“Pray tell, Mr. Borland,” Faith said, twirling a lock of her hair non-chalantly around her finger, “what is so special about this merchant vessel that you believe it to be the target of pirates?” She took a sip of her lemonade, the sour taste curling her tongue.
“Only that she carries a cargo of Spanish gold stolen in a raid. Worth a fortune, I’m told.”
Faith coughed and nearly spit the lemonade from her mouth. “So Mr. Waite will be at sea the day after next?”
“Aye, in two days. We are to meet the ship midmorning off St. Helena Sound but should return to port before sunset.” He leaned toward her, a sly look gleaming in his eye. “I suppose ’tis acceptable to relay this information to you and your sisters. Your father is an admiral, after all.” He sat back in his chair and straightened his coat. “Is there something you expect you’ll need Mr. Waite for day after tomorrow?”
“Nay.” Faith waved a hand through the air. “I just wondered in case my sisters and I require an escort into town.”
Grace’s brow wrinkled. “We can simply ask Lucas or Edwin. You venture into town with Lucas all the time.”
“Not that we’ll be permitted to go out anyway,” Hope added.
The door opened with a creak, and Mr. Waite returned and plopped down beside Faith.
Taking another sip of lemonade, she avoided his gaze. Her heart soared at this fortuitous information. She must return home as soon as possible to make plans for what might be her very last pirate raid.
“Mr. Waite?” A man dressed in a fine ruffled shirt, breeches, and silk hose took the steps up to their table and nodded toward the captain. “Are you Mr. Waite, the commander of the HMS Enforcer?” he asked with exuberance as he removed his hat.
“Yes, I am.” Dajon stood and took his outstretched arm.
Grinning, the man shook Mr. Waite’s hand over and over as if trying to loosen his bones. “I have been searching for you, sir.”
“And you are?” Mr. Waite pulled his hand free.
“I am Mr. Hugh Gladstone, a man greatly in your debt.” He straightened his velvet crimson jacket.
Mr. Borland’s normally tanned face blanched as white as the table. He fidgeted with his mug of lemonade and avoided glancing at the two men as they spoke, and Faith wondered at his sudden agitation.
“Gladstone.” Mr. Waite rubbed his jaw. “The name is familiar to me.”
“You saved my wife, Mrs. Margaret Gladstone, from great danger last night, did you not?”
“Your wife.” Mr. Waite’s eyes sparked in recollection, and he shifted his stance. “Yes, of course.”
“She informed me how you came upon those ruffians attacking her in the street.”
Mr. Waite nodded then led Mr. Gladstone a few yards to their right, uttering, “If you’ll excuse me,” over his shoulder as he went.
But Faith kept her ear pointed in his direction and her eyes on Borland, who squirmed in his seat as if sitting upon hot coals.
“And you fought them off bravely and saved her reputation and quite possibly her life,” Mr. Gladstone was saying.
Mr. Waite cleared his throat. “Any gentleman would have done the same.”
“Ah, that is where you are wrong, sir. Many would not have been bothered. Especially with a woman about town so late in the evening.” He leaned toward the captain. “They would not have suspected her to be a virtuous lady.”
Faith glanced at Mr. Waite. With hands clenched behind his back, he lowered his gaze to the white planks of the porch deck. His brow glistened with perspiration.
Mr. Gladstone’s voice lowered to a whisper. “My wife takes laudanum for a painful ailment and ofttimes wanders off at night.”
“I am sorry to hear that.”
“She has nothing but good things to say about you, sir. How you behaved the gentleman and risked your own life for hers.”
Mr. Borland sipped his lemonade but then began hacking as if it contained sand.
Glancing his way then back at Mr. Gladstone, Mr. Waite responded, “It was nothing, I assure you. Now if you don’t object, I must be—” He turned to leave.
“Might I offer you a reward?”
“There is no need.” Mr. Waite halted and gave the man a sincere look. “But do take good care of your wife, Mr. Gladstone.” His voice held a hint of warning.
“That I will, sir.” The man planted his hat atop his head and shook Mr. Waite’s hand again before he barreled down the stairs. “You are a hero, sir. A true hero!” he yelled as he dashed off.
By the time Mr. Waite had returned to the table, Mr. Borland was a fuming pot of angst. Was he so competitive with his captain that any noble act on Mr. Waite’s part caused such a violent reaction?
Nonetheless, Faith found her own regard for Mr. Waite billowing within her. Truly this man respected women—all women. Even those with less-than-scrupulous behavior. Even those most men would give no notice to unless they sought a night’s entertainment.
She faced him, wanting to express her regard, but the ruddy hue creeping up his neck and the way he tightly gripped his mug indicated his discomfort with the topic.
“Lord Falkland!” Hope nearly jumped from her chair, tossing her hand to her mouth. She stood for a moment, staring down the crowded street. Her eyes locked upon something in the distance. “Arthur!” Clutching her skirts, she darted from the table, toppling her chair behind her.
The captain rose and gave Faith a level gaze. “Stay here,” he ordered and then stomped after Hope. But she had never been good at obeying commands, especially when it came to her sister’s welfare. Dashing past him, Faith ignored his call to her and pressed her hat upon her head as she tried to catch up with Hope. Straining to see past the throng of people and horses, she finally spotted the source of Hope’s despair.
Lord Falkland sauntered down the street, decked in a ruffled lace shirt, damask waistcoat, tight-fitting breeches, and a fashionable bicorn, with a beautiful woman on his arm.
“Hope, wait,” Faith cried after her sister.
Falkland nudged his hat up and gazed toward the commotion. When he saw Hope, his eyes snapped wide, but they quickly narrowed. With the grace of a serpent, he patted the woman’s hand, whispered in her ear, and sent her on her way; then he turned with open arms toward Hope. “Hope, my dear. A pleasure to see you looking so well.”
Hope halted before him just as Faith reached her and grabbed her hand, tugging her away from the cur. But Faith quickly realized she didn’t have to keep Hope from him. Hope stood stiffly in place, eyes plump with tears, shock freezing her features into tight little lines.
Falkland lowered his arms. “Something bothers you, my dear?”
“Who is she?” Hope’s voice carried the tone of a condemned prisoner.
“Who?” Falkland tapped his cane on the street and brushed a speck of dirt from his sleeve.
Faith eyed the man with disdain. Here before her pranced another vain fop who not only cared nothing for her sister but took advantage of Hope’s desperate need for love. Not the first time in her life, Faith longed to be a man so she could pound the sneering grin from his face. Her hand curled. She just might attempt it anyway.
“Oh, you mean Mrs. Blackwell.” Lord Falkland feigned innocence. “Her husband imposed upon me to escort her to the festival. He is ill with the fever, poor fellow.”
“Her husband?” Hope’s voice lifted a bit, and she loosened her grip on Faith’s hand.
“Yes, dear. You can’t be jealous, can you?” He took her other hand in his and raised it to his mouth, placing a kiss upon it.
And in that moment, watching the exchange between Falkland and her sister—the devotion and adoration beaming from Hope’s eyes, the flicker of victory and dominance burning in Falkland’s gaze—Faith knew.
She knew her sister had given herself to this foul beast, heart and body.
“Why haven’t you called on me?” Hope pouted and glanced at him from beneath her lashes.
“I heard you were ill, my
dear.”
“She was ill because of you,” Faith hissed.
Falkland shifted his dark, lifeless eyes to her. “Good day to you, Miss Westcott. You are always a picture of beauty.”
“And you, sir, are always a picture of chicanery.”
“I beg your pardon?” he huffed and ran a finger over his slick eyebrows.
Mr. Waite joined them, crossing his arms over his chest. “Lord Falkland, I assume?”
“Yes, and you are?”
“Mr. Waite. I am guardian to these ladies.”
“Indeed.” Falkland glanced at a passing carriage as if bored with the conversation.
Mr. Waite took a forceful step toward him, towering over the man. “And as their guardian, I must insist that you stay away from Miss Hope.”
Hope gasped and clung to Lord Falkland’s arm. “He will not.”
Lord Falkland patted her hand like a condescending parent then plucked it from his arm. “You may insist what you like, sir, but I believe the lady has made her choice.”
“The lady”—Mr. Waite stepped in front of Hope, pushing her behind him—“is not safe in your company. Any man who escorts a woman to a place like the Pink House then abandons her is not fit to be entrusted with the care of dogs.”
Hope struggled to weave around Mr. Waite, but Faith grabbed her arm and held her in place.
“How dare you!” Lord Falkland tapped his cane into the dirt, sending a puff of dust into the air. “I’ll have you know that the lady begged me to go to the Pink House. She rather enjoys that sort of atmosphere—the drinking, the gambling, the, shall we say, interesting clientele. Don’t you, dear?” His snakelike eyes peered around Mr. Waite and slithered over Hope.
Hope’s forehead wrinkled, and she stared back at him as if he had slapped her. Faith circled an arm around her shoulders and drew her closer. “She does not enjoy associating herself with the same squalor that you do, sir, and she suffered greatly for your negligence.”
“I left her in the care of a friend.” Lord Falkland raised a hand and examined his nails.
“Your friend abandoned her.” The veins in Mr. Waite’s neck began to throb, and a strand of his dark hair flicked over his jaw in the stiff breeze. “Do you realize the danger you put her in? Do you realize what almost happened to her?”
“What is she to you?” Falkland’s dark gaze shifted between Mr. Waite and Hope. “Ah yes. Now I see. You wish a piece of her for yourself.”
Mr. Waite raised his fist and slugged Lord Falkland across the jaw. His lordship floundered like a fish on a dry deck. His cane flew through the air, and he landed with a thud upon the stone street.
Gasps and “Oh mys” shot in their direction, and a crowd gathered to watch.
Faith couldn’t help the grin when Mr. Waite caught the silver-hilted cane as it careened to the ground and pointed it at Falkland.
“You are never to see Miss Hope Westcott again. Do I make myself clear?” He flung the fancy stick at Falkland, whose face was already swelling into a sweaty red mass.
“No!” Hope jerked from her sister’s grasp and dropped beside Lord Falkland, kissing his jaw where he’d been hit.
Brushing her aside as if she were a mere annoyance, he stood, wiped off his breeches, and straightened his shirt. “How dare you strike me!” Falkland rubbed his jaw and then lifted it in the air. “Do you realize who I am, sir?”
“No, but I recognize what you are,” Waite said.
A mixture of pride and relief lifted Faith’s spirits.
“Rest assured, Mr. Waite,” Falkland twisted from Hope’s clawing hands, “you may soon find yourself called out.”
“I await the pleasure.” Mr. Waite bowed.
Faith laid an arm around Hope’s shoulders and tried to pry her away from Lord Falkland’s side, but she stomped her foot as if planting it firmly in the ground. She turned her glassy eyes to Mr. Waite. “You cannot keep us apart.”
“Never fear, my dear,” Falkland announced to Hope, but his piercing gaze remained on the captain. “I will see you again. You can be sure of that.”
“Do not try me, your lordship.” Mr. Waite gripped the hilt of his service sword.
“And I will see you in irons if you dare to strike me again.”
With a mocking nod toward Lord Falkland, Mr. Waite took hold of Hope’s arm, pulling her from the vile man.
After sending Mr. Borland and Mr. Cudney back to the ship, which was but a few minutes’ journey from where they were, Mr. Waite escorted Faith and Grace as they dragged a sobbing Hope back to the house. When Mr. Waite had returned to his ship, and as soon as Faith had seen Hope tucked safely in bed within her chamber, she sought out Lucas and found him in the stables.
He glanced up at her, his initial grin fading beneath what must have been a look of urgency on her face.
“What’s wrong, mistress? Ye look like yer loaded and primed and ready to fire.”
“Just some trouble in town with Hope, but Mr. Waite handled it.” She leaned against a wooden post and smiled. “In fact, I spent the entire day with the commander.” She raised her brows. “Which made it the perfect day for the Red Siren to have attacked some poor merchantmen at sea. Grayson and Strom?”
He nodded.
“Tell them to proceed first thing in the morning.”
Chapter 26
Gripping the taffrail, Dajon gazed over Charles Towne Bay, watching the cream-capped swells coming in from the sea like white ruffles on an indigo shirt. Twenty ships anchored in the harbor; one other Royal Navy ship, the HMS Perseverance, a forty-four-gun ship, had recently arrived from Portsmouth, and the rest of them were merchant and trading ships. He knew because earlier today he’d examined each one in great detail through his spyglass.
Anything to take his mind off Miss Faith Westcott.
Yet he still could not shake the strange events of yesterday from his mind. Faith’s unusual nervousness, the constant bickering of her sisters, the odd but entertaining exchange between Mr. Mason and Hope, and then the coup de grâce—the infuriating encounter with Lord Falkland. Dajon had to admit that spending the day with the Westcott ladies had been anything but dull. Chuckling, he shook his head, but his grin quickly faded along with the late afternoon sun. The trap had been set.
His insides felt like a lead weight that threatened to drag him to the bottom of the sea. If his suspicions were true, tomorrow he would capture Faith, the notorious Red Siren, and be forced to turn her over to the Charles Towne authorities.
To be hanged.
And no matter how hard he tried to forbid the maddening woman entrance to his thoughts, she barged in anyway, over and over again, proclaiming her many worthwhile qualities—all of which he adored: her independence, her pluck, the fire in her auburn eyes, the depth of love she had for her sisters, her courage, those red curls, and her determination that spoke of deep passions within. He had never known a woman like her and probably never would again. The only thing missing was her love and devotion to God, something he hoped to remedy by a closer association with her—that was, if she wasn’t the Red Siren.
But he knew he must prepare himself for the worst possible outcome. He had to be strong. He had to do the right thing.
He gulped as a slow burn seared behind his eyes.
He had to do his duty.
Below him, on the main deck, his crew scampered to and fro, following his orders to ready the ship. Curses and laughter tumbled through the air, as well as the pounding of a hammer in the distance and the scampering of bare feet upon the yardarms above him.
Clenching the railing, he felt the bite of a splinter on his palm, but it did not compare to the sharp pain in his heart.
Oh Lord, I have followed You these four years. I have obeyed all Your commands and never faltered. Please do not test me in this. Please do not let Miss Westcott and the Red Siren be one and the same.
“Captain.” Mr. Jamieson’s high-pitched voice intruded from behind.
Dajon tightened his grip b
ut did not turn around. “Yes.”
“Two merchant sailors to see you, sir. They have some information.”
“Of what nature?”
“About the Red Siren.”
Releasing the railing, Dajon swung about to see two gruff-looking men standing behind Mr. Jamieson, hats in hand. “What about the Red Siren?” Dajon asked.
The elder of the men stepped forward, his spindly gray hair forming a ring around his sunbaked face. “Captain Milner at yer service, sir.” He gestured to his companion. “And this here’s Landers.”
Dajon nodded and examined the men as Jamieson took his leave. Where Captain Milner was broad and stocky, Landers was slight and short. They smelled of fish, sweat, and salt, and their stained, faded silk waistcoats indicated a failed attempt at noble attire. Seamen, to be sure. Milner looked down and turned his hat around and around as if pondering what to say next. Was that a slight tremble in his hands?
“Yes, yes. Spit it out, man.” Dajon’s voice shot out louder than he’d intended. “What have you to tell me?”
Captain Milner’s gaze snapped to his. “We hear yer hunting pirates. In particular, a lady pirate that goes by the name the Red Siren.”
“That is correct.” Dajon fisted his hands on his waist.
“Well, we came across her yesterday, we did. Or rather, she came across us.” He chuckled at his own joke, and Landers snickered behind him.
“The Red Siren attacked you?” Dajon raised his eyebrows, not daring to hope what he’d just heard was true.
“Aye, sir, that she did.” Milner gazed off to the right. “Fired upon me ship then grappled and boarded us.”
Dajon’s breath formed a ball in his chest. “Yesterday, you say?”
“Took most o’ our cargo, too. Spices, coffee, chocolate, and sugar.”
“Cursed pirate.” Landers spat to the side.
“What time yesterday?”
“’Twas near midday, methinks.” Milner glanced over his shoulder at his companion.
“Aye, midday.” Landers nodded, but he wouldn’t meet Dajon’s gaze. “I remember ’cause the sun was right o’er me head.”
Dajon rubbed his jaw and eyed the men. Strange fellows, these two, but then again, if they had truly been attacked and boarded by a pirate crew, that would be enough to unnerve anyone.
The Red Siren Page 24