The Red Siren

by M. L. Tyndall

  Faith gestured toward Lucas. “And this is Lucas, my first—my groomsman,” she stammered.

  “Your first groomsman, eh?” Anne snickered then pushed aside the massive oak door that led into the back garden. “Like I told you, she went this way about an hour ago.”

  “Alone?” the captain asked.

  “Aye, as far as I could see.”

  “Did she say where she might be heading?”

  “Not to me.” Annie cocked her head and grinned, allowing her sultry gaze to drift over Mr. Waite.

  The captain brushed past her, grabbing Faith’s elbow as he went. “Thank you, Anne. That will be all.” He dismissed her as if she were one of his crewmen.

  Lucas squeezed by her, as well, eyeing her with caution.

  Anne scowled before she released the door and stomped back into the tavern, muttering something about pompous naval officers.

  Lightning flashed, illuminating the porch in stark grays and whites before snapping it back into darkness. Two lanterns swaying on poles offered little light over the dismal scene. Rain pounded the slanted covering above them. Droplets squeezed between the wooden slats. One of them slid down Faith’s gown, weaving a trail of unease down her back as she scanned the shadows for Hope.

  The captain released her elbow and took her hand in his. Lucas came alongside them. Together they took a step forward. Weeds reached up between the cracks of cobblestone and clawed at their feet as they made their way to the edge of the porch and stopped, peering out into the shadows. A brick wall enclosed the small garden, if one could call it that. Thistles and brown shrubs littered the area. A massive tree stood in the center, a cracked stone fountain at its base. Though most of the patrons had gone inside out of the rain, some remained splayed across benches and over the cobblestones in such a drunken stupor that they were oblivious to the raindrops splattering over them.

  Faith gulped as a metallic taste rose in her throat. Hope was nowhere in sight.

  Thunder shook the sky as they stepped from beneath the overhang. Drops of rain pelted Faith’s skin. An eerie ballad snaked through the moist air like a witch’s chant. A radiance flickered from beyond the tree.

  Mr. Waite squeezed her hand. “Never fear. We shall find her, Miss Westcott.” He led her around the trunk and down a path.

  Faith’s gaze shot to a far corner of the garden where a lantern burned. No, ’twas not a lantern but a fire, a pillar of fire nigh two feet tall. The flames burned bright despite the lashing rain and wind.

  Mr. Waite headed for it.

  With their backs to the fire, a group of men hunched together against the rain. When they weren’t hoisting bottles to their mouths, they belted out a sinister trill that sent chills over Faith.

  Oh devils, we call ye

  Out from yer graves.

  Give us yer power;

  We are yer slaves.

  Faith snapped her gaze back to the fire. A shadowy figured huddled just beyond it.

  Hope.

  Faith yanked her hand from Mr. Waite’s and dashed toward the corner. Hope curled into a ball against the brick wall, drenched and shivering.

  “’Tis Hope,” she yelled over her shoulder, sidestepping the fire and kneeling beside her sister.

  “Hope?” She touched her arm, cold as ice. Faith gulped. “What have they done to you?” Hope’s eyes fluttered, but she did not open them. A moan escaped her lips. A hundred heinous scenarios crept through Faith’s mind. “Not again, Lord. Not again.”

  “Heaven help us.” Mr. Waite stepped around the flame, slid his arms beneath Hope, and hoisted her effortlessly into his arms.

  The fire disappeared.

  Faith’s widened eyes met the captain’s. She shifted her gaze to the spot where the fire had been and then to Lucas, who stood frozen in place, the whites of his eyes fixated on the missing flame. No wood, no smoke, nothing to indicate a fire had just burned there. The ground beneath it was not even charred. Faith placed her hand over the spot.

  Moist, cold soil met her fingers.

  “There she be!” one of the drunken men shouted, arousing the others from their ballad. The mob rose and clambered toward them.

  “We’ve been lookin’ fer that lady!” bellowed a slovenly fellow in front, pointing his bottle at Hope.

  “Aye, she just disappeared,” another commented, and the men grunted in unison.

  Faith glanced at Mr. Waite but could not make out his features in the shadows. She wiped drops of rain from her lashes and stood.

  Two of the men drew their swords. “We saw her first. She’s ours.”

  Lucas swerved to face them and slowly pulled out his cutlass. The metal against sheath rang an eerie chime across the yard. Yanking her pistol from her belt, Faith aimed it at the mob and counted the dark, swaying heads.

  Ten.

  Ten to three. And Mr. Waite with his hands encumbered beneath the weight of Hope’s unconscious body.

  “She does not belong to you,” the captain said with all the authority of a king.

  “To the devil wit’ ye, sir. I’m givin’ ye a fair warning. There be powers at work here that ye best be heedin’.”

  “I agree with you gentlemen,” Mr. Waite replied, his tone so calm and steady it astonished Faith. “There are indeed powers at work here. But if I were you, I’d be careful which ones I associated with.”

  Malefic chortles filled the air as lightning shot a fiery dagger across the sky, flashing a spectral glow over their faces.

  Faith swallowed. A chill struck her as if a wall of ice passed through her.

  Evil was here.

  A malevolent force tugged upon her, weighing her down with dread and hopelessness.

  She shook the rain from her face and tried to steady her wobbling gun. What did Mr. Waite hope to gain from this derisive repartee? It would take more than mere words to disarm these men and the wickedness that empowered them.

  The captain took a bold step forward, clutching Hope more tightly to his chest. “This woman is not yours. She belongs to God,” he roared, “and in the name of Jesus Christ, the Son of the living God, I order you to stand down.”

  Thunder boomed. The ground shuddered.

  The men shrank back as if a broadside had struck them in the gut. Although their eyes narrowed and their jaws tightened, they made no move toward Hope.

  Mr. Waite turned and marched across the garden toward the back exit.

  Faith glanced over her shoulder as she ran next to him, expecting the villains to give chase. Behind her, Lucas ran backward, his sword brandished toward the band of cursing men.

  Mr. Waite kicked open the iron gate. It squealed on its hinges and slammed into the brick wall.

  Faith followed him around the side of the tavern where they’d left their horses. One final glance over her shoulder told her the men had not moved an inch.

  Grabbing her arm, Lucas pulled her away from the sight.

  Mr. Waite halted amid the row of horses and wheeled around.

  Faith touched his arm. “What is it?”

  “One of our horses is missing.”

  “Hey, you there.” A slurred voice echoed through the alleyway. “Ain’t ye the strangers that bested old Charlie?”

  Mr. Waited snapped his eyes toward Faith. “We’ve no time. We shall make do with two. Lucas, mount up, and I’ll hand you Miss Hope.”

  “Aye, aye.” Lucas untied the reins, swung onto the horse, then leaned down to receive Hope. She moaned as he grasped her and laid her across the saddle in front of him.

  “Hey, I told ye to stop!” A crowd of men formed at the head of the alley. “Are we gonna let this bilge-sucking navy dog come down to our territory an’ make a fool o’ poor Charlie? Let’s teach ’im a lesson.”

  Groans and “ayes” bounced off the brick walls.

  Faith lifted her pistol and stepped out from the horses. “Stay back, or I’ll drop you where you stand.”

  “Ouch now.” The man snickered. “Did ye hear that, gents? The lady’s g
onna shoot us.”

  He and his companions fell into a fit of laughter.

  Lucas backed up his horse and leveled his own pistol upon them.

  The captain took a running leap and jumped onto his steed then held down his hand for Faith.

  She hesitated, shifting her eyes between him and the crowd. One well-aimed shot by these villains at their fleeing backs and all would be lost. Perhaps she should remain and keep them at bay until Mr. Waite and Lucas could escape with Hope. Perhaps it was the only way to ensure her sister’s safety.

  “Are you coming? Or do you plan to take on these ruffians by yourself?”

  Though she couldn’t see his face, she envisioned the sardonic curve of his lips.

  “Trust me. I will get you and your sister home safely. Now, please.” He stretched out his hand farther even as the horse clawed at the mud, perhaps sensing the impending danger.

  Trust. Her chest tightened. Placing her life and the life of her sister in someone else’s hands made Faith’s stomach constrict so tightly she felt it would explode into a thousand pieces. But she had little choice at the moment. And Mr. Waite had not let her down thus far.

  Stuffing the pistol in her belt, she took his hand, and he hoisted her up before him and grabbed the reins.

  The men recovered from their gaiety. “Hey, where ye runnin’ off to, ye cowards?” One of the men took a step forward and plucked out his sword. “I’m challengin’ ye to a duel, ye spineless son of Neptune’s whore.”

  Mr. Waite twitched the horse’s reins and faced the man. “Another time, perhaps?” He gave the horse a swift kick in the belly, sending the steed galloping down the alley straight toward the mob.

  Chapter 21

  The drunken men formed an oscillating row. Dajon sped straight for them, intending to run them down if he had to. But at the last minute, they jerked aside, some tumbling to the ground, others scrambling for their fallen pistols. Dajon bolted ahead. He did not look back.

  A barrage of cracks and pops split the night air.

  A bullet whizzed past his ear.

  Dajon jerked the reins to the right and then the left, weaving a chaotic path down the street, dodging the volley of bullets. Lucas galloped beside him doing the same, one arm holding Hope in a fierce grip.

  Lightning cracked the sky in a fork of brilliance, casting an eerie gray flash over the buildings that lined the road. Laying propriety aside, Dajon wrapped his arms around Faith’s waist and pressed her back against his chest, then they lunged around the corner down Meeting Street. The thud of horse hooves in the mud matched the furious beat of his heart. Thunder bellowed above them as if war in heaven had broken out right over their heads. Faith jumped, and he gripped her tighter as he cast a quick glance over his shoulder. No one followed.

  Easing the horse to a trot, he wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve before returning his hand to Faith’s waist. Lucas drew up alongside him and cast a glance his way, his expression lost in the shadows.

  “Hope.” Faith beckoned to her sister, reaching her hand across the distance between them, but no response came from the dark mound bounding at their side.

  “She be all right, mistress,” Lucas said. “Her breathin’ be steady. And I ain’t seen no blood.”

  Faith released a sigh. Her shoulders drooped slightly. Dajon brushed the curls from her cheek and leaned toward her, intending to offer her a word of comfort. Instead, his gaze landed on the black shape of a pistol clasped tightly between her hands.

  Reaching around her, he touched her arm. “Give me the pistol, Miss Westcott. ’Tis over now. You are safe.” Yet he wondered if she gripped the weapon out of fear—or anger. Truth be told, none of her behavior that evening had portrayed an ounce of fear—and certainly none of the trembling, swooning, or outright panic one would expect of a lady in the face of such danger and debauchery.

  She hesitated for a moment then flipped the pistol in the air, catching it by the barrel, and handed it to him over her shoulder, handle first.

  Like an expert marksman.

  Dajon stuffed it in his belt and swallowed against the horrifying revelation rising in his throat.

  He pulled back on the reins, slowing the horse to a walk as they approached the city gates. Visions of Faith storming into the tavern as boldly as she would her own parlor and then standing her ground in a room full of drunken villains, pirates, and ruffians blasted across his mind. Not just standing her ground, but drawing her weapon, demanding her sister’s return. Why, she had not even blinked at the lewdness and profanity surrounding her. What sort of lady was she?

  A pirate lady.

  No. He could not believe it. He would not believe it.

  Through the city gates, Dajon turned the horse onto the dirt path to Hasell Street, searching for an explanation for Faith’s behavior, any explanation besides the one that kept shoving its way to the forefront of his mind. Perhaps her father had trained her in arms. Perhaps she’d been forced to defend their home in the past. No. He knew Admiral Westcott. He would never allow one of his daughters to behave in such an improper and audacious manner.

  She wiggled in the saddle and pulled away from him. “You do not have to hold me so tightly anymore,” she shot back over her shoulder.

  He leaned toward her ear. “Enjoying yourself too much, perchance?”

  “I’m sure many women succumb to your infinite charms, Captain, but I am not among them.” Dajon chuckled but kept a firm grip upon her. “I am deeply wounded, Miss Westcott. After all we’ve been through, ’tis only that I wouldn’t want you to fall.”

  “If you don’t control those hands, it won’t be me who falls from this horse, Mr. Waite.” She shuffled in the saddle again, and the movements of her body against Dajon sent a surge of heat through him. He released her momentarily and cleared his throat. What was he doing? The last thing he needed was to entangle himself with a woman, especially an admiral’s daughter—and especially this particular woman who had far too many secrets stowed under hatches.

  But Miss Westcott. Never had he encountered such a lady, such a dichotomy of charm and venom all wrapped up in a curvaceous, fiery parcel.

  He leaned toward her, longing to savor the moment of her close proximity—one that he doubted would ever come again. But the stench of that awful soap bit his nose, overpowering her normal sweet, lemony aroma. He huffed. Certainly the lady knew no more about soap making than he did.

  She flipped her hair behind her, swatting him in the face with the fetid strands, and glanced toward Lucas and Hope. “I do thank you, Mr. Waite.” Her voice had softened, had even taken on a penitent tone. “My sister appears unharmed, at least on the outside. I thought surely all was lost when we entered the tavern and she was nowhere to be seen.”

  “’Twas my pleasure. I am only glad we arrived in time.” Dajon glanced at the groaning petite form in Lucas’s arms. “If you and your sisters would simply follow the rules, you could avoid putting yourselves in such danger. That is what rules are for, Miss Westcott—for your own safety and the safety of others.”

  She gave a most unladylike snort. “I fear your task as our guardian has been much more than you bargained for, Mr. Waite. Perhaps you now wish to reconsider?”

  His task? Surprisingly, neither Dajon’s obligation to the admiral nor the consequences to his career had even penetrated his decisions tonight. He had acted only out of fear for Hope’s safety, and in particular, out of his strong desire to alleviate Faith’s distress. When had he begun to care for this family? And more important, when had he begun to put his career, his very life on the line for them?

  Surely, Lord, this unselfish act will pay off a portion of my past debt.

  He felt a shudder course through Faith. “I fear for what my sister endured before we arrived.”

  Dajon remained silent. He knew all too well the wickedness that went on in those nefarious dens. As he envisioned the fiendish group of men that had surrounded Hope, he loathed to think what they had done to h
er, what they had planned on doing. Certainly even more evil had been afoot than ravishing a young woman.

  But the Lord had shown up strong! The strange fire, the presence of God that had protected Hope. A surge of faith lifted Dajon’s spirits. “Never fear, God was with your sister the whole time, even before we arrived.”

  A brisk wind swirled, shoving dark clouds aside and allowing the glow of a half-moon to shine upon them.

  Faith shook her head.

  Lucas cleared his throat. “Beggin’ yer pardon, sir, but what exactly did happen back there? I ain’t seen nothin’ like that before.”

  “That, Mr. Corwin, was the mighty hand of God.”

  “But the fire—it jest disappeared.”

  “Amazing, wasn’t it?” Dajon still found it hard to believe himself. Yet how could he deny what he had seen? It reminded him of the pillar of fire God had sent to protect the people of Israel as they traveled across the wilderness. Excitement sped through him.

  “And those men couldn’a see Miss Hope till the fire was gone.” Lucas’s normally hearty voice quivered slightly.

  “And the ground was cold and wet beneath the flames after they disappeared,” Faith added, awe softening her normal confident tone.

  “Aye.” He smiled.

  Lucas shifted in his saddle, adjusting Hope in his arms. “And those men—they stopped. They didn’t chase us after ye commanded them in the name of Jesus to stand down.”

  “The name of Jesus has been placed ‘far above all principality, and power, and might, and dominion, and every name that is named, not only in this world, but also in that which is to come,’ ” Dajon said, quoting from Ephesians. He felt a tingling sensation throughout his body.

  Faith stiffened against his chest.

  “God exists,” Lucas announced incredulously.

  “That He does, Mr. Corwin. That He does.”

  “I am sure there is another explanation.” Faith’s sharp tone bit into Dajon’s joy. The Lord had rescued one of the Westcott sisters from evil, but the other was still locked in a dungeon of disbelief. Lord, if this miracle cannot convince her, what will? Without God, she would forever be wandering through life searching for something that could not be found.