The Red Siren

by M. L. Tyndall

  And Faith believed at that moment she could smell every single one of their unwashed bodies. At least her crew kept themselves somewhat clean—albeit per her orders.

  Clutching her skirts, Faith made her way up the creaking narrow stairs and glanced around the ship in awe. Though similar to her sleek brigantine in some ways, this sailing vessel was larger by comparison, and despite the squalor, everything in it, including crew and captain, operated together like a precise machine. But then again, Faith was no Royal Navy captain, nor did she ever intend to run her ship as if she were. Besides, the Red Siren could outrun this clumsy old bucket any day. She had nothing to fear.

  Beads of perspiration slid beneath her bodice as they approached the gun deck, and she wondered how the crewmen endured this stifling heat below deck day after day. Turning, the captain gestured with his lantern toward another set of stairs. “Just one more flight, miss, and you shall find relief.”

  Faith offered him a sweet smile. “May I see the cannons first?”

  “We call them guns when they are on a ship.” He examined her, searching her eyes through the shadows. “I must admit, you are a far more resilient woman than I first surmised, Miss Westcott. Most ladies would have no interest in such deadly weapons.”

  She wanted to tell him she was not like most women. She wanted to tell him she had an obsession with cannons, with the round iron shot, the ear-deafening blast, the invigorating sting of gunpowder in the air. “I have an interest in many things, Mr. Waite.”

  “So be it.” He nodded for her to precede him.

  Faith scanned the gun deck, lined on both sides with nine massive cannons resting in their trucks, their muzzles pointed toward closed ports—twelve-pounders, by the looks of them. Stale smoke lingered in the air. She slid her hand over the cold iron as if it were a dear friend and glanced over her shoulder at the captain. “I never pictured them so large. They must be quite deadly.”

  “Yes, they can be.” Mr. Waite scratched his chin and cocked his head curiously. “As you can see, we have eighteen here and two more on deck.”

  Twenty guns altogether. Faith made a mental note. “It warms a lady’s heart to know she has a brave, strong captain like you protecting her home from pirates.” The silly words sounded even more ludicrous lingering in the air between them, and Faith further embarrassed herself with yet another attempt to flutter her lashes.

  Mr. Waite stared at her, confusion twisting his features.

  She cleared her throat. “Have you killed many of the villains?”

  “None as of yet. But rather than kill them, it is my hope to bring them to justice.”

  “Perhaps they would prefer to die at sea rather than hang by a noose.” The words spat out of her mouth with scorn before she could stop them, but the captain didn’t flinch. Only the slight narrowing of his handsome blue eyes revealed any reaction at all.

  “Am I to presume you hold some fondness for these thieves?” He crossed his arms over his chest.

  “Good heavens! Why, of course not.” Faith sashayed to his side. She must be more careful. This man was not one to be easily duped. Faith brushed her hand over his arm and felt his body tense. “It must be dreadfully loud in here when you are at battle.”

  The heat between them rose like steam on a sultry day. The captain’s gaze dropped to her lips and remained there for what seemed minutes before he cleared his throat and took a step back. “Yes, I fear you would find it intolerable.”

  Faith gave him a coy grin. Intolerable? I can load and shoot one of these guns faster than most of your men can.

  The slight upturn of Mr. Waite’s lips reached his imperious eyes in a glimmer. “You do not agree. I can see it in your eyes.” His gaze flickered over Faith. Her body warmed under his intense perusal. She plucked out her fan and looked away.

  Dash it all, the man sees right through me. “I do not often agree with the opinions of others, Mr. Waite. I prefer to hear the blast myself before I make such a determination.”

  “Indeed? Well, perhaps I shall fire one for you someday.”

  Or at her, most likely. She smiled.

  He offered her his arm. “Shall we? I need to retrieve some papers from my cabin before I escort you home.”

  The captain’s cabin reflected its master in every detail, from the methodical arrangement of the furniture to the disciplined stacks of papers atop his oak desk. Rows of alphabetically ordered books lined the shelves built into the paneled walls. Faith ran a hand along the bindings and glanced at the titles: Campaigns during the War of Spanish Succession 1704-1711, Handbook for Seaman Gunners, Misconduct and the Line of Duty, Naval Ordinances, Regulations of the British Royal Navy. . . Below them, all manner of religious books lay reverently side by side: the Holy Bible, its leather edges worn; John Hervey’s Meditations and Contemplations; Milton’s Paradise Lost. Faith scowled. Mr. Waite appeared to be as dedicated to his God as he was to his navy.

  To the left of the shelves, an open wardrobe revealed pressed and pristine uniforms hanging in a row next to a dark blue frock with gold embroidered trim around the collar. Two pairs of polished boots stood at attention beneath them.

  The captain sifted through papers on his desk before glancing at her. “Forgive me, Miss Westcott, I shall be with you in a moment. Please have a seat.”

  She ambled over to the other side of the cabin where several plaques, framed documents, and ribbons dotted the wall: a medal for “conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at the risk of life and beyond the call of duty”; a meritorious commendation medal; combat action ribbons; a plaque signifying Captain Dajon Waite as a naval expert in the use of pistols, swords, and cannons. Faith stole a glance at him. Surely this was a man to reckon with upon the seas.

  Not at all like the young sailor she’d encountered on the English Channel five years past. As soon as her men had surrounded him, he’d given up without a fight. Then she’d ordered Lucas to round up his crew and set them adrift in one of their own jolly boats while her crew transferred all their belongings and weapons to his bigger and better-equipped ship.

  Mr. Waite’s gaze met hers, and he gestured toward a chair. “So what is your opinion of my ship, Miss Westcott?”

  “Your ship, Mr. Waite?” Faith flashed a grin. “I thought it belonged to England.” She eased into the wooden seat. “Truth be told, I imagine her far too bulky to catch pirates.”

  “Indeed.” He let out a deep chuckle that caused a warm flutter in Faith’s belly. “Fine lined and well armed—a beauty upon the water. I assure you, she will encounter no difficulty in her task.”

  “You speak of her as you would a lover.”

  A red hue crept up the captain’s face, and he returned to his papers.

  “I suppose time will tell.” Faith enjoyed her ability to embarrass him so easily. “But I thank you for the tour.” As she gazed at the strong, commanding man before her, she almost welcomed the challenge of meeting him upon the sea—almost—for what did her experience compare with his? Ah, but what a grand opportunity to test her skill and her crew’s against the finest of His Majesty’s Navy. One more glance at the taunting display of medals adorning the wall and she shook her head, wondering at her sanity.

  A rap on the door brought her to her senses, and the captain’s deep “Enter!” filled the room.

  The first lieutenant, Borland, marched inside. He glanced at Faith then faced Mr. Waite. “Pardon me, Captain, but I have a dispatch for you.”

  The captain extended his hand and snatched the paper, broke the wax seal, and scanned the contents before meeting his first lieutenant’s hard gaze.

  “May I inquire—” Borland cut off his words and cast a look of concern toward Faith.

  Following his first lieutenant’s gaze, the captain shrugged, dismissing Faith’s presence as having no bearing in the secrecy of the matter.

  “A Dutch merchant ship,” Mr. Waite announced, “laden with pearls, arriving tomorrow afternoon. We are to rendezvous with her off Hilton Head Isla
nd just after noon and provide safe escort from there to our harbor.”

  Faith’s heart thumped wildly as she glanced between the two men.

  “’Tis good news, Captain,” Borland said. “At least we shall finally set sail again.”

  Good news, indeed. Faith’s gaze shot out the door. She must get home quickly and make plans.

  The captain nodded. “Inform the men, if you please.”

  Borland started to leave then swung back around. “The pirate ship we have been seeking was spotted last night by a local fisherman.”

  Faith gulped.

  “Very good.” Mr. Waite nodded. “Then she has not abandoned these waters.” He folded the paper neatly and tucked it in his pocket.

  “Pray tell, what ship is that?” Faith hoped the tremor in her hands did not reach her voice.

  Mr. Borland took her in with a look far too admiring for Faith’s comfort. “A troublesome knave who has been plundering these waters for the past few months.” He chuckled. “Some say ’tis a woman pirate.”

  “A woman pirate? Absurd.” Faith rose to her feet. “These merchants who spotted her—him—no doubt had consumed too much rum. How can a woman be a pirate?”

  The captain circled his desk and leaned back on the edge. “I assure you, they can.” His brow darkened. “And it is my first priority to catch this blackguard, man or woman—this one they call the Red Siren.”

  Chapter 8

  Dajon eyed the red-haired beauty walking beside him, her delicate fingers tucked into the crook of his elbow as he led her up to the main deck. A solemn mood had settled upon her after the discussion of pirates and treasure ships. No doubt the thought of battles and death upset her—or did it? Dajon perceived a strength beneath the swish of lace and the flutter of dark lashes she so frequently offered him. He could not shake the feeling she was hiding something.

  Shame struck him. Although she had urged him to show her the entire ship, he should not have shown her the most repugnant sections aboard. He supposed he had been trying to humble her, but in reality his own pride had reared its ugly head, for he rather enjoyed watching her brazen demeanor slowly dwindle. Silently he repented, for she had obviously suffered under the sights and smells below, but surprisingly, no more than any man unaccustomed to them. In fact, she had moved through the ship with ease, not once losing her footing or cowering in the dark shadows. And her interest in the guns. By thunder, what a fascinating woman.

  “Mr. James, prepare the jolly boat,” he ordered one of the men standing by the capstan, sending the sailor into action as he shouted orders to the men around him.

  As they waited, Faith gripped the railing and closed her eyes. Dajon watched the evening breeze slide its cool fingers through the loose curls adorning her neck, playing with each silky strand, and he found his own fingers aching to do the same. An overwhelming urge to kiss her forced him to tear his gaze away. What was he thinking? His orders were to protect this woman—protect her from letches like himself—a task made all the more difficult when she insisted upon flirting with him all day. Or had she? Perhaps it was simply his own wishful desires.

  Oh Lord, give me strength, strength to resist such a tempting morsel laid before me, strength to stay upon the course I have vowed to pursue.

  He dared another glance her way. The setting sun transformed her skin into shimmering gold, and Dajon swallowed. Surely this exquisite creature would not be interested in him. More likely, she sought the most convenient alternative to that lecherous Sir Wilhelm Carteret. Dajon flexed his jaw. He would not be so easily taken in by her feminine wiles. Forcing his gaze from her, he watched the sun fling lustrous streams of crimson, orange, and gold into the darkening sky as it sank behind a flowing sea of trees.

  Faith smiled and flashed her auburn eyes his way. “Beautiful, is it not? God’s creation—untamed and untainted by man.”

  “Am I mistaken then?” Dajon recalled the animosity toward God she had so blatantly expressed the night before. “You do believe in an almighty Creator?”

  “I believe in Him, Captain. I simply do not believe He gives much thought to us, at least not as the Bible implies He does.” Faith tossed her chin in the air.

  Her declaration stirred both sadness and curiosity within him. “I am sorry.”

  “Do not be.” She raised one brow. “I am not. ’Tis freeing, actually.”

  “Might I ask what made you give up on God so easily?” He leaned on the railing beside her.

  “Easily?” She waved her hand in the air. “You would not understand. You have no doubt led a charmed life.”

  “Nay, I would not say so.” Dajon glanced over the railing and saw the sailors climbing aboard the rocking jolly boat and loosening the ropes. Hardly easy. His life had been riddled with strife and heartache.

  Mr. James approached and tapped the brim of his bicorn. “Ready, Captain.”

  “Very well.” Over Mr. James’s shoulder, Dajon saw Borland staring at them in a most peculiar way. The first lieutenant dropped his gaze and disappeared below hatches before Dajon could acknowledge him.

  “Shall we?” He extended his arm toward Miss Westcott but found she had retreated toward the foremast, allowing two sailors carrying a barrel to pass by. A gust of wind struck the ship, flapping the slack sails and tousling the red curls of her loose bun. She offered Dajon a sultry smile that sent a spark through him. And something else—a memory triggered deep within him. He paused, trying to grab hold of it, but whatever it was evaded him. Perhaps it was her exquisite crimson hair—a rarity among women. He’d seen only a few ladies who had been graced with such an audacious color.

  By the time they had rowed ashore and entered Charles Towne through one of the three gates breaching the massive rampart that circled the city, darkness had begun to descend. “My apologies, Miss Westcott, for keeping you out so late.”

  “I do thank you for showing me your boat, Mr. Waite,” Faith replied as she took the lead, weaving around piles of horse manure that littered the dirt of Bay Street.

  “Ship, if you please.” Dajon rushed to catch up with her and offered her his arm.

  Faith smiled but did not take it. “Of course. But there is no need to see me home. You must have preparations to attend to on board. I am quite safe within these walls.”

  “Aye, I do have a bit of work to do on my ship, but afterward, I’ll be staying in the guesthouse per your father’s request.” Dajon glanced at the stone enclosure that blocked their view of the bay. “To find such a fortified city in the colonies, complete with moat and drawbridge, is quite astonishing.” He fingered the hilt of his sword as they passed one of the port’s taverns. “But with Spain’s recent attacks and the Tuscarora Indian war, ’tis no wonder the settlers thought it worth the added protection. Not to alarm you, Miss Westcott.” He grabbed her arm, forcing her to slow her pace. “But the wall is not impenetrable, and there are dangers lurking within the city as well.”

  “I realize, Mr. Waite, that you and my father have an arrangement, but any fool can see that it was forced upon you against your will. My father has a way of doing that to people.” Faith halted and placed one hand on her gently rounded hip. “Believe me, there is no need for your constant watch. I have been caring for myself and my sisters since my mother died, and I will continue to do so.”

  His blood began to heat under her ungrateful and dismissive attitude. “You seemed to have need of me when Sir Wilhelm came calling.” He gave her a sideways glance. “And when you begged so ardently to see my ship.”

  She stared at him with the look a spider might bestow upon a fly caught in her web. Finally, she let out a sigh. “My apologies. You have been most gracious.” She offered him a smile that seemed to strain the muscles of her face.

  However befuddled by the woman’s teetering moods, Dajon felt he could not leave her without an escort. “It is unsafe for a woman to traipse through town alone.” He cast a wary gaze around them. “Especially this one. And regarding your sisters—surely yo
u do not expect to protect them against everything, Miss Westcott. There are some things best left in the hands of men, due simply to their physical strength and ability.”

  Her creamy face reddened, darkening the cluster of freckles on her nose. “No doubt another one of your grand opinions? Well, I, for one, have found that conjecture to be naught but a lie perpetrated by men to keep women in submission.” Turning, she stomped forward as if she were trying to lose him and turned onto Queen Street. Music from a harpsichord chimed from a tavern to their left.

  “Indeed?” Keeping pace with her, Dajon shook his head, baffled by her insolence, her independence, but most of all, her foolishness. No wonder the admiral worried for his daughters. This one in particular seemed to go out of her way to find danger. He chuckled.

  Faith huffed and flashed a dark gaze his way. “I amuse you, Mr. Waite?”

  “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.