The Red Siren

by Marylu Tyndall

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  Dajon watched Faith retrieve two china cups from the cupboard. Her curls cascaded in a crimson waterfall that poured to her waist. He swallowed a lump of desire. What a paradox this woman was. She reminded him of a wildcat: independent, cautious, yet when her claws were not drawn, soft and vulnerable. She had been truly terrified of him in the dark, though he had tried to console her both with his words and his touch. What had happened to her to cause so frantic a reaction?

  What was happening to him?

  Years ago, he had sworn that the only woman he would ever need would be the ship he sailed upon, for after what happened with Marianne, how could he trust himself with the safety of another lady? His promise had not been difficult to keep—until now.

  As he watched Faith cross the room, a picture of femininity yet carrying herself with the confidence and command of a captain at sea, he longed to know everything about her.

  “Pray tell, why were you wandering about in the dark anyway?” She placed the cups on the table.

  Dajon drew his sword and laid it across a bench before he eased into a chair. “I seem to have forgotten to eat today. I was searching for a lamp when I heard you come in.”

  “Why did you not alert me to your presence?” She eyed him guardedly. Then, turning, she grabbed a cloth and folded it around the handle of a kettle that hung over the few coals still simmering in the fireplace.

  Dajon’s gaze swept over her as she knelt, her curves alluring beneath the simple dress she wore. “I thought you might be a robber.” He flinched under the prick of his conscience. Truth be told, the minute she had entered the room, he could not take his eyes off her silky skin, the way the moonlight shimmered over it and reflected a glittering red halo around her hair.

  Until she had kneed him in the crotch, of course.

  Lifting the kettle, she poured the warm water into the pot on the table. As she did, her leg brushed against his, and she jumped, sending her hair spilling past Dajon’s face.

  The aroma of salt and smoke filled his nose, and he leaned back in the chair, wondering why she did not perfume herself with lilac or rose oil like other women he had known. Suspicion brought his mind to full alert. He narrowed his gaze upon her.

  “What ails you now, Mr. Waite? Did I hurt your leg as well?”

  “Your hair smells of the sea.” He folded his hands over his stomach.

  A hint of alarm flickered across her face. She stirred the pot, lifted it, and tipped it over Dajon’s cup. “Lucas and I had business at the port today.” Her hand trembled, spilling the liquid onto the table. “Oh, good heavens.” Setting the pot down with a clunk, she dabbed the puddles of tea with a cloth.

  “Aye, so Molly told me early this morning.” Dajon lifted his cup. “Must have been important to force you to rise before the sun.” He took a sip of the tea, hoping its warmth and her answer would dissolve the ridiculous notions that now filled his head.

  “Most important.” Faith shifted away and returned the kettle to the hearth. “I had to purchase supplies for my soap business.”

  “Quite a few supplies, I would imagine, to have taken the entire day to procure, for it seems we both arrived home at the same time this evening.”

  “Whatever do you mean? I have been here for hours,” she retorted without facing him.

  “I beg your pardon, miss. When I saw Lucas bedding down two horses in the stable, I assumed. . .”

  Faith spun around and flung one hand to her hip. “You assume too much, Mr. Waite.” Her gaze flitted down to his pocket, where he’d stuffed the pirate’s scarf. “And did you escort your treasure ship to port safely?”

  “Yes. Thank you for your concern. The ship is anchored safely in the harbor as we speak.” He set down his cup.

  With a smirk, she shifted her gaze away.

  “But I see you have taken notice of my souvenir of the day’s adventures.” Withdrawing the scarf, Dajon rose and extended it to her. Since she had lived in Charles Towne for more than two months, perhaps she could give him a clue as to the identity of the owner.

  Her face paled, giving him pause.

  She lowered her chin and cleared her throat. When she raised her gaze, a different woman lurked behind those auburn eyes. Gone was the hard sheen, the defiant glare, and in its place, a seductive innocence glimmered.

  Snatching the scarf, she fingered the initials and rubbed the silk between her fingers. “A lady admirer. Why, Mr. Waite, I had no idea.” She turned her back to him. “And all along I thought”—a tiny sob escaped her—“well, I thought you had some affection for me.”

  Taken aback by her sudden change, Dajon’s voice cracked, and the words he had intended to say faltered on his lips. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, where an ache from an old injury rose to haunt him. Had he been absent so long from courting rituals that he no longer recognized a lady’s intentions? By thunder, Faith was unlike any woman he had known, to be sure, but he could not be that daft.

  Dajon circled her. Placing a finger beneath her chin, he lifted her gaze to his. “I do not know the lady who owns it. I thought perhaps you might recognize it.”

  “Me? Why, anyone can tell by the bold color that it clearly belongs to some trollop. What would I know of it?” She lifted the scarf and dabbed at her moist cheeks.

  Suppressing a chuckle, Dajon leaned and peered intently into her eyes.

  “What are you doing?” she snapped.

  “Trying to see if there are two of you in there.” He grinned and then furrowed his brow. “The transformation is so swift and unpredictable, I know not which of you to expect, vixen or enchantress.”

  Batting her tears away, she glared at him, and behind her eyes burned a fury and determination matching that of any brigand he’d ever seen. Thrusting the cloth in his hand, she turned her back to him, flinging her hair behind her in a fiery cloud.

  He lengthened his stance. “’Twas a gift from a pirate—a lady pirate—prowling the Carolina seas.” Dajon leaned down and drew a whiff of her hair. Smoke, salt, and a hint of lemon. “Her hair is the same color as yours.” Since her back was still turned, he took the liberty of caressing a lock between his fingers, enjoying the silky feel and delighting in the way the curl sprang back when he released it. “Odd that she has only made her presence known these past few months. I daresay she appeared about the same time you arrived here in Charles Towne.” Why did he enjoy taunting her so? Perhaps because the ache still burned in his groin where she had kneed him. Perhaps because he enjoyed the banter of her sharp wit and the way the freckles on her nose scrunched together when she grew angry. Because even the thought of an admiral’s daughter being a pirate was absolutely ludicrous. An impossibility.

  She wheeled around, her thick strands slapping his side. “There are many women with red hair in these colonies, Mr. Waite. It is not a crime. And tales of women pirates have been tantalizing the ears of these adventurous pilgrims for years.”

  “See, now the vixen has reappeared,” he teased, noting the fury burning within her eyes.

  “Why are you being so cruel? Is it because I kicked you?” She huffed. “Edwin told me you were still away, and I thought I was all alone.” Her voice softened as she inched closer to him. ’Tis frightening to be a woman without protection.”

  Visions of Faith handling herself fearlessly with the ruffians on the street shot through Dajon’s mind, followed by her declaration that she could take care of herself and her sisters without him. But as he felt the heat from her body close to his and as her lemony scent swirled beneath his nose, Dajon had difficulty forming a rational thought from the memories. “I must say, I do prefer the enchantress.”

  She lifted her head and shifted her misty eyes to his. Her sweet breath puffed upon his chin like an aphrodisiac as her gaze swept over his lips.

  Heat stormed through Dajon, weakening his reason and his defenses. The heady pull of her was too much to resist. He lowered his lips to meet hers.

  No.

  He halte
d. She was toying with him. He was sure of it. Lord, help me. I have not the strength to resist her without You.

  A blast of indignation shot through him. What was he doing? He pulled away and crossed his arms over his chest. “Forgive me.”

  Faith cocked her head. A spark of victory flashed in her eyes. Dajon took a forceful step toward her again and leaned down, his mouth inches from her ear. “You play a dangerous game, Miss Westcott.” Then, righting himself, he scoured her with his gaze. “I suggest you not offer yourself in so tempting a manner. Next time, I may well accept your invitation.” He gave her a mischievous grin and bowed.

  She narrowed her eyes.

  Turning on his heels, Dajon grabbed his sword and stomped from the room. A blast of cool air struck him, reviving his reason. He cursed himself for being so weak. Allowing two ladies to get the best of him. He could not let it happen again.

  Chapter 14

  Faith rose early the next morning, determined to spend time with her sisters. With a yawn, she entered the dining room, lured there by their bickering voices.

  “Oh, do come in, dear.” Hope gestured for Faith to sit in the chair beside hers as the aroma of tea, strawberry jam, and toast danced around her, nudging her stomach awake.

  Grace peeked at her from behind Meditations and Contemplations and smiled before resuming her reading. “Rising before noon? Whatever is the occasion?”

  “Would you care for some tea, Miss Faith?” Miranda, the serving maid, curtsied in her direction.

  “Yes, thank you.” Ignoring Grace’s remark, Faith took the seat next to Hope as Miranda filled her porcelain cup. Fragrant steam swirled off the hot liquid as rays of the morning sun set the silverware, fruit, and china glittering in vibrant colors against the white cotton tablecloth.

  “Pray tell, where were you all day yesterday, Faith?” Hope set down her toast and formed her lips into a tiny pout. “With Grace gone as well, I was left with naught to do but sit and read. I wrote Father a letter.” She swallowed and lowered her gaze. “Not that he will respond.”

  “It pleases me to see that you kept your promise and stayed home.” Faith drew a slice of toast from the serving plate.

  “I fail to see why I was forced to remain here when both you and Grace were free to roam wherever you wished.”

  Closing her book, Grace set it beside her plate. “I was delivering food to the settlers on the Ashley River. I asked if you would accompany me, but you refused.”

  “Why would I want to traipse through fields and forest, ruin my gown with mud and filth, and risk being attacked by savages?” Hope said with a huff.

  “Perchance to help those in need?” Grace raised a pious brow. “Maybe if you thought of someone else besides yourself, you would not be in so disagreeable a mood all the time.”

  “I am not disagreeable.” Hope turned up her nose and dropped a lump of sugar into her coffee with a plop. “Lord Falkland says I am the kindest and most charming woman he has ever known.”

  At the mention of Lord Falkland, fear resurged to gnaw at Faith. She determined to discuss the rogue with Hope later, but for now, she turned to her other sister. “Which reminds me, Grace. You are fully aware of Father’s rules about leaving the house unescorted.”

  “Are you not bound by the same rules?” Grace flashed her green eyes at Faith, accusation burning within them.

  “I was with Lucas yesterday.”

  “Mrs. Gibson accompanied me.” Grace took a bite of her toast and set it down as if the matter were closed.

  “’Tis not the same thing, and you know it. Mrs. Gibson, although a sweet, godly woman, cannot protect you in the event of some misfortune.”

  Grace brushed her feathery raven bangs aside and gave Faith a look of scorn. “You can hardly assume to govern us when you are never home. You’re as bad as Father is.”

  Faith winced beneath the sting of Grace’s words. She bit her lip to keep from spewing an angry retort. She was nothing like their father. While he went to sea for glory and adventure, ignoring his family at home, she went to sea to better their futures, doing her best to spend as much time with them as she could.

  Hope slouched in her chair. “Where were you? You said we could talk when you returned.”

  “Forgive me. I was delayed.” Faith laid a gentle hand over Hope’s. “I promise we will talk today.”

  “Your promises mean nothing.” Hope snatched her hand from beneath Faith’s. “Grace is right. You are never here. And with Mother gone and Father always away, I feel as though I am not only an orphan but an only child.” Moisture covered her sapphire eyes, and she turned away.

  Faith stirred cream into her tea, the silver spoon clanging against the porcelain cup as if tolling her guilt. How could she make her sisters understand that her many absences were for their benefit—that their welfare and future were all that consumed her energies and time? Yet she could not let them in on her secret. Grace would be so appalled that she might even turn Faith over to the authorities—albeit to cleanse her from her iniquity. And Hope would only use Faith’s pirating as a free license to pursue her own scandalous activities.

  Faith clanked her cup down a little too hard and proceeded to butter her toast as if she were sharpening her cutlass.

  She risked her life over and over for her sisters, and this was her reward.

  Grace sighed and raised one brow. “If you are expecting Faith to be here for us, Hope, you will only face disappointment. For even when she is here, she sleeps half the day.”

  Faith forced down her anger and smiled. “Why don’t we spend the whole day together, just the three of us? How does that sound?” Perhaps she could appease both her own guilt and her sisters’ need for her company all at once.

  Hope broke into a beaming smile. “That would be lovely.”

  Happy to have mollified her sister, Faith glanced out the window. The golden flowers of the Carolina jasmine waved in the morning breeze as they clung to a trestle. The pink and violet blossoms of dogwoods and magnolias that had sparkled across the city like jewels early that spring had faded in the latter months of the summer, replaced by coral honeysuckle and sea myrtle, delighting Faith in the variety of unusual flowers that graced this untamed wilderness. She had come to love the beauty of this land and could see her and her sisters settled happily here once their fortune was secured.

  Only one person stood in her way.

  And as if she could conjure him up by her thoughts, Mr. Waite strode by the window in his blue uniform.

  Hope’s gaze followed him across the paned glass. “He is so handsome, is he not?”

  “I suppose.” Faith tried to still the sudden thump of her heart. She sipped her tea, hoping its warmth would sooth her nerves, but instead the acidic taste bit her tongue. In all the discord, she had forgotten to add sugar.

  “I thought your affections were for only Lord Falkland,” Grace snickered.

  “They are, of course.” Hope gave her a coquettish smile. “But there is no harm in admiring, is there?”

  Grace chuckled. “You are incorrigible.”

  Faith felt the captain enter even before his baritone voice filled the room like a symphony. “Good morning, ladies.”

  Hope giggled, and Grace shot him a playful smile.

  Mr. Waite harrumphed. “Did I miss something?”

  Faith heard his boots shuffle on the wooden floor as she dropped two lumps of sugar into her tea. His warm breath wafted down her neck.

  “Good morning, Miss Westcott.” The scent of lye tickled her nose. The man obviously kept himself as clean on the outside as he did on the inside.

  A heated flush rose from her belly and set her face aflame at the memory of their encounter last night. “Good morning, Mr. Waite,” she said without turning, for she was certain her face must be as bright as the red apple that perched atop the bowl in the middle of the table.

  His piercing gaze locked upon her as he rounded the table, flung his coattails out behind him, and took a seat acros
s from her. His hair, pulled and tied behind him in a queue, reminded Faith of the color of the roast coffee filling Hope’s cup.

  She had hardly been able to sleep the entire night. Every time she had started to drift off to a much-needed slumber, the memory of his lips so close to hers kept jolting her awake. The unfairness of it. What was wrong with her? She had thought to tease him, but instead she was the one whose passions had been stirred.

  And why was he staring at her now as if he knew her darkest secrets?

  Hope twirled a lock of her golden hair. “I trust you slept well, Mr. Waite?”

  “Magnificently, thank you.” His blue eyes slid to Faith, a smile flickering within them.

  Was he mocking her?

  “You look lovely this morning, Miss Hope,” the captain said as he waved away Miranda and poured himself some tea. Steam rose from the hot liquid in an exotic dance that mimicked the heat radiating within Faith.

  Hope flashed him a girlish smile.

  “And you as well, Miss Grace.” Mr. Waite poured cream into his cup.

  “Why, thank you, Mr. Waite. If you don’t mind my saying so, ’tis nice to have a Christian gentleman around the house.”

  “I am finding your home to my liking as well, Miss Grace.” He grabbed a slice of toast, spread some jam upon it, and shoved it into his mouth, tearing off a bite.

  “My sister has just promised to spend the entire day with Grace and me.” Hope’s voice lifted with excitement. “Perhaps you could join us?” She tapped Faith’s leg beneath the table.

  Faith kicked her sister in return. The last thing she wanted was to spend the day with Mr. Waite.

  “Ouch.” Hope flinched and leaned down to rub her ankle.

  “She has? What a grand idea.” The captain smiled as if he hadn’t noticed anything unusual and brushed the crumbs from his pristine white lapels. “But are you sure, Miss Westcott, you have nothing more pressing to attend to?”