Truly, he must love her.
h
“Good morning, Hope, Grace. Isn’t it a lovely day?” Faith floated into the dining room, anxious to see her sisters, anxious to express her affection for them, to tell them that things would be different, that now all would be well. She was met by the tantalizing scent of oatmeal, honey, sweet cream, and orange marmalade. Her stomach rumbled.
Hope, modishly dressed in a cotton lavender gown trimmed in silver lace, gave her a curious glance before returning to her coffee.
“Hope, let me see you.” Faith clutched her hand and pulled her to standing, then she studied her sister’s sweet features, the golden gleam in her hair, her thick dark lashes surrounding sapphire eyes. Had Faith ever really seen her before? Had she ever really looked at her as anything other than a nuisance? “Such a lovely lady you’ve become.” She hugged her, but Hope was so stiff it felt as though Faith hugged one of the masts on her ship.
When she pulled back, Hope’s face had contorted into confusion.
Faith gulped. Was it so unusual for her to express affection to her sisters?
“And Grace.” Faith skirted the table in a swish of lace, but her sister flinched and backed away, looking at Faith as if she were the devil himself.
Ignoring her, she took Grace’s hand in hers and squeezed it. “Such constant faith in God. What an inspiration you are to us all.”
Grace exchanged a glance with Hope then frowned at Faith. “Oh my. Tell me you haven’t taken up that vile devil’s brew—and so early in the morning?” She rose and began sniffing around Faith’s mouth.
“Nay, something far better.” Faith squelched her rising frustration and turned to stare out the window.
“Miss, would you care for some tea?” the serving maid chirped be-hind her.
“Yes, Miranda, thank you.” Faith took her seat, and after the maid had poured her tea, she plopped two lumps of sugar into the steaming liquid.
Sipping the sweet, lemony tea, she enjoyed the warm trail it made down her throat and into her belly. “Things will be different around here,” she began, raising her voice in excitement. “I shall be home more often. We shall attend to our studies—art, literature, science—take up the pianoforte, perhaps. Make Father proud.”
Hope blinked. “Whatever has come over you? Are you ill?” She pressed the back of her hand to Faith’s cheek then waved it through the air. “Please do not make any more promises you never intend to keep.”
Faith sighed, feeling as if the sugar had turned to lead in her stomach. She placed a gentle hand on Hope’s arm. “Forgive me for being such a horrible sister, will you?” She glanced at Grace. “And you as well? Can you both ever forgive me?”
Footsteps sounded behind her. “What’s this about being a horrible sister?” Molly set a tray of cakes down on the table.
“Call the doctor, Molly. I fear some savage fever has captured our sister’s brain,” Hope said in all seriousness.
Molly leaned over to examine Faith. “Something different about you for sure. A glow, a brightness in yer eye.” She straightened her stance. “Well, whate’er has gotten into you, I hope it stays.”
“God has gotten into me.” Faith grinned.
“God, did you say?” Molly clapped her hands. “The Almighty Hisself? Well, praise the Lord. Jest what I’ve been praying for.”
Grace cast a hopeful glance toward Faith. “Truly?”
Faith gave her a reassuring nod.
Hope dropped her cup into her saucer, the clank echoing through the room. A look of horror marred her face. “Now what is to become of me? I am surrounded.”
Faith and Molly laughed.
“Sir Wilhelm Carteret to see you, Miss Westcott,” Edwin announced from the doorway.
Carteret. He was the last person Faith wanted to see. Now or ever.
“Escort him to the drawing room, Edwin. I shall be there shortly.” She stood, straightening her gown. “Not even Sir Wilhelm will dampen my mood today,” she promised her sisters. But as she made her way to the drawing room, her father’s ultimatum hit her in the chest like a boarding ax. Unless Dajon proposed, she would be forced to marry this buffoon when Father returned. And although she believed Dajon loved her, she had no idea of his true intentions.
Whom are you trusting? echoed an inaudible voice within her.
Herself again. Faith hung her head. Slipping back into her old ways so soon. Forgive me, Lord. She said a silent prayer as she entered the drawing room and barely glanced at the odious man.
“Sir Wilhelm.”
“Miss Westcott,” he said in greeting. Taking her hand, he placed a warm, slobbering kiss on it.
Faith suddenly wished she had donned her gloves. Snatching her hand away, she took a step back and wiggled her nose at the smell of the pungent starch Sir Wilhelm lavished upon his wig.
He seemed to be waiting with anticipation for her to say something—such as how good it was to see him or to what did she owe the honor of his esteemed visit—but she just stood, hands clasped before her and brows raised.
“Well, you’re no doubt wondering the reason for my call.” He cleared his throat and adjusted the cravat abounding in waves of white silk around his neck. “I feel we should become better acquainted. We are, after all, betrothed.” His thin, pale lips spread into a catlike grin.
The tea in Faith’s stomach churned into a brew of repulsion, and she pressed a hand to her belly, hoping its contents would stay put. “I fear you cannot claim that victory yet, Sir Wilhelm. Not until my father returns.”
“Victory, ah, yes. It would indeed be so for us both.”
Faith scratched beneath her collar, feeling a sudden rash creep up her neck. “Do not presume, sir, to assess my feelings in this matter.”
“I make the presumption, Miss Westcott, based on any woman’s delight at the prospect of so favorable a future—especially a lady with no title or fortune to call her own.”
“I may not have title or fortune, but I have a heart and a will to marry whomever I wish.”
“Pshaw!” Withdrawing an embroidered handkerchief, he flapped it through the air. “Women do not have the capacity to make their own decisions, which is why these arrangements are best made between men.”
Faith bunched her fists, digging her nails into her palms. “Sir Wilhelm, I do not wish to be impertinent, nor do I wish to offend you, but I must inform you that I am opposed to this match and will do everything in my power to prevent it from occurring.”
Sir Wilhelm’s face blanched an even whiter shade than Faith had thought possible. But then his mouth curved in a sly grin. “Ah, you play the coquette with me. So charming.” He took her hand in his, intending to plant one of his slobbering kisses upon it again, but Faith snagged it back.
“I assure you, sir, I am playing no game.” She grimaced as anger tightened every muscle within her. This man’s bloated opinion of himself had surely swallowed all of his reason.
“You will feel differently, dear, when we are married.” His slimy gaze perused her from head to toe as if imagining the event.
“We will never be married,” she spat through gritted teeth.
“I realize your aversion to the union, Miss Westcott.” Sir Wilhelm flung a hand through the air and left it hanging there as if waiting for some token. “A certain timidity is to be expected among genteel ladies. But I assure you, with my fortune and position, you will be most happy.”
The mélange of angst and fury in Faith’s stomach nearly boiled over. “As I have said, I seek neither your fortune nor your position, sir, and I fear I must by good conscience inform you that I would rather broil over a savage fire than marry you.” She hated to be cruel, but in the face of such arrogant presumption, she had no choice.
Sir Wilhelm swept back the long white curls of his periwig and straightened his silk waistcoat as if preparing to speak to an assembly. “’Tis that Mr. Waite, isn’t it?” His congenial tone turned caustic. “You prefer a poor commander with no weal
th or title? Foolish woman,” he hissed and snapped his gaze from hers before he took up a slow pace across the room.
“He treats women with dignity. Respect.” Faith crossed her arms over her chest. “Something you would do well to observe and learn from.”
Spinning on his heel, Sir Wilhelm faced her, his snakelike eyes narrowing. “Perhaps this will change your mind.” He reached inside his coat and pulled out a stack of papers, unfolding them with a flap of his hands. “I have discovered that your esteemed Mr. Waite is not who he appears to be.”
Sir Wilhelm’s confident tone sent a twinge of fear through Faith. “What madness is this? Would you stoop so low, sir, as to slander another man’s name?”
“Slander, Miss Westcott, or reveal the truth?” The mole by his right ear seemed to throb with each vile word he spoke.
Faith tore her gaze from it and rubbed her arms. Unease prickled over her, the unease of impending attack, an intuition she’d honed during her years at sea.
Sir Wilhelm gave a satisfied smirk. “It pains me to tell you that not five years ago, your priestly Mr. Waite was involved in quite the scandal outside Brent.”
“Scandal?” Faith planted a hand to her waist and blew out a sigh. “Really, Sir Wilhelm. This is beneath even you.”
“See for yourself.”
Snatching the papers from his hand, Faith began perusing them, only half listening to his vainglorious drivel.
“Seems your pious captain was known to be quite the coxcomb in his time. Apparently had an affair with a Lady Marianne Rawlings—a married woman.” Faith felt his piercing eyes lock upon her, but she did not look up.
The words before her blurred into squiggly lines.
“When she was found with child, he killed her to cover up the sordid event.”
Killed. With child. The words scrambled in the air around her just like the sentences did on the page now quivering in her hands. Other words joined them in her memory—words spoken by Dajon in confession of a sordid past.
Scanning the legal document, obviously from a barrister, Faith tried to focus. Mishap. . .Mr. Dajon Waite and Lady Rawlings involved in a carriage accident. . .Slick roads. . .The Lady Rawlings and her unborn child died from injuries.
Everything inside of her screamed a defiant No!
It couldn’t be true. Not Dajon.
He wouldn’t have an affair with a married woman. He wouldn’t dispose of her and their child as if they were inconvenient trifles.
“Treats women with dignity, did you say?” Sir Wilhelm withdrew his snuffbox and snorted a pinch into each nostril. “Now you see, my dear, since you must find a suitable husband before your father returns and Mr. Waite obviously falls short, you will have no choice but to marry me.”
Chapter 30
Dajon led his horse down Hasell Street toward the Westcott home. Well past midnight, no need to hurry. Everyone would have retired by now. After he’d watched the Red Siren sail away, the HMS Enforcer had encountered a foundering merchant ship, taking on water through a rotted hole in her side more rapidly than she could pump it out. He and his crew had spent the rest of the day and part of the night assisting them with a temporary patch and then hauling them into port. After he’d spent the night on his ship, he’d awoken to pressing business from the Admiralty that had stolen his entire day and most of his evening.
It had taken every bit of his will to remain at his tasks, to not drop everything and dash off to see Faith—to see how she fared after her harrowing capture and release, how her renewed faith was settling in, and where her true feelings toward him lay.
He thanked God that no one else on the ship, aside from Borland, had actually seen Faith. No one else knew her true identity. Her flag had not been raised. The Red Siren painted on the hull had not been visible from the side they boarded, and she had fired only one shot, a warning shot he easily explained away as the means of an inexperienced captain’s daughter to get the merchant ship’s attention.
The marines had been quite satisfied with his explanation of mistaken identity. The distraught captain’s daughter had only been searching for her missing father after the poor man had been abducted and forced into slavery aboard a ship by a vindictive merchant in payment for an exorbitant debt he owed.
No one recognized Lucas. No one knew Faith, save Borland, and Borland was Dajon’s lifelong friend, his partner, his confidant. He accepted Dajon’s promise that Faith had vowed never to pirate again.
Then why did guilt continually churn in Dajon’s gut? God, forgive me for my lies, but I did not know how else to save her.
Daring a glance into the black sky, he hoped for some sign of absolution. Nothing but dark clouds broiled over a sliver of a moon. Lord, no harm was done. In fact, quite the opposite—a known pirate has repented. Then why do I feel like You have abandoned me?
Regardless, Dajon could not imagine having taken any other course. Because the only other course available was one that led to Faith’s neck in a noose.
Agony choked him at the thought, and he took a deep breath of the night air, fragrant with earth and jasmine. A vision of Faith in breeches and waistcoat stormed through his mind.
A pirate.
He smiled. By the powers, what an incredible woman. He yearned to see her, to take her in his arms, to express his sincere devotion to her; it would have to wait until morning, though, for no doubt she had retired hours ago.
Dismounting, Dajon led his horse through the back gate of the Westcott house. He nodded at Lucas and handed him the reins. “Good evening, Lucas, or good morning, rather. My apologies for keeping you up so late.” The air hung like a heavy curtain around them. Not a breeze, not a whisper of wind stirred the thick folds of humidity.
Lucas grunted and took the reins. Unusual for the normally cheerful groomsman, but then, Dajon had caught him at piracy. Perhaps he was concerned for his future. “Never fear, Lucas, I have no intention of arresting you for your part in Miss Westcott’s piracy. She explained that your participation was only to assist and protect her and that you have no desire to pirate again.”
Lucas shifted his stance but said not a word.
Trying to determine his mood, Dajon peered at him, but the groomsman’s features were lost in the shadows. Even the outline of his hair blended into the ebony night.
“Never mind,” Dajon said. “We shall discuss it later. I’m spent and wish to retire.”
Lucas didn’t move.
A thick silence waxed between them. Dajon drew in a deep breath of air burdened with the smell of horseflesh and human sweat. An uneasiness, borne from many battles, pricked his fingers, causing them to grip the hilt of his sword and peer into the darkness surrounding them.
“You may lead him to the stables, Lucas. I am home for the night.”
Lucas cleared his throat. “Forgive me, Mr. Waite, but I can’t be doin’ what ye ask of me.”
Before shock could settle in, the snap of a twig and the crunch of gravel drew Dajon’s gaze toward the house, where a form appeared out of the darkness. A curvaceous form in a light-colored gown that swished when she walked.
Faith.
He took a step toward her in expectation.
“That will be all, Lucas. Leave the horse where it is.” Her harsh tone froze Dajon in place. “Mr. Waite will be leaving shortly.”
Dajon gave a humorless laugh. “What are you saying? I have only just arrived.” Removing his bicorn, he dabbed at the sweat on his forehead. By thunder, ’twas a muggy night. Perhaps the soggy air had somehow seeped into Faith’s brain, befuddling it.
Dropping the reins, Lucas hesitated, shifting his weight back and forth, but one look from Faith sent him shuffling away.
“Why are you awake at this hour?” Dajon asked, beginning to believe that he wouldn’t like her answer at all. He held out a hand, hoping she’d take it and relieve him of the fear that now prickled his scalp.
But she did not. Instead, she turned, took a few steps, and positioned herself by his horse.
Was that a sword strapped to her side? “I must protect my sisters.”
“From whom, pray tell?”
“From you.”
Dajon took a step back, as if an icy wall of water had crashed over him. Peering into the darkness that seemed to stretch for miles between them, he searched for her eyes but could only make out two simmering black coals.
Fear gave way to anger. He had done naught to deserve this ill treatment. “What has gotten into you? Yesterday—”
“Yesterday, I thought I knew you,” she snapped and crossed her arms over her waist, where Dajon thought he saw the dark shape of a pistol shoved into her belt.
Knew me? Dajon swallowed, sending what felt like lead pellets into his stomach. The hoot of an owl echoed across the garden. Dajon had the odd feeling the bird was somehow warning him to flee. “Miss Westcott, if you’ll forgive me, I am in no mood for games.”
“I’m not the one playing a charade.”
Dajon bunched his fists. Nothing was making sense. It was as if he had walked into a playhouse where one of Shakespeare’s tragedies was being performed. Only he was up onstage. “Whatever are you talking about? And why do you all of a sudden feel you need to protect your sisters from me? I have done you no harm—in fact, quite the opposite.”
She snorted. “Unfortunately, Lady Marianne Rawlings cannot claim the same.”
All hope, all joy drained out of Dajon, soaking into the ground beneath him. Only an empty shell of shame and horror remained. Now he understood. “Who told you?”
“Sir Wilhelm.”
Ah yes. Dajon should have seen it coming, should have told Faith the truth, but he longed to bury his past forever in the hope that he could forget it as well.
“Tell me it’s not true.” Faith’s stalwart voice broke in a slight tremble.
The owl repeated its eerie call from somewhere above them. No more lies. He would tell no more lies tonight. “I cannot deny it.”
She flinched and stepped back, bumping into his horse, who protested with a snort. “Though I am truly thankful for all you’ve done, I must ask you to leave immediately and never come back.” Grabbing the reins, she held them out to him.
The Red Siren Page 29