the hallway. “I told the admiral. I warned him.”

  At the sound of footsteps, Faith looked up to see Lucas creeping into the entrance hall. “I wanted to make sure ye survived the day with the cap’n.”

  “That I did, Lucas.” Winking, she grabbed the banister and whispered, “We set sail at dawn.”

  “Do ye know of a ship to plunder?”

  Faith grinned. “That I do. A fair prize indeed.”

  With a mischievous twinkle in his eye, Lucas scrambled away.

  Faith lifted her weary limbs slowly up the stairs. She must check on her sisters. She hoped they were tucked in for the night. She could grab only a few hours of sleep before she had to rise and make haste to prepare the Red Siren to sail.

  For she must reach that treasure ship before Captain Waite.

  Chapter 9

  Darkness smothered Faith as she tiptoed down the stairs. Morgan’s jagged talons clamped over her right shoulder, but he remained unusually silent. Clutching her simple linen dress with one hand to keep it from swishing, Faith crept downward, gliding her other hand over the delicately carved oak banister. Yet for all her efforts to move quietly, each step echoed a tune uniquely its own, creating an entire ensemble of creaks and groans by the time she made it down to the entrance hall. Breathless, she halted, listening for any stirrings above where Edwin and her sisters slept.

  Guarding the far wall, the grandfather clock drummed a rhythmic ticktock that echoed the beating of her heart, yet she could barely make out its stately shape in the darkness. At just past three in the morning, she hoped no one would be awake and she could easily slip away unnoticed. For if she did not set sail by dawn, not only would she not be able to reach the treasure ship before Mr. Waite, but she would risk encountering him along the way. She headed toward the front door, not wanting to risk her normal exit from the back gardens, which could be viewed from the guesthouse where she hoped the captain was still deep in slumber.

  As she thought of him, a smile tilted her lips. Today she would best the infamous commander by stealing the treasure he had sworn to protect right from under his handsome nose.

  Faint voices reached her ears. Halting, Faith huffed and placed Morgan on the banister, cautioning him to remain. “I shall return shortly.” She brushed her fingers over his soft feathers, and he leaned his head against her hand in reply. Then, making her way down the dark hallway, she slunk toward the back of the house, past the warming room, and out the back door, following the sounds drifting from the kitchen.

  The muggy night air enveloped her like a swamp. Stars twinkled between the branches of a massive live oak that stood guard against the side fence. Up ahead, soft candlelight and hushed voices flowed through the open windows of the cooking room.

  Faith knew she should leave and be about her business, but she thought she had recognized Hope’s soft voice. And she could not imagine what her sister was doing up at so early an hour. Hastening into the kitchen, she allowed the swinging door to bump her from behind. A wave of warmth caressed her from the fireplace, where coals smoldered below a three-legged iron kettle. Hope sat at the table nursing a steaming cup of tea. Molly leaned against a baking shelf littered with wooden bowls and ro
lling pins, a scowl on her face and her hands on her hips.

  Fear squeezed Faith’s heart. “Good heavens, what is amiss?”

  Hope’s look of surprise at seeing her sister faded to one of alarm as her gaze shifted to Molly.

  The cook shook her head. “Bad enough you kept me up half the night worryin’ about you. Now you woke up your sister.”

  Faith took a step toward Hope, whose gaze immediately dropped to her tea.

  Molly huffed. “I tell you what’s amiss, Miss Faith. Your sister arrived home only an hour ago.”

  “I beg your pardon? At two in the morning?” Shock halted Faith as her gaze flitted between Molly and Hope. She had known her sister to venture out without permission before but never so late. “I checked on you. You were asleep when I retired for the night.”

  Hope’s silence sent pinpricks of fear over Faith’s scalp. She rushed to her sister’s side. “Has someone hurt you, dear?” Horrid memories resurged as Faith knelt and examined her sister from head to toe. Hope wore her best dress—a low-necked French gown of royal blue silk, woven with gold thread—but nary a mark could be seen upon it—or on Hope for that matter. Faith pressed a hand over her heart to still its rapid beat.

  “Never you mind, Miss Faith.” Molly hiked her skirts up and tucked them into her waistband to avoid setting them aflame then grabbed a cloth and lifted the kettle from the fire. “She be all right, at least in body. In the head, I isn’t too sure.” She placed the pot on the serving table.

  “Where have you been?” Faith demanded as anger replaced her fear. Her throat went dry. “Or should I be asking with whom?”

  Wiping a curl of golden hair from her forehead, Hope shrugged. “I assure you, dear sister, I was with Arthur and perfectly safe.”

  “Arthur? You speak of Lord Falkland?” Rising, Faith blew out a sigh and began to pace. “You call him by his familiar name after only a few months’ acquaintance?”

  “I feel as though I have known him all my life.” Hope smiled, her eyes dancing.