The Red Siren (23 page)

D
ajon patted Faith’s gloved hand and gently tucked it in the crook of his elbow. He could still feel the tremble in it even after an hour of strolling downtown. He had certainly expected some reaction from her after the traumatic night they had shared last week, especially after their passionate kiss. But he hadn’t expected the complete horror that had shot from her eyes when he had entered the drawing room with Borland and Cudney on his heels. He had only thought to bring the marine at the last minute, as a way to gauge her guilt. And, unfortunately, her reaction had weighed heavily on the scales of iniquity—a pirate’s reaction if ever he saw one.
      All color had drained from her face. Even the peach of her lips had transformed to gray. Her chest heaved like the swells of a summer squall upon the sea. What other explanation could be offered?
      “I thank you, Mr. Waite, for your kind offer.” She looked up at him and smiled, her auburn eyes a sparkling mixture of unease and playfulness. “I do admit I feel much better out in the summer air. And my sisters needed an outing more than I, I’m afraid.”
      “My pleasure, Miss Westcott. I had no idea you have been indisposed.”
      “Just a bit of fatigue. Nothing to be concerned about.” She plucked out her fan and fluttered it through the air.
      He glanced at Hope on the arm of Borland as the two of them strolled down the lane. “Your sister seems much improved.”
      “Yes.” Faith lowered her lashes. “She has been melancholy this past week. Only today has she returned somewhat to herself.” She sighed and allowed a tiny grin. “Although I’m not altogether sure I am ready for the return of her peevish attitude.”
      Dajon chuckled, but Faith sobered instantly. “I must beg your
forgiveness, Mr. Waite, for my burdening you with our family affairs that night.”
      “Never fear.” Dajon patted her hand again. “You can trust me to keep your confidence.”
      “I am in your debt, sir.” She gave his arm a squeeze that reached up to warm his heart.
      Grace, her hand stiffly on Cudney’s arm, came alongside him. “We have missed your company, Mr. Waite.” She gazed at him with green eyes framed by lashes as thick as a virgin forest. With her petite, curvaceous figure and ebony hair, she possessed an exotic beauty that rarely peeked out from behind her rigid exterior.
      “How kind of you to say, Miss Grace. I’m afraid I’ve been quite busy on board my ship.” He eyed his marine, marching beside her. The man’s stiff mouth and glazed eyes indicated he wasn’t particularly enjoying Grace’s company. Perhaps she had been expounding to him the dangers of sin as they strode along.
      “Thank you for inviting us to the festival,” Grace continued. “My sister was becoming quite the magistrate, forbidding us even to leave the house.”
      “She was, was she?” Dajon studied Faith, who was fanning the air about her as if swatting away the conversation. “The lady who rides a horse better than most men, enters dangerous taverns in the thick of night, and fires pistols with deadly accuracy? That lady?”
      “Yes, exactly.” Grace giggled. “She holds us to a far higher standard than herself, it would seem.”
      “Indeed.”
      Faith snapped her hard gaze to her sister. “The things I do are for your protection and are quite different from putting oneself in danger’s way for naught.”
      Grace frowned. “I would hardly call feeding the—”
      “Nevertheless,” Dajon interrupted, hoping to ward off another mind-hammering argument between the sisters. “It is I who should thank you, Miss Grace, for the pleasure of your company.” He grinned. With a lift of her nose, she and Mr. Cudney proceeded ahead to join Hope and Mr. Borland.
      Dajon had been pleased to discover that the citizens of Charles Towne had planned a small festival celebrating the return of the summer’s crops after much of their plantings had been destroyed by the Yamasee
Indian raids the previous year. Local artisans agreed to display their wares on the street while musicians entertained passersby. The small event provided the perfect opportunity to invite the Westcott ladies out for a pleasurable day, as well as the perfect distraction for Dajon’s real purpose—to bait Faith with the news of the arrival of a merchant ship.
      But as he allowed his gaze to sweep over her smooth skin, kissed pink by the sun, her fiery curls dancing in the breeze around the half-moon scar that adorned her graceful neck, even the cluster of freckles atop her nose, he wondered how he could be so deceptive to such an extraordinary woman. He swallowed, gazing at her moist lips, remembering the soft feel of them on his own, her hunger, her passion, her need for him. Shifting his eyes away, he prayed for a cool breeze to blast over him and revive his reason.
      But what choice did he have? He had to know the truth, even if it killed him. And somehow today, as Faith walked beside him, clinging to his arm as if she belonged there forever, he knew that it just might.

Faith adjusted her flowered straw hat, longing to tear it from her head and shake her hair loose in the breeze. Beneath the grueling August sun, her head felt like a poached egg. Or maybe it was the feel of Mr. Waite’s strong arm beneath her hand that caused her to overheat. More than likely, it was the trembling that still coursed through her body. For she had thought for certain when he had marched into their drawing room, marine in tow, that he had procured enough evidence to arrest her.
      Turning down Queen Street, she felt a salty breeze waft around her. She took in a deep breath, noting Mr. Waite did the same. He loved the sea as much as she did. At least they had one thing in common. But their similitude stopped there.
      The blasted man was taunting her. She knew it.
      She shouldn’t have accepted his invitation. But as she heard Hope’s laughter and saw Grace examining an Indian basket, she knew her sisters had needed a carefree day of amusement.
      Perhaps it would be Faith’s last one with them.
      Perhaps Mr. Waite was simply luring her close enough to the half-moon bastion so when he arrested her he wouldn’t have far to throw her in the Watch House prison. Her mouth went dry even as another trickle of perspiration slid down the back of her dress.
      
When they turned down Bay Street, the cobblestone avenue exploded in a cacophony of sounds and movements. Ladies decked in gay colors, on the arms of men in their finery, flitted across the path to examine shop wares displayed in front of the stores. Music frolicked down the street from a small band positioned under the shade of a hickory tree. Harpsichord, violin, and flute harmonized together in a lively tune.
      As they wove their way through the clamoring crowd, they passed exquisitely carved furniture made from oak, mahogany, pine, and cypress, oil paintings from local artists, the latest fashions, shoes, silk fans, musical instruments, and gold and silver jewelry. A variety of languages filled the air, most of which Faith recognized: Dutch, German, French. Charles Towne attracted people from all over the world looking for freedom and a new start in a fresh land, and this day every one of them seemed to be strolling about on Bay Street.
      Up ahead, a French trapper and his Indian wife bartered with a shop owner over some pelts flung across his arm. Long matted hair framed his face and swayed across his back as he spoke. Behind him, his wife, wearing dirt-smudged furs, kept her gaze on the ground. Yet not three yards away strolled a man and lady decked in silk and lace—the finest fashions of London society. Faith doubted she would ever grow accustomed to the extreme contradiction of this wild land.
      A curricle clomped toward them, and Mr. Waite ushered Faith from its path, placing himself between her and the street. A woman, donned in a silk ruffled gown and white powered wig, gave Mr. Waite an appreciative smile from its seat as they passed.
      “Are you enjoying yourself, Miss Westcott?” He leaned down to whisper in her ear. The scent of leather and lye swirled about her nose and quickened her breathing. “You seem a bit tense.” His lips curved in that sardonic grin that always sent her heart pounding.
      Faith dared to glance into his sharp blue eyes, down to his strong jaw, and over to his dark umber hair pulled behind him. She could understand why he attracted feminine admiration. She averted her gaze before she gave him the satisfaction of seeing her own admiration.
      “I fear I am still not quite myself, Mr. Waite, but I am happy to see my sisters enjoying themselves.”
      Faith closed her eyes, longing to drown out all the sounds around her, save the lap of the bay upon the quays. She took in a deep breath. There it was: the salty smell of the sea hidden among the odor of horse
and sweat and city refuse. She could hardly wait to sail upon its mighty waves again where no problems, no guilt, no fears assailed her. Only peace.
      That feeling of peace quickly diminished, however, when Faith opened her eyes and saw the Watch House up ahead. She froze, drew a shaky breath, and forced herself onward. The sounds of the city faded into a muddled clamor as she strolled past the ominous building, her hand still clenching Mr. Waite’s arm. Unable to avert her gaze, she stared at the circular stone tower that protruded in a semicircle into the bay, a citadel guarding the city’s entrance. The brick Watch House loomed just before it. Faith couldn’t help but wonder how many poor souls were imprisoned within.
      
Oh God, please don’t let me become one of them.
      Good heavens. She was praying again. Yet even as she made the silent plea, she tripped over one of the cobblestones and barreled forward.
      Catching her arm, Mr. Waite stayed her fall. “Are you all right, Miss Westcott?”
      “Yes, forgive me.” His hand touched the small of her back, sending a flame of heat up her spine. She jerked away from him. “I wasn’t paying attention.”
      “You seem a bit unnerved today, miss.” The captain shifted his daring blue eyes between her and the Watch House.
      “I am concerned for my sisters. Forgive me. I am not very good company.”
      “That could never be the case.” He gave her a sincere smile.
      As they continued onward past the Watch House gates, Faith’s heart took on a more relaxed beat.
      He must not have any evidence against her. He’d probably forgotten all about the pearl, and she had been worried for nothing.
      As they passed one of the docks, the wooden frame of a ship projecting from an open warehouse drew Faith’s attention. Several men scampered about, and the pounding of hammers and the scrape of saws filled the air.
      Faith had never seen a ship being built before, and she stopped, lifting her hand to shield her eyes from the sun. A familiar figure hefting a large piece of wood onto his shoulder emerged from the warehouse, shouting orders to one of the men.
      “Is that not the man we met in church?”
      
Mr. Waite snapped his gaze toward the open warehouse. “Ah yes.” He raised a hand to his mouth. “Mr. Mason,” he called.
      Mr. Mason squinted in their direction then dropped the log from his shoulder and waved. He started to move toward them but froze as if he saw a ghost. Following his gaze, Faith found it had locked upon Hope, who stopped beside her.
      Grabbing a cloth from a bench, Mr. Mason mopped the sweat from his face and neck then tossed it aside and approached them.
      After nodding his greeting toward Mr. Waite, Faith, and the others, he turned toward Hope. “Good day, Miss Hope.” He swiped a hand through his brown hair and drank her in with his gaze. His moist cotton shirt clung to his arms and chest, revealing strong muscles beneath.
      Hope huffed. “Whatever are you doing out here in the hot sun like a common laborer?”
      His grin fell slack. “I fear I
am
a common laborer.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “I am building my third merchant ship.” He rubbed his stubbled jaw and crossed his thick arms over his chest.
      “Mr. Mason’s other two ships are no doubt upon the seas at this moment,” Mr. Waite commented. “Someday, Mr. Mason, I fear you will be a wealthy man.”
      “All I want is to be able to take care of myself, Mr. Waite.” Mr. Mason glanced at the captain, then his eyes quickly shifted back to Hope. “And a family someday.”
      “Still.” Hope raised a haughty brow. “Can you not hire someone to do this menial work?”
      “I prefer to work alongside my men and make sure the job is done correctly, if that’s acceptable to your ladyship.” He gave a mock bow.
      “Why should I care? I simply do not see the point of getting so filthy and sweaty.” A deep shade of red crept up Hope’s face.
      “Work is good for you, Miss Hope. It gives you something to occupy your time other than pleasing yourself.” Amusement flickered in his dark eyes. “You should try it sometime.”
      Grace giggled, and Faith found herself enjoying the banter between Hope and this common man. She had never seen her sister quite so befuddled, so abashed. Normally Hope would have dismissed the man instantly and walked away, yet there she stood, as mesmerized with him as he seemed to be with her.
      “How dare you?” Hope’s jaw tightened. She tore her gaze from his,
as if waiting for his apology, waiting for him to grovel at her feet as most men did.
      “You are the one who stopped to converse with me.”
      “I did no such thing.”
      “Yet here you remain.” He grinned.
      “I shall remedy that immediately, sir.” She grabbed onto Mr. Borland’s hand. “Come along, Mr. Borland.”
      With a shrug of his shoulders, the lieutenant followed behind her like a horse-drawn carriage.
      Faith and Mr. Waite said their good-byes as Mr. Mason returned to his work, chuckling as he went.
      “At last a man who sees beyond our sister’s beauty,” Grace commented with a chortle.
      “Indeed.” Faith squeezed Grace’s hand. “He is extraordinary at that.”
      “What an impertinent, rude man.” Hope sneered when they caught up to her and Borland.
      “I thought him quite charming,” Faith teased.
      “You would think—”
      “Ah, there is Mallory’s Tea Shoppe,” Mr. Waite interrupted. “I hear they serve an excellent lemonade.” He gestured to a small, quaint shop to their right. The wide front porch was furnished with white tables and chairs. “Shall we refresh ourselves, ladies?”
      Grace nodded with a smile, and Hope’s eyes lit up. “Why, yes. That sounds delightful.”
      After everyone was seated with lemonade in hand, Mr. Waite rose, scraping his chair over the aged porch floor. “If you will excuse me, ladies. I saw someone inside I need to speak with.” He cast a knowing look toward Borland. “I shall only be a minute.”
      An awkward silence ensued in his absence.
      Faith studied Mr. Cudney, whose posture reminded her of a backstay under a stiff wind. What was his purpose among them if not to arrest her? Surely not to socialize. He seemed as out of place as a priest on a pirate ship.
      “Mr. Cudney, may I ask how long have you been a marine?”
      “A little over two years, miss.” His brown eyes met hers with a brief smile then skittered away.
      “And do you serve on only His Majesty’s ships?”
      “Yes.”
      
“The marines fight as infantry aboard the ship,” Mr. Borland said. “They carry out guard duties, suppress mutinies, and enforce regulations.”
      “I see.” Faith knew that, of course, but smiled at Borland nonetheless.
      “You must be very courageous.” Hope rested her head in one hand and cooed in Mr. Cudney’s direction. A red hue that matched the color of his uniform marched up the poor man’s face.
      “Speaking of courage,” Mr. Borland began, stroking his moustache and clearing his throat. “We shall need courage like his to protect the
Lady Adeline
sailing in from Martinique day after next.”
      “Protection from what?” Grace asked, taking a sip of her lemonade.
      Faith pressed her cool mug between her hands, the tantalizing scent of lemons swirling about her nose, and willed her expression to remain placid as she listened to Borland’s response.
      “From pirates, miss, of course, as well as other villains upon the sea.”
      Grace fingered a button at her high collar. “May God have mercy on their wicked souls.”
      Frowning at her sister, Faith ignored the unusual guilt needling her heart.
      The
Lady Adeline
. A merchant vessel that needed guarding. Precisely the opportunity Faith had been awaiting. But how could she find out more without giving herself away?
      “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.