The Red Siren

by M. L. Tyndall

  She tilted her lips in a gentle smile—a genuine smile devoid of the tough facade and sarcasm. Dajon’s heart swelled under the warmth of it.

  And he knew. He knew at that moment that he cared for her. As much as he fought it, as much as he denied it, he was enchanted by this brazen, redheaded, stubborn spitfire of a woman.

  “I see you have no answer, Mr. Waite?” she quipped. “Well, what should I expect from a—”

  Dajon brushed a thumb over the sleek line of her jaw, silencing her. Relishing in the softness of her skin, he tipped her head toward him and placed his lips upon hers. Why he gave in to the impulse, he couldn’t say for sure. Perhaps it was to still her insolent tongue. Perhaps he could no longer resist her, or perhaps it was because she’d asked what he wanted, and truth be told, all he wanted was to kiss her.

  She sank into him, receiving his kiss with equal passion. He lost himself in the feel of her, the softness of her lips, the smell of her breath, the warmth of her curves next to him. He felt as though his whole body was aflame and drinking her in was the only way to put out the fire. She reached up and ran her fingers over the stubble on his cheek and moaned.

  Releasing her lips, Dajon reluctantly withdrew, kissed her cheek, and folded her in his embrace. He ran his fingers through the curls cascading down her back.

  Then, as if another person took over her body, she yanked away from him and gave him a fierce look. “How dare you!”

  Dajon flexed his jaw then grinned. “You asked me what I wanted, did you not?”

  “Aye, but I did not ask for a demonstration.”

  “I heard no complaints.”

  “How could I protest with your mouth smothering mine?”

  “Perhaps I mistook the moan you uttered as one of ecstasy instead of dissent? You should be more clear in your intentions.” Dajon could not help but laugh.

  “Allow me to be absolutely clear now, Mr. Waite.” Faith stormed toward the door and flung it open. “Please leave. You have shown me what you want. ’Tis naught but the same thing every man wants.”

  “Great guns, woman, do you really believe me to be so base?” Dajon approached her. “’Twas more than passion that ignited that kiss.” He halted and sighed. Arms crossed over her waist, she would not look his way. “’Twas more than passion I felt from you.” He eased his fingers over her lips, still moist from his kiss. She did not move. Nay, perhaps he was fooling himself into hoping she returned his ardor. But still she allowed his touch. Her chest rose and fell rapidly; for a moment, he thought she would soften, but she batted his hand away and retreated in such haste that she stumbled over a small table by the door. It wobbled on its thin legs, sending something atop it to the floor with a thud.

  Click, click, click. A round object spilled from a small pouch and bounced over the wooden planks.

  “What have we here?” Dajon bent and picked up a tiny glimmering bead and held it up to a nearby candle. Alarm pricked his scalp and shot his heart into his throat. He shifted it to his other hand and examined it more closely, not ready to acknowledge what he saw.

  It was a pearl. A rare conch pearl.

  Chapter 23

  Dajon stomped through the soggy streets of Charles Towne, ignoring his dark surroundings and the muddy water that splashed over his leather boots and up onto his white breeches. It had been nearly a week since he had seen Faith, nearly a week since he had discovered the conch pearls in her chamber. Unable to face the conclusion the pearls forced upon him, he had avoided her altogether, sneaking home late at night after everyone had retired and rising well before dawn.

  Between two fingers of his right hand, he ground the tiny pearl, attempting to crush it and cast the powder into the rising wind—scattering its existence. Perhaps then he could silence its screaming accusation—that Faith, the lady he’d vowed to protect, the lady he had come to love, was also the pirate he must now bring to justice.

  But the stubborn jewel would not submit to his pounding fury. It remained strong and round and shiny, like a cannonball shot straight through his heart.

  Though she had pretended innocence and swore she had obtained the precious pearls in England, Faith had been unable to hide the guilt shriveling the features of her face. Dajon had charged from her chamber, out of the house, and off into the night to quell the rising storm within him. In his haste, he had forgotten to give her back the pearl. Now, after carrying it around with him for a week, he longed to toss it into Charles Towne Bay where no one would ever find it.

  But he could not.

  Duty. Duty and honor called to him from every corner. They had been his only friends these past four years. Faithful friends who had never let him down, friends who had restrained his wild streak—kept him safe in God’s will where he could no longer hurt himself or anyone else. They would not forsake him now unless he abandoned them. And he had no intention of doing so. The pearl was evidence. One more bread crumb along the path to capturing the Red Siren.

  Yet with each step down that path, Dajon’s boots weighed like anchors, tugging at his feet and pulling down his heart along with them.

  Why? Why, oh Lord, does it have to be her?

  Dajon swallowed hard and clenched his fists as he turned another corner, paying no mind to where he was heading but instead allowing his nose to guide him to port. He had spent most of his evenings sauntering about town, waiting until after midnight to return to the Westcott home. Tonight, however, time had become lost amid the confusion in his mind, and it was far too close to dawn to risk disturbing Faith and her sisters. He would spend what was left of the night on his ship. Perchance there he could make sense of the astonishing evening last week: the miraculous rescue of Hope, Faith’s intimate disclosure of their sorrowful past. . .

  The passionate kiss they had shared.

  And the pearl burning his fingers like a red-hot coal.

  The depravity that filled the streets only a few hours ago had dwindled into an eerie silence, broken only by the distant lap of waves against the docks. A blast of hot air struck Dajon, carrying with it the smell of fish and manure and the pungent scent of the rice swamps just outside town. Removing his bicorn, he wiped the sweat from his brow and wondered why he had ever thought trading the cool weather of England for this torrid bog was a grand idea.

  A woman’s scream split the heavy air, jarring Dajon.

  Scanning the surroundings, he realized he had wandered into a pernicious section of town by the docks off Bay Street. Shops and warehouses interspersed with taverns rose like ghost ships on each side of him.

  Dajon froze, listening for another scream. Above him, thick clouds churned over a half-moon, flinging bands of light across the scene. He took another step. The click of his boots echoed down the deserted street like the cocking of a pistol. A moan sounded. Dajon jerked to the right. A drunken man sprawled on the porch of a house.

  Another scream shot across the street, followed by a whimper.

  Plopping the pearl into his pocket, Dajon bolted toward the sound, rounding the corner of a warehouse and dodging down a narrow pathway. Another yell for help sped past his ears. Drawing his sword, he barreled toward the end of the alley. He squinted into the darkness and saw the jumbled shapes of two men hunched over someone on the ground. The lacy edge of a petticoat fluttered between their feet.

  “You there! Stand down. Get off her!” Dajon dashed toward the men. They stole a glance at him over their shoulders then scampered away like rats down the alleyway before he could reach them.

  For a moment, Dajon thought to pursue them, if only to teach them a lesson, but the tiny moan from their victim brought him to her side.

  “Are you all right, miss?” He reached down to assist her off the muddy ground, and she flew at him, her arms encircling his back in such a tight grip, his breath burst from his throat.

  “Thank you, sir. Oh, thank you for saving me, kind sir.”

  “Are you injured?” Dajon laid down his sword and tried to pry the woman off him, but she
clung to him like a barnacle on a ship.

  “I don’t know. I am so overcome with fear.” Her high-pitched voice rang insincere in his ears, but he shook it off. Fear did odd things to people.

  “Can you stand?” Dajon supported her back. “Let me help you up, and we shall see if you are hurt.”

  Once on her feet, the woman released him and entered a swoon. He caught her before she toppled back to the ground. A cloud parted, flooding the alleyway with moonlight, and dark green eyes the color of a tropical sea gazed at him as if he were the only man in the world. The scent of sweet peaches swirled about his nose, chasing away the foul odors of the city. Her breasts rose and fell with each surging breath in the low-cut bodice. Long ebony hair fluttered in the breeze like silk.

  Dajon swallowed.

  Taking a step back, he cleared his throat and searched for his sword. “You appear to be unharmed, miss.”

  Retrieving his weapon, he sheathed it and found his eyes drawn to her again. She gave him one of those smiles that women give men across a room to entice them: a mixture of innocence, feminine dependence, and a hint of steamy dalliance.

  Heat flared through Dajon even as every muscle tensed within him. He looked away. “You shouldn’t be out alone so late at night, miss.”

  “I know.” She sighed. “It was unavoidable, I’m afraid. And I was on my way home when those two beasts. . .” Pausing, she threw her hand to her chest as if to still the beating of her heart then raised it to wipe a tear from her eye.

  Dajon touched her arm to offer some comfort. Truly, she seemed quite distraught. “You are safe now.”

  “Aye, thanks to you.” She placed her hands on his blue coat, her fingers exploring his muscular chest. “What would I have done if you hadn’t come to my rescue?”

  “’Twas my pleasure, miss.” Dajon gripped his sword and stared off into the nebulous shadows of the night, anywhere but into this woman’s sensuous green eyes.

  “Perhaps I can repay you for your kindness?” She snuggled up beside him and fingered the gold buttons on his coat.

  Dajon smelled danger. It wasn’t the harrowing kind of life-threatening danger brought on by swords and guns and evil men. It was a delicious kind of danger, the kind of danger a man could lose himself in for days, only to emerge a skeleton of the man he had been, sullied and damaged beyond repair. It was the kind of danger, however, that was almost worth it.

  Almost.

  Lord, my God and my strength, was all Dajon could think to pray.

  He clenched his jaw and allowed his gaze to wander over the woman’s voluptuous form. “I thank you for your offer, miss, but I am otherwise engaged.”

  The woman’s eyes grew wide beneath a furrowed brow. She flinched as if he had struck her. “You dare to turn me down?” Her tone carried no anger, no wounded sentiment, just pure incredulity at his rejection. ’Twas obvious she had never received one before.

  God, why are You allowing this temptation now? Dajon tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword and rubbed his fingers over the cold silver. Had the week not held enough trials for one man to endure? Now this? His greatest weakness flaunted before him? He nearly laughed as he stared at one of the most alluring females he had ever seen, burrowing next to him and all but handing herself to him as if he were the king of England.

  Certainly she was no real lady. Possibly a trollop or perhaps some nobleman’s mistress. Who would know if Dajon spent some time with her? What harm would it do? By thunder, he could use some comfort after the shock and dismay of discovering the pearl in Faith’s chamber.

  Dajon squeezed the bridge of his nose. No. Lord, I promised to follow You—to abide by Your laws. A surge of strength leveled his shoulders.

  With a cordial grin, he took her hand from his arm and released it. “Truly, you are quite lovely. Irresistible, to be sure. I would, however, prefer the honor of escorting you safely home.”

  Her green eyes filled to glistening pools. She shook her head. “You are a true gentleman, sir.”

  Footsteps sounded.

  Whisking tears from her cheeks, the woman’s breathing took on a rapid pace. The lines on her face tightened.

  Dajon snapped his gaze down the dark alleyway as the footsteps drew nearer, but before he could draw his pistol, the lady began pounding his chest and screaming, “Get off me! Help me! Help me!”

  Seizing her arms, Dajon shook her. “What are you saying? Have you gone mad? Calm yourself, woman.”

  She took a step back and clawed at her gown until it tore down the front, revealing her undergarments beneath.

  Forgetting about the oncoming footsteps, Dajon stared aghast at her as she pummeled him again with her fists.

  “What’s this?” A stern voice boomed into the alleyway, and a dark figure rushed toward Dajon and shoved him to the ground. Drawing his sword, the man leveled the tip upon Dajon’s chest.

  The woman gasped and held her gown together as if a sudden rush of propriety had overcome her.

  “Margaret, who is this man? Was he accosting you? I’ll run him through right here!”

  Dajon struggled to rise, but the man’s blade kept him on the ground. He shifted his disbelieving gaze from the woman—Margaret—who continued to feign hysterics, to the man, a large fellow with the gruff face and haggard clothing of a dock worker and the hands of a trained swordsman.

  The realization that he had been duped swallowed Dajon like a sudden squall at sea.

  What could be the purpose? Surely everyone knew a lieutenant in His Majesty’s Navy had no wealth to speak of unless it had been inherited.

  He ground his teeth together then eyed the woman with the same look he gave one of his crew when he knew the correct course to take. “Miss, I beg you to tell this man the truth.”

  A variety of emotions passed over her face like waves on a beach, temporarily disturbing her pristine features: from anger to confusion to remorse to sorrow. Her lips puckered then flattened as her eyes flickered between the men.

  Finally, her shoulders lowered, and she released her torn dress. “Nay, brother. He has done me no harm. In fact, quite the opposite.” Sorrow alighted upon her features. “He has treated me more like a lady than any man I’ve ever known.”

  The anger in the man’s dark eyes intensified under a flash of confusion. He gazed back and forth between Miss Margaret and Dajon; then, with a shrug of his shoulders, he sheathed his blade and held out his hand. “My apologies, sir. My sister often finds herself in, shall we say, delicate situations with men.” He chuckled.

  Grabbing his hand, Dajon stood and brushed off his coat. “I have no doubt.”

  “I am Henry Wittfield.” He gestured toward the woman. “The unfortunate brother of Mrs. Margaret Gladstone.”

  “Dajon Waite, commander of the HMS Enforcer, at your service.” Dajon nodded, still stunned by the odd events.

  Henry turned to Margaret. “Your husband is worried about you.”

  She blew out a sigh and grabbed his arm. “As always, brother. Now let’s be gone.” She tugged on him as if she couldn’t get away fast enough.

  “Good night to you, sir,” Mr. Wittfield said over his shoulder as Margaret hauled him from the alleyway without a single glance back at Dajon.

  Retrieving his fallen bicorn, Dajon plopped it atop his head and stared up at the half-moon that had lit the outlandish scene like a stage light pouring down on a ghoulish comedy act. Even as a cloud overtook the glowing orb and shrouded Dajon once again in darkness, even as the cold mud now soaked through his breeches, even as the stink of refuse returned to sting his nose, he was thankful God had given him the strength to resist the sumptuous Mrs. Gladstone.

  h

  Borland tapped lightly on the captain’s door. He had heard Dajon return just before dawn, and from the sound of his pounding boots and the slam of his door, he assumed all had gone according to plan. Now, unable to wait another moment, he risked disturbing the captain’s sleep with some minor detail of the ship.

  He t
apped again.

  “Enter,” the gruff voice laden with sleep bellowed, and Borland pushed aside the oak slab. As he scanned the room, he spotted Dajon sitting on the edge of his rumpled bed, head in his hands.

  “What is it, Borland?” Dajon rubbed his eyes.

  “Henderson wants to know if he should grease the masts today, Captain.”

  “You woke me for that?” Dajon gave a disgruntled snort.

  “My apologies, Captain. It is after eight bells, but I see now you had a rather late night.” He delighted to see the dark, swollen splotches beneath Dajon’s half-open eyes. “Is everything all right, Captain? Did you encounter some mischief last night?”

  “Whatever would make you think that?” Dajon stood, annoyance hardening the lines in his jaw.

  “You slept in your uniform. ’Tis unlike you to be so untidy.” Borland took a tentative step toward him and pointed at his breeches. “And you’re covered in mud.” Truth be told, he’d never seen Dajon in such a state of disarray, and that could mean only one thing.

  Sir Carteret’s plan had worked.

  Dajon slogged to his desk. “I had a most eventful evening.”

  Excellent. Borland could almost hear the constable and his men—or better yet, the marines—marching across the deck to arrest Dajon. He could almost see himself obligingly having to assume command of the ship as they dragged Dajon away.

  “Eventful, sir?”

  Fisting his hands on his waist, Dajon stared out the window. “Aye. But nothing I couldn’t handle, I assure you.”

  Egad. Nothing he couldn’t handle. Mrs. Margaret Gladstone, who was both the wife of a rich tradesman—a silversmith—and a woman in possession of less-than-sterling morals, had been the perfect lure. The only thing that bothered Borland was why the authorities had not been alerted last night as soon as the woman’s brother caught Dajon in the reprehensible act.