The Red Siren

by M. L. Tyndall

  Dajon nudged the horse, prodding him into a trot. Tonight God had used him to do battle against evil to save Hope. And he was more determined than ever not to allow those same wicked forces to keep Faith from the Lord.

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  Faith sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed her sister’s hand. As soon as they had arrived home, she’d instructed Lucas to carry Hope into Faith’s chamber, where she could sit with her until she awoke. Faith considered waking Grace but thought it wiser to allow her sister to rest. No sense in all of them being exhausted on the morrow. So with the chambermaid’s help, Faith had undressed Hope, searched for wounds—finding none, not even a drop of blood—and then clad her in a nightgown and wrapped her among the blankets on her bed. Though Hope had fluttered her eyes briefly during the commotion, she had not regained consciousness. And that thought alone terrified Faith more than anything. Something dreadful must have happened to cause her sister to remain ensconced within the dark places of her mind.

  Laying her face in her hands, Faith released the tears she’d withheld all evening, allowing them to flow down her cheeks and drip off her chin one by one onto the down quilt. It was all her fault. If she had just spent the day at the park with Hope like she had promised, they would not have fought, and Hope would not have ventured out into the night.

  Faith glanced at the blurred shape of her sister lying on the bed. “I’m so sorry, my dear, sweet Hope. Please forgive me.” She squeezed Hope’s hand then swiped the tears from her own cheeks. No time for crying. From now on, Faith would do better. She would spend more time with her sisters, even if it meant forgoing her sleep.

  Releasing her sister’s hand, Faith rose and walked toward the window. She clenched her fists then leaned on the ledge, allowing the moonlight to drench her in a wash of silver. If she could plunder one or two more treasure-laden ships, she might have enough to approach her father. Then she would have all the time in the world to spend with her sisters, to protect them, to guide them.

  She glanced across the yard where Spanish moss on a red cedar swayed in the breeze. Below, Molly’s prize vegetable garden guarded the side wall, framed by purple larkspur, wild geranium, and tall evening primrose, its strong, sweet scent permeating the night air. The storm had passed. Tomorrow would be a beautiful day. Perhaps a new start? She opened her mouth to speak. Then slammed it shut. What was she doing? She had been about to pray—to thank God for saving Hope and to plead with Him for the soundness of her sister’s mind and heart. She lowered her gaze to the chipped white paint around the window. Hadn’t she prayed at the tavern during a moment of despair, and hadn’t God answered her prayers? But why would He, when she had turned her back on Him long ago?

  No, ’twas Mr. Waite. ’Twas his prayer God answered. And only his. Yet that would mean God did care for His children—at least some of them.

  “Though you have left Me, I have never left you.”

  Tears surged into her eyes. She shook her head. No. You’ve allowed too many tragedies, too much pain. I cannot trust You. I will not.

  “I love you.”

  A tap sounded on the door, and Faith brushed her tears aside before whispering, “Enter,” thinking it must be the chambermaid or perhaps Molly come to scold her for their dangerous escapade.

  The door creaked open, and the hollow thud of boots sounded on the wooden floor. She turned, her heart skipping a beat.

  The large frame of Mr. Waite filled the doorway. “Forgive me, Miss Westcott, I know this is most improper, but I cannot sleep and thought to check on Miss Hope. May I?”

  Swallowing her sorrow and guilt, Faith squared her shoulders. “Of course. Please come in.”

  He glanced toward the bed and crossed the room. No navy coat hid his broad chest—a chest that stretched his shirt like a full sail under a mighty wind. His breeches were haphazardly stuffed into black boots. His dark hair hung loosely about his collar, and a day’s stubble peppered his chin.

  Faith’s breath halted as he stepped into the moonlight.

  He nodded toward the bed. “How is she?”

  A rush of heat sped through Faith. She took a step back. “I don’t know. She has not awakened.”

  “Were there. . .were there wounds?”

  “Nay.” She crossed her arms over her stomach, hoping to still the beating of her heart. “Not on the outside, anyway.”

  He nodded as if he understood. Faith tightened her jaw. As if he could possibly understand the internal wounds of a woman.

  “I’ve sent for the doctor,” he said. “There must be a reason she is still benumbed.”

  “She has been like this before.” Faith glanced out the window, feeling her guard weakening before the outpouring of this man’s concern.

  The captain cocked his head curiously.

  “This is not the first time she has been accosted by licentious knaves, Mr. Waite.” He blinked then glanced toward the bed. When he returned his gaze to hers, sorrow stained his otherwise clear blue eyes.

  Feeling suddenly weak, Faith sank onto the window ledge. Did this man care about Hope, about her? She studied him, searching for a hint of duplicity but finding only sincerity burning in his gaze. Yet nobody cared for anyone unless there was personal gain. He wanted something. But what? She let out a sigh. No matter. He had saved Hope. And for that, he did not deserve to be scorned.

  “Forgive me, Mr. Waite. ’Tis just that my sister has suffered much.”

  “I’m sorry. There is much evil in the world.” Without warning, he reached out and took her hand.

  His warm fingers enclosed hers protectively. Faith knew she should jerk from his grasp, but the comforting strength of his touch filled a need long unmet. “Evil in the world? Aye. But in your own household?” Faith gritted her teeth against a flood of emotion.

  Mr. Waite continued to caress her hand, but he made no reply. He leaned against the wall framing the window, so close to her she could smell the sea upon him. The salty fragrance settled over her nerves, untying the many knots formed during the night’s harrowing venture.

  Should she tell him? She longed to pour out her heart to this man. Hope moaned from the bed, drawing both their gazes momentarily.

  Faith glanced out the window. “My older sister, Charity, is married to a ruthless, cruel man, Lord Herbert Villement. Not only does he mistreat Charity—severely—but he set his wicked eyes upon adding all her sisters to his harem.” She shot a fiery gaze his way. “He claims to be a godly Christian man.”

  Mr. Waite stopped caressing her hand; his fingers stiffened.

  Faith swallowed. “’Twas Hope he set his sights upon first. Possibly because I refused to acknowledge his lewd suggestions, and Grace”—she gave a wry laugh—“sweet Grace’s piety no doubt disturbed the demons lurking within him. Hope has always been such a flirt, you see.” She glanced at Mr. Waite, his dark gaze locked upon her as he listened with interest. “All of it harmless in her innocence and youth. Poor thing. She longed for approval. Still does, I suppose.” Faith retrieved her hand and stood, not wanting the comfort to assuage the anger of her memories. She gazed at the shadowy form on the bed. “Papa never appreciated Hope. He finds her ignorant and flighty, and she and Mother were so much alike that they squabbled over everything.” Faith let out a pained laugh. “Hope never knew how much Mother truly loved her.” Faith’s eyes burned, and she pulled her hand from his and stepped into the shadows.

  He crossed his arms over his chest, his dark silhouette like a sturdy ship on the horizon.

  Faith clasped her hands together. “We tried to avoid our new brother-in-law as much as we could. His salacious dalliance masked behind polite discourse was not lost on us as he must have assumed. But as family, he had access to our home whenever he wished.” Her stomach soured as visions of him bursting through their front door shot through her mind, hat and cane in hand, licking his lips in a ravenous grin. “Which was often—usually whenever Father was away and Charity was, of course, home unwell. ’Twas no wonder she had a perpet
ual headache.” Faith snorted and grabbed her throat, trying to dissolve the clump of pain that had taken residence there.

  The captain’s knuckles whitened as he grabbed the window ledge. Still, he said nothing. He took a step toward her.

  Faith held up a hand to stay his advance. She did not want his comfort, his sympathy. She must finish her story. She must let it out, or she feared it would explode within her like the backfiring of a ship’s gun.

  “One evening, Mother and Grace had gone to the city. Papa was at sea, and most of the servants had been dismissed on holiday, leaving Hope and me alone in the house. I heard her scream.”

  The same chill that had stabbed through Faith that night stabbed through her now. Wrapping her arms about her chest, she shut her eyes against the image that was forever engraved in her mind.

  “By the time I stormed into Hope’s chamber, he was donning his pantaloons and spewing foul curses toward her as she lay on the bed.” Tears fought their way to the forefront of Faith’s eyes, but she willed them back with her fury.

  A gentle touch on her arm startled her. She jumped and snapped her eyes open to see the captain’s tall figure beside her.

  “She was but seventeen,” Faith sobbed.

  Moonlight glimmered off the hint of moisture covering Mr. Waite’s gaze. His nostrils flared, and a tiny purple vein began to throb on his forehead.

  Faith stepped away from his grasp. “Then Lord Villement came after me.”

  Chapter 22

  Lord Villement came after you?” Dajon’s stomach convulsed. He tried to say something, wanted to say something to comfort Faith, but when he opened his mouth, all he found on his tongue was an anchor chain of angry curses.

  “Aye.” Faith’s voice was but a whisper. “He pinned me to the floor by the fireplace, grunting over me like a beast.”

  “Did he. . .did he. . .” Dajon could not form the words, much less the thought.

  She lifted her gaze to his, but the shadows hid her expression. “I grabbed the poker and stabbed him in the leg.” She spat the words so quickly and with such finality that it sounded as if there could be no other ending to the dreadful story. But her bunched fists at her sides and the stiffness of her shoulders as she moved to the window told a different tale.

  “I threatened to pierce the other leg and would have if he hadn’t fled from the house in agony.”

  Dajon blew out a sigh and raked a hand through his hair. At least Faith had been spared. The moonlight doused her in a halo of silver, highlighting her stiff posture and making all the more noticeable the shudder that now ran through her. He moved closer, longing to take her in his arms, to protect and soothe her. Would she welcome his embrace? Or would she fear him—a man alone in her chamber?

  As if in answer, she whirled around and faced the window.

  He halted. “I’m sorry.”

  “It was a long time ago.” She snorted and waved a hand through the air. “I have tried to care for both my sisters since, but I fear I have failed miserably. At least Father brought us to the colonies—away from our brother-in-law—but if he forced Charity to marry that cad, will he not do the same to us—marry us off to the first man who comes knocking on his door? Like that vile Sir Wilhelm? I cannot let that happen again.” She swayed as if her legs would give way beneath her.

  Dajon started toward her again, but she instantly crystallized, her posture rigid. “You take on too much. It is not your job to protect and provide for them.”

  She shot him a hard glance. “Who, then? You? My father? No. Mother handed me that baton on her deathbed. Not that I wouldn’t have gladly taken it anyway.”

  Anger tightened every muscle in his back. “Surely your brother-in-law was punished?”

  Leaning against the wall beside the window, Faith hugged herself but remained silent.

  “Did you not report him to your parents?”

  She flung her hair over her shoulder, the moonlight setting it aflame in shimmering red. “Yes. Mother was horrified, but what could she do? It was his word against Hope’s. Who would believe a seventeen-year-old girl over a lord? Father dove into his usual denial of any problems with his girls and refused to believe the event had ever taken place. Charity believed us, but fear of her husband kept her silent. So naught was ever done.” Faith huffed. “Women are of little import. Certainly not enough to make a fuss over.”

  “Perhaps in some circles, yes. But I do not believe so.” Anger and sorrow wrestled within Dajon’s gut. It was unfathomable that this cretin had gotten away with such a heinous crime. And heartbreaking to witness the effects of it upon both Faith and her sister. And the villain claimed to be a Christian. No wonder her faith had dwindled.

  “If I had been there, I assure you the man would have been punished.” He inched closer to her.

  “Well, you weren’t there, were you?” Faith snapped. “And neither was your God. Apparently He thinks as much of women as society does.”

  Dajon winced. “I am here now.” He touched her arm, and when she didn’t move away, he pulled her closer to him.

  She stiffened, but then slowly her shoulders sank. She gazed up at him, her glistening auburn eyes only inches from his. “You are here only on my father’s orders.”

  He brushed the back of his fingers lightly across her cheek, enjoying the way she closed her eyes beneath his touch. “Do you really believe that is still my only reason?”

  Her lashes fluttered against her cheeks like ripples on a calm sea. She opened her mouth then shut it as he continued to caress her skin. He placed a gentle kiss upon her forehead and allowed his gaze to wander down to her full lips. They quivered slightly.

  Was she inviting his kiss?

  He licked his own lips, forcing down his passion, forcing down his longing to explore that sassy mouth of hers with his own.

  He ground his teeth together, fighting an urge that threatened to crash over him like a powerful wave.

  Lord, I need Your strength.

  What was he doing?

  Faith was vulnerable, upset, and alone with him in her bedchamber. To take advantage of this moment would be incorrigible. Besides, she had suffered enough under the care of men, and Dajon did not trust himself not to add further pain by his own affections, no matter how genuine.

  Gathering every ounce of God-given resistance, Dajon released her shoulders. “You are wrong about God, Miss Westcott. He highly esteems women. His love for them is evident throughout the scriptures.”

  She snapped open her eyes. Was it surprise, disappointment, or perhaps both that flashed from their depths?

  Touching a lock of her hair, he fingered the silky strand, unable to resist at least that small token. Their flight through the rainy night seemed to have cleansed it, leaving it fresh and enticing. “You must not blame God for everything bad in this world.”

  She jerked away and plopped down on the window ledge. “Why not? Is He not sovereign? Can He not snap a finger and do whatever He wishes?”

  The overwhelming passion of only a moment ago seeped from Dajon’s body as quickly as if a keg plug had been pulled. “Aye, He can. As He did tonight.” Dajon raised a brow and crossed his arms over his chest. At all costs, he must rein back the itch to touch her again. “Did He not save your sister?”

  Faith snarled. “Perhaps, but why tonight and not five years ago?”

  “I do not know. But I do know this”—he leaned toward her—“He has never left you or your sisters.”

  Faith shook her head stubbornly.

  With a sigh, Dajon stepped toward the bed. No wonder she blamed God; no wonder her faith had faltered.

  But Hope. His gaze took in her sleeping form on the bed. “I don’t understand why your sister continually throws herself in the path of danger. It is as if she is begging for a repeat of her harrowing past. She must listen to her father—to me.” He shifted his gaze to Faith, who stood and stared out the window, fingers gripping the sleeves of her gown.

  She spun around and threw he
r hands to her hips. “Adhering to the dictates of men has only caused her pain. She had broken none of your God’s rules when she was ravished by our brother-in-law. Naught was broken save her heart and her innocence. And no rule can ever heal the damage done to either of those.”

  Dajon tucked his hair behind his ear, searching for a way to help her understand that rules were made to protect people—both God’s rules and man’s—and all too often, broken hearts were the result of broken rules. “You think me a rule follower, but I have not always been so.”

  “You? The pious Mr. Waite. Broke a rule or two in your day, have you?” She sashayed over to him, her eyes flashing in the candlelight. “Told a wee lie, perhaps, or neglected to read your Bible ten times a day?” She snickered.

  Dajon shuddered. Did he appear so saintly, so sanctimonious? Had he become so good at hiding his true self behind a shield of divine rules that no one thought him human? “Nothing quite so harmless, I assure you. I have a past I am not proud of. I have hurt others. . .caused great harm because of my own foolishness.”

  “I find that hard to believe.” Faith ran her hand over the smooth wood of the bedpost and gazed at her sister.

  Dajon wanted to share his sordid past with her, if only to convince her he was as fallen and sinful as anyone else. But he thought better of it. Her hatred of men’s treatment of women meant she would not react well to his woeful tale. “I have since found great security in the rules of God and forgiveness in His love.”

  She darted an icy look his way. “And I have found that regardless of whether you follow God’s rules, He does not protect you.”

  Dajon felt as if a twenty-pounder sat upon his chest. He placed his hand over hers on the bedpost and felt her tremble. “I wish I could take your pain away.”

  She faced him, her eyes narrowing, but did not remove her hand from beneath his. “Why would you care? What is it that you really want, Mr. Waite?”

  A good question. What did he want? How could he tell her when he didn’t quite know what he wanted? He allowed his gaze to wander over her face, her skin as lustrous as a pearl, her fiery eyes so full of life, the cluster of freckles on her pert little nose that darkened when her ire was pricked, and those plump lips begging for attention. Taking her hand from the post, he brought it to his lips and placed a kiss upon it, all the while keeping his eyes locked upon hers.