The Red Siren

by M. L. Tyndall

  “Here’s yer grub, missy. Come an’ get it.”

  “Just push it beneath the bars, if you please, Gordon.”

  “I’ll thank ye to be callin’ me Lord Gordon, like I told ye to.”

  A chuckle erupted from the cage beside hers, and Gordon pressed his face up to the rusty iron bars of her cell and whispered, “If ye be nice t’ me, thar’s privileges I can do fer ye to make yer stay more agreeable.” Lust dripped from his bloodshot eyes.

  A shudder of disgust gripped Faith just when she thought she had no more left. “I thank you, Lord Gordon, but I’d rather be flogged and tossed to the sharks.”

  Wicked chortles bounced through the air.

  His eyes narrowed. “That can be arranged, ye high an’ mighty wench,” he growled as he dipped the ladle into his bucket of slop. But instead of pouring it onto her plate, he dumped it into her chamber pot, sitting just inside the bars. “Enjoy your meal.” He laughed and slogged off, a wake of obscenities spilling from his lips after him.

  But Faith had grown cold to those as well.

  “Scorned ye again, old Gordie,” one of the prisoners chortled.

  Faith turned off the sound of the men’s vulgar grumblings as Gordon made his rounds. Soon he dragged himself back in front of her cell and, with a reluctant grunt, gave her the news that she had a male visitor.

  A visitor? Sir Wilhelm had already seen her earlier in the day. Faith dashed to the bars. Lucas. It had to be. Perhaps with word from her sisters. Faith’s heart swelled. It would be so good to see a friendly face.

  But it wasn’t a friendly face that appeared a few minutes later lumbering down the tower steps—at least not friendly any longer. Mr. Dajon Waite, donned in a disheveled uniform, took the last step and headed toward her, his boots clomping over the stones. Gordon withered under the captain’s imperious gaze, and he scampered away before Mr. Waite’s blue eyes shifted to Faith’s.

  Backing away from the bars, Faith gripped the folds of her filthy gown as anger, fear, and—to her surprise—joy waged a fierce battle within her at the sight of him. “Come to gloat?”

  He snorted. “Hardly.” Anguish burned in his gaze. “I would have come sooner, but Sir Wilhelm’s scrawny arm is more powerful than it appears.”

  Faith nodded. Indeed. The gaunt man and his noble connections did wield a mighty sword among Governor Johnson and the assembly. Her wisp of faith dwindled yet again. Who could stand up to such a powerful man?

  Dajon approached the bars. Gray shadows clouded the skin beneath his eyes. His dark hair grazed his collar. He spiked a hand through the unruly strands and then scratched the stubble littering his chin. Faith wasn’t sure which of them looked worse.

  He swiped a lock of hair behind his ear and met her gaze in a hold so intense that she could feel his passion, his torment—his love—span between them like a sturdy plank, drawing her near.

  Suddenly his past made no difference to her. Her heart had lodged in her throat when he’d entered the room and had remained there. She loved him—no matter what he’d done. Her stomach coiled into a knot as she fought the urge to run to him, to touch him, to feel his comforting strong hands on hers, but instead, pride allowed her to say only, “Why have you come?”

  He swallowed hard and looked away. “To see how you are doing.”

  “So you see”—she swept a hand over her cell as if she were showing him her parlor—“I’m quite comfortable.”

  He frowned, and she chided herself for being so caustic.

  “Faith.” He took a step toward her. “I have sent a dispatch to Bath up north. Governor Eden harbors sympathies toward pirates wishing to reform. He has granted the King’s Pardon to many who have sworn to change their ways.”

  Hope, an emotion Faith had abandoned during the week, sprang to life. “Why would you help me?”

  “You know.” The intense look in his blue eyes said more than enough.

  He still loved her.

  Hoots and coarse jests blasted over them. Dajon gazed down the row of gloomy cells, but the prisoners only increased their vile banter. “I’m sorry you have to hear such lubricity.”

  Faith raised a shoulder. “I have learned to ignore them.”

  “It may take a month to arrive, but I have sent my recommendation along with the urgent request.” Dajon spit the words out quickly, as if doing so would help speed the process. “My position in His Majesty’s Navy should carry some merit with the governor, who appreciates our presence in the colonial waters.”

  “But what of Sir Wilhelm?”

  “His powerful arm does not stretch as far as Bath, thanks be to God.”

  Sweat broke out on his forehead, and he wiped it away with his sleeve then shrugged off his waistcoat and draped it over his arm. His damp shirt clung to his muscled chest. Power exuded from him, an angry, pent-up frustration that knifed into the air all around him. His jaw tensed.

  Faith gazed at him in awe. She’d done naught but deceive him, lie to him, force him to risk his life and his career, and then nearly shoot him, and here he stood, his eyes filled with love as he tried to save her life.

  “There is one problem,” he continued, drawing in a deep breath. “Sir Wilhelm is rushing your trial through the courts. He could possibly have you convicted and. . .” Dajon’s gaze did not falter, though his voice did.

  “Hanged.” Faith swallowed.

  Dajon clasped a bar with one of his hands. “Before the pardon arrives.”

  Wicked laughter shot off the brick walls. “Aye, afore too long, we all be dancin’ the hempen jig.”

  Dajon gripped the hilt of his sword and stared into the dungeon as if he intended to slice the prisoner’s throat. Slowly he returned his frenzied gaze to hers. “Sir Wilhelm has many powerful allies.”

  The hope that had risen within Faith dissolved and fell into her stomach like an anchor. “Then rest assured, he will have his way.”

  h

  “I won’t allow him.” Dajon leaned toward her, not caring when the iron bars bit into his skin. He would not watch the woman he loved die.

  Not again.

  The pardon would arrive in time. It had to. But as he gazed at Faith, her red curls flaming around her face, her auburn eyes still simmering boldly beneath a shroud of defeat, he wondered for a brief moment if she would indeed abide by its conditions.

  “He found you at the Red Siren?” Dajon hated to ask, but he had to know if she had planned on pirating again—if the news of his past had driven her so swiftly back to her old ways.

  “Aye, with my colors in hand.” Faith gave a sardonic smirk, then her eyes widened. “I wasn’t taking the ship out, Dajon, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  The sound of his Christian name on her lips—even with a hint of spite—flowed over him like honey.

  “I was only removing my things,” she added. “To return the ship to you.”

  Rubbing the sweat from the back of his neck, Dajon studied her. Her steady stance and the pleading sincerity in her eyes convinced him that, for once, she told him the truth. “I believe you.”

  “So easily.” She shook her head and lowered her lashes. “When I wouldn’t even allow you to explain your actions to me.”

  “I hope you’ll allow me to do so now.”

  “It matters not. All is lost.” She turned her back to him and wrapped her arms around herself. A sob rippled down her back.

  “Your opinion of me matters a great deal.” Dajon rattled the bars, longing to rip them from their moorings and go to her, take her in his arms. But his outburst only brought a cloud of dirt raining down upon him and a cacophony of chortles from the other prisoners.

  “After you stole my father’s merchant ship. . .” He cleared his throat at the memory, finding it hard to believe he loved the same woman who had ruined him that day. “I was banished from the family business.”

  Turning around, Faith met his pained gaze with hers, but she said nothing.

  “I fell in with some bad sorts—we
althy, titled bad sorts, that is. I took up gambling, drinking, carousing.” Flashes of those sordid memories burned trails of guilt and remorse across his mind. His throat constricted. “Then I met Lady Rawlings. Her husband, Lord Rawlings, was a cruel, abusive man who beat her frequently.”

  “Much like Charity’s husband.” Faith’s voice came out barely above a whisper.

  “Perhaps worse.” Anger still flared in his belly at the remembrance of the man’s brutality.

  “Our acquaintance was quite innocent in the beginning, I assure you. For a time, we seemed to flow in the same circles, same country dances, same balls and playhouses. Her sweet spirit and innocence drew me to her, especially after the sordid company I had grown accustomed to keeping.” Dajon hesitated, unsure how much of the affair to disclose to Faith. Would she turn from him in disgust? No matter. ’Twas time to lay out the details before her and let her decide.

  “When I discovered her horrendous predicament at home, it only served to draw me closer to her, to comfort her and help her. But what could I do?” He shrugged. “I had no business being with her. She was married, and I had nothing to offer her—but my love.”

  “Ah, ain’t that sweet.” The man in a cell kitty-corner from Faith’s clung to the bars and thrust his deathly pale face toward them.

  Ignoring him, Dajon eyed Faith, trying to assess the effect of his tale, but she stood riveted in place, nothing but concern beaming from her gaze.

  “When I discovered she was with child. . .our child”—Dajon lowered his voice to a whisper—“we planned to run away together. But Lord Rawlings learned of our plot and chased us. The roads were slick.” Dajon jerked back from the bars, hoping to dislodge the vision of Marianne’s lifeless body in his arms. “You know the rest,” he choked out.

  A familiar pain seared through his nose, and Dajon reached up to rub it. When the carriage had careened off the road, overturned, and plummeted into a ditch, his nose had been smashed. The haunting ache was a constant reminder of his failure to care for the woman he loved. He deserved much worse.

  Now Faith knew the truth. Dajon braced himself for her reaction. But much to his surprise, Faith rushed to the bars and reached out a hand toward him. He gripped it like a lifeline and drew close to her. Placing a gentle kiss upon her fingers, he cringed at the red marks marring her delicate skin. The hint of lemon battled against the dungeon’s fetid smells and made its way to his nose.

  He sighed and raised his gaze to hers, afraid of what he might see, but no condemnation shot from her eyes, only compassion and concern. “I did love her, Faith, or at least I thought I did. But I see now how every step I took was wrong. Everything I did went against God’s plan, His law, and because of my disobedience and stupidity, I caused her death—and the death of our child.” Renewed agony threatened to strangle him, and he swallowed against the burning in his throat.

  “I’m so very sorry, Dajon.” Reaching through the bars, Faith pressed her other hand over his heart. The warmth and tenderness of her familiar touch soothed him like a healing balm. Her auburn eyes enveloped him with a kindness he didn’t deserve. “I thought you were no better than my sister’s husband or Sir Wilhelm—or most of the men I’ve met—but I see now that you meant only to save this lady, to protect her.”

  “A lot of good I did her.” Dajon snorted. “I suppose I’ve been trying to make up for it ever since, to pay some sort of penance.”

  “But don’t you see?” Faith’s voice lifted. “You can never pay the price. None of us can. I have realized that in the long hours I’ve spent down in this dungeon.”

  Dajon brushed a finger over her cheek, still as soft as silk. She closed her eyes beneath his touch. “Very wise for one so newly returned to God.”

  She opened her eyes and smiled. “He and I have had much to discuss this past week.”

  “Aye and He’s been speaking with me as well. I now see that adhering to a list of rules just for the sake of following them does not please God. Nor does it atone for any past sins. Jesus has already done that on the cross.”

  Faith smiled. “And how did you come to this grand conclusion?”

  “When I set you free.” He uttered a low chuckle. “The guilt of breaking a rule ate at me day and night, but at the same time, I knew deep in my gut that it was the right thing to do. It was then that I realized God does not concern Himself so much with rules as He does with us. Doing what’s right will then flow naturally out of our relationship with Him.”

  Tears filled her eyes, and she leaned her forehead on the iron bars. “I cannot believe I’ve been such a fool.”

  “We have both been fools.” Dajon brushed a cluster of matted curls from her face. His stomach tightened. “These blasted bars.” He jerked them again, longing to hold her, to wipe away her tears, to steal her away from this horrid place.

  “Don’t bother. I’ve tried.” She forced a smile then lowered her voice to a whisper. “But please, tell me you are safe. No one knows that you let me go?”

  “Only Mr. Borland.”

  “And you trust him?”

  “Aye. Although we had a bit of a falling-out last week.” The hatred and fury on Borland’s face during their argument had shocked Dajon. Borland had wanted to pursue Stede Bonnet, a pirate known to be holed up in Cape Fear, but Dajon had deferred to a local hero, Colonel Rhett, who had volunteered to bring him in. Dajon couldn’t very well run off and leave Faith alone in prison, her future so uncertain. Borland had not agreed and had defiantly resisted until Dajon had been forced to pull rank and silence him. It was the first time Dajon had noticed Borland’s fervent ambition.

  “It was nothing.” He shook the memory from his head, preferring to drown it with happier times they had spent together. “We have been friends for years.”

  Faith’s lip quivered. “Dajon, I could not bear it if harm came to you because of me.”

  “I love hearing you say my name.” He swept his thumb over her still-rosy lips.

  “I am serious.” She frowned.

  Gripping her face, he drew her near, brushing his mouth against hers. He felt her tremble.

  “Dajon,” was all she said.

  He consumed her lips with his, ignoring the ribald howls from their audience.

  Cold, hard fingers of iron bit into his cheeks, forbidding him to have more of her.

  Dajon pulled away. “I love you, Faith,” he whispered between thick breaths.

  “And I you, Dajon.” When her eyes lifted to his, they brimmed with all the admiration and love he’d only seen glimpses of before.

  He eased his hands onto her shoulders and nudged her back a step. “How are you truly?” he asked, eyeing her soiled gown, torn and tattered around the hem, the mud stains on her neck and arms, and the abrasions on her hands and her sunken cheeks. How remarkable that he still found her ravishing. “You’ve not been eating.”

  She lifted her nose in the air. “That stench you smell?”

  “Aye.”

  “That’s supper, I’m afraid.”

  Dajon raised a brow. “I see. I shall sneak down some decent food.”

  “Don’t bother. I’m sure I shall be relieved of this place soon enough, one way or another.” She bit her lip. “Any word of my sisters?”

  “You forbade me to see them, remember?” he teased, but when worry creased her face, he grabbed her hand again. “Never fear. I have inquired of Lucas. They are worried sick about you, but all is well.”

  Her expression tightened, and she shifted her shimmering eyes to his. “Dajon, if I. . .if the pardon does not. . .” She took a deep breath. “Please take care of them.” She squeezed his hand. “Promise me you will.”

  “I am going to get you out of here.” Dajon brought both of her hands to his lips and sealed his vow with a tender kiss. “That’s the only promise I will make.”

  Trouble was, he didn’t know if it was a promise he could keep.

  Chapter 32

  Borland paced across the elaborate drawing room of th
e Carteret mansion. His boots clicked over the tile floor to the rhythm of the brass clock that mocked him from atop the fireplace. He had been ushered here nearly a half hour ago by a rather pretentious butler, who had admitted him only as a result of Borland’s volatile persistence. Though Borland had sent several posts during the past week to Sir Wilhelm, the pompous halfwit had made no response nor any attempt to contact him. A frustrated anger sizzled within Borland for being ignored by a man who, no doubt, thought he had no further use for him.

  Sir Wilhelm would certainly be surprised to find out differently today.

  As Borland passed through the streams of sunlight flowing in through two french windows, he eyed the exquisite jewel-encrusted cornices above them, the gilded sconces lining the wall, and the collection of Ming vases displayed on a bureau by the entrance. He clicked his tongue. A waste of wealth on a buffoon like Sir Wilhelm.

  Heading for the marble fireplace, Borland’s boots thudded over the Chinese carpet at the room’s center as he weaved around a velvet settee and a pair of elaborately upholstered chairs. Above the mantel, an oil painting of what must have been Sir Wilhelm’s grandfather, Sir George Carteret, glared down at Borland with the same supercilious arrogance of his grandson. Yet behind those oppressive dark eyes burned a wisdom and strength conspicuously absent in Sir Wilhelm.

  A rabid sweat broke out on Borland’s neck. What was he doing? Could he truly betray his lifelong friend?

  Friend, indeed. What has he ever done for you? A chill slithered down Borland’s spine.

  Memories of the argument with Dajon last week replayed in his mind, rekindling his fury. He could still envision Dajon’s red, fuming face when he had turned to Borland and yelled, “Enough! I am the captain, and you will obey my orders,” forcing Borland to relent, to submit, and finally to admit. . .