“Conch pearls?”
“Aye, I had just ten of them. Rare pink beauties found only in queen conch shells.”
Dajon turned, bumping into Borland, who stood beside him with a smug look of satisfaction on his face. A small band of ashen-faced sailors huddled around the mainmast beside a pile of frayed rope. “Do you need assistance with the injured?” Dajon asked the captain.
“There ain’t no injured.”
“None?” The revelation shocked Dajon. Pirates were a bloody breed, known to relish the violence they inflicted upon their victims.
“The scamps didn’t harm a soul. They cared only for the treasure.”
“Then you made no resistance?”
Captain Grainger shot his fiery gaze to Dajon. “If you’re calling me a coward, then say it outright, and we’ll settle it like gentlemen.”
“I am calling you no such thing, Captain,” Dajon said with as much sincerity as he could muster, although the idea of a duel, if only to release his frustration, was not without appeal.
“She had a bloody pistol pointed at my son.” He nodded to the slight youth who stood by the mainmast rubbing his wrists. “What did you expect me to do? Besides, we were outnumbered.”
“You did the right thing.”
“I live for your approval, Captain.” His mocking tone elicited chortles from his crew.
Ignoring him, as well as Borland who stood smirking beside him, Dajon continued, “The pirate captain was a woman, then?”
“Aye.”
“Can you tell me what she looked like?”
“A beauty, if ye ask me,” one of the sailors standing nearby piped up.
“Aye, she was winsome, to be sure.” Grainger nodded. “A spitfire, that one.” He shook his head. “A mass of red hair the color of copper, with the eyes of a dragon and the face of an angel.”
Suddenly a vision of Faith flashed into Dajon’s mind, but he tossed it aside. One troublesome redhead was enough for the moment.
“I suggest you store the rest of your goods below, Captain, and raise what sails you have left. I can assure you a safe voyage to Charles Towne from here.”
“I should expect nothing less.” Grainger thrust out his bristly chin.
Donning his bicorn, Dajon spun on his heel, anxious to be gone from the captain’s insulting demeanor.
“She asked me to give you this, Captain.” Grainger’s voice halted him, and he turned to see the man flicking a red scarf through the air.
Grabbing the silky cloth, Dajon rubbed it between two fingers and eyed Grainger. “She said to give it to me specifically?”
“Aye, to the captain of the HMS Enforcer—with her compliments, I might add.”
Dajon examined it again. The initials R. S., embroidered in gold thread, decorated one corner. Red Siren. Resisting the urge to rip it to shreds, he crumpled the cloth in his fist instead. The insolence of this woman! Gripping the hilt of his sword, Dajon stormed across the deck. He would catch her. He would catch her and turn her over to the Vice Admiralty Court. Then she would no longer be a plague upon these waters—or a plague upon his life.
Chapter 13
Faith gave Seaspray a gentle nudge as they turned the corner onto Church Street. The huge round columns of the First Baptist Church shone like glassy pillars in the moonlight, making the first chapel built in Charles Towne look more like a Roman coliseum than a house of worship.
“Ye took in a fine haul today, mistress.” Lucas gave an exhausted sigh as he eased his horse beside hers.
“Yes, a fine haul, indeed, Lucas.” Faith tried to match his exuberance, tried to appreciate the wealth they had acquired, but frustration simmered deep in her belly over the treasure lost. After they had counted the plunder and divided it among the crew, Faith had dismissed the men, and she and Lucas had made several trips deeper into the wilderness with the remainder of the booty loaded on their horses. There they spent two backbreaking hours unloading the jewels, pearls, and spices inside a cave—piled atop the rest of the treasure Faith had amassed over the years.
She patted the small pouch hanging on her belt. She’d kept a few of the best pearls with her. Conch pearls. Very rare and very expensive. They would serve to remind her that she was nearly at her goal. Nearly. If only she could have finished the job today.
“Blast that Mr. Waite!” she hissed, twitching the reins to avoid a passing carriage.
“Aye, ’twas poor timin’, indeed.” Lucas smiled.
His stallion snorted, and Faith smiled at her first mate’s ever-gleeful demeanor. How long had he sailed with her? Six years now?
“I fear I would be lost without you, Lucas. I do believe you are the only man I have ever trusted.” Truth be told, he was also the only person who knew the whereabouts of her treasure. At first, she had hated confiding in him—hated trusting any man. But without his help, she would never be able to transport her plunder to safety.
An unusually cool breeze blew in from the bay, chilling the perspiration that had taken residence on Faith’s neck. She prodded her horse onward, past a three-story, cream-colored house adorned with wrought iron balconies and a narrow piazza that stretched along the side of the building facing the sea to catch the prevailing breeze. She was still growing accustomed to the strange architecture in Charles Towne—so different from the Georgian-style houses back home with their hipped roofs, stone parapets, and massive porticoes in front.
“Ye saved me life, mistress. If ye hadn’t rescued me from the streets and gave me a place to live, I’d be lying in me grave by now.”
“Ah, but all that wealth must prove a tempting sight, does it not?” Faith regretted the words as soon as they left her mouth. Lucas had never given her reason to doubt his loyalty. To question it now was insulting at best. “Forgive me, Lucas.” She rubbed the back of her neck. “’Tis been a long day.” And no doubt, the dangers and trials had weakened her faith—in herself and in him as well.
Lucas kept his gaze straight ahead. “Never ye mind, mistress. Ye knows how I feel. All the wealth in the world holds no lure for me—not if takin’ it means hurtin’ ye and yer sisters. Yer like kin to me now.” He regarded her, flipping back his stiff black hair. “’Sides, what would a half-breed like me do wit’ all that treasure?”
Faith swallowed a burning lump of emotion. No man, not her father nor any relation nor suitor, had warmed her soul and earned her regard as much as this half-breed castoff of society. How poorly that spoke of the so-called Christian gentlemen she had known.
Exhaustion tugged at her shoulders. Even the horses struggled as they made their way through the dusty streets, past shops and houses and the curious eyes of the few citizens still lingering about at night. Faith kept to the shadows, thankful she had left Morgan snug in her cabin on board the Red Siren, for no doubt, his chattering presence would only draw more unwanted attention their way.
Another breeze wafted over her, carrying with it the scent of salt, fish, and pine. It danced through the loose strands of her hair, and Faith quickly pinned the wayward curls up behind her, drawing the gaze of two passersby. The gentlemen tipped their hats in her direction, and she lowered her chin, hoping they would not recognize her in the dim lantern light. It was bad enough that one of the Westcott daughters roamed the streets at night; two would cast an indelible tarnish on the family name.
Turning down Broad Street, Faith eased her horse toward Meeting Street, where a drawbridge in the inner wall led to Johnson’s covered half-moon, over the moat, and then over another drawbridge to the outside of the city. The early citizens, terrified by the many Indian and Spanish attacks, erected the strong double wall, yet already parts of it were being dismantled as the city outgrew its boundaries. Her house was one of those that sat outside the fortification.
Home. She could almost feel the comfort of her warm, soft bed and hoped Edwin had given up on her arrival and retired early with his ritual sip of brandy. She did not feel up to another one of his rattling lectures. Nor did she wish
to confront Mr. Waite. Certainly he would still be occupied in securing the Flying Dragon at port. With a head start and a fair wind, she had no doubt beat him home, even with the extra time required to store her day’s plunder.
Faith made her way outside the wall and then turned Seaspray down Hasell Street, through the open gate, and up to the front porch of her house. She slid off her mount, her boots crunching on the gravel, and handed Lucas her reins. But lights flickering through the windows crushed any hopes of an inconspicuous entrance.
No sooner had she opened the door than a blinding light struck her in the face.
“Where have you been, Miss Faith?”
Taking a step back, she shielded her eyes and pushed the lantern aside to reveal the quivering jowls and tremulous gaze of Edwin.
“Forgive me, Edwin, I did not intend to be so late. Lucas and I were delayed in town.”
“Delayed? By what, I might ask? At nine o’clock at night? This is insufferable. What am I to do? And with Mr. Waite gone, too? I had no one to turn to. . . .”
With a huff, Faith allowed Edwin his tirade, praying that without interruption it would run its course and falter for lack of opposition.
“And Miss Molly telling me nothing, and Miss Grace gone all day as well—”
Faith’s breath halted in her throat. “Did you say Grace was gone?”
Edwin wrinkled his nose and fixed her with a dark gaze. “Never fear. She arrived in time for supper.”
Faith sighed. No doubt her sister had been on one of her charity runs, but Faith would have to speak to her nonetheless. “And Hope?”
“She is home.” Edwin rubbed his forehead and began to sway.
Faith clutched his elbow, fearing he would fall. “Edwin, please take a seat.” Leading him to a chair, she forced him into it and snatched the lantern from his hand, placing it on the table.
“You do not know what I have endured today,” he whined, clutching his heart. “This disobedience is not to be borne, not to be borne, I tell you.”
“Edwin, quit your fussing. I was not without escort.” Faith blew out a sigh. “Are we not all home and safe now?”
Edwin nodded, blubbering out a sigh.
“You worry for naught.” Faith made her way to the stairs and gazed down the dark hallway, hoping to catch a glimpse of the guesthouse through the back window. Nothing but black. She faced the steward. He wrung his hands together like a wet rag, and Faith felt sorry for the man.
His proud eyes rose to meet hers. “You must promise not to be out so late without informing me.”
“Of course. But I am too utterly spent to quarrel with you further,” Faith said. “Did Mr. Waite arrive yet?”
Edwin shook his head and snorted. “Most unbefitting a guardian, if you ask me.”
“You heard my father. His obligations are first and foremost to the navy.”
“Perhaps Sir Wilhelm would be more suited for the job. He called upon you several times today.”
A chill stiffened her back. “Indeed? Several times?” Thankful she had missed the slimy proprietor, she worried at his persistence, which, if not rewarded, would surely cast suspicions on her activities.
“Yes, twice. He was most concerned for you.” Edwin rose and snatched the lantern. “And most disagreeable when I could not inform him of your whereabouts.”
“He is a disagreeable man, regardless.” Faith placed a hand on Edwin’s arm. “Now off to bed with you. Have your brandy and sleep well. You do look pale.”
He snorted.
“Everything will appear more cheery in the morning—you shall see.” With a click of his tongue, Edwin grabbed the banister. Faith silenced her giggle as she watched him ascend the stairs, muttering all the while.
Darkness blanketed the entrance hall. Only the sound of Faith’s shallow breathing, the ticking of the grandfather clock, and the rustle of leaves outside the windows stirred the silence. She glanced to her right. An open door led to her father’s study, where, if he were home, he would no doubt be sitting, smoking his pipe and reading by the warm fire. Now a dark chill seeped from the room and crept over her, reminding her of his absence. Even though they often quarreled, she missed him. She knew he loved his daughters in his own way, but she had come to accept the fact that he loved the sea more. When her mother was still alive, she had filled their home in England with warmth and love. Without her, emptiness haunted every room. Perhaps that was why Hope and Grace sought comfort elsewhere. Faith sighed. If she could seize just one more prize as wealthy as the Flying Dragon, she would be able to change not only their fortunes but the shroud of gloom that hovered over this house as well.
Plucking the pins from her hair, Faith shook her head and exited the back of the house, noting the absence of the usual sliver of light beneath the kitchen door. Molly must have retired early. ’Twas no wonder. The poor woman got up at four o’clock each morning to gather the eggs, haul the water, and rekindle the fire.
The door swung away beneath her hand, and the ensuing puff of air from the kitchen, redolent of fresh bread and beef stew, swirled over Faith, sending her stomach grumbling with longing for the supper she had missed. Moonlight spun a silver web across deep shadows as Faith groped her way to the table in search of a candle.
Her fingers bumped into something hard and warm. Hot breath flowed over her.
Jumping back, she screamed at the dark silhouette looming in the shadows. “One more step and I’ll slice you!” She reached for the cutlass that no longer hung at her side and then turned to flee. But strong hands grabbed her arms and swung her around.
“Be still, woman, ’tis me.” The deep, masculine voice reverberated in the room.
Fear and rage crashed over Faith. Horrifying memories wrestled against her reason, and she thrashed against his grip. She pounded her fists on his chest, but his solid frame did not budge.
“Calm yourself, Miss Westcott. There’s naught to fear.” His grasp was firm but gentle as he pulled her toward him. He smelled of leather and salt.
Yet her panic made his words sound like unintelligible mumbles. Drawing a deep breath, Faith rammed her knee into his groin.
Instantly, he released her. “Great guns, woman,” he moaned as his dark body folded in half.
“Mr. Waite?” Faith took a step back and caught her breath.
“Aye,” he gasped. “What is left of me.”
Embarrassment flooded her. Then anger took its place at her exposure of her fear—her weakness—in front of him. “You scared me half to death, Mr. Waite! ’Tis what you get for slinking around in the dark.” As her eyes adjusted to the dark, she grabbed the candle, now visible on the table, and lit it from the embers still smoking in the fireplace.
The captain’s dark hair hung around his face. His breaths came in deep spurts as he leaned over, hands on his knees.
When she approached with the light, he lifted his gaze, and despite the pain in his eyes, a slight smirk played on his lips. With obvious difficulty, he eased himself upright then pressed the wrinkles from his blue coat. The tip of his service sword clanged against the table. “Perhaps next time, a warning shot would suffice?”
“You’ll get no warning from me.” Faith sent him a fiery gaze. “Not when you come upon me unawares in the dark.” She noticed her red scarf poking from a pocket inside his waistcoat, and she suppressed a grin. Twice she had bested him today, yet somehow the second time did not hold the same thrill as the first. If she had known it was the captain, she certainly would not have attacked him. She had no desire to hurt him, and though he tried to hide it, the grimace on his face betrayed his pain.
“Have a seat, Mr. Waite, and I shall fetch you some tea.” She started to turn, but once again, he grabbed her arm.
His heated breath, tinged with liquor, drifted over Faith, sending the candle flickering between them. Dark eyes perused her as if memorizing every inch of her face. Desire and admiration intermingled in their depths, and an unusual flutter rose within Faith’s belly. Wayw
ard strands of his hair grazed the stubble on his cheek. A smudge of dirt stained his tousled collar, and his blue coat hung unbuttoned over his wide chest—so unlike the kempt, orderly captain.
He reached up. Faith flinched but remained anchored in place, not wanting him to see his effect upon her.
“’Tis obvious I frightened you terribly, Miss Westcott. Please accept my apologies.” He brushed a finger over her cheek.
A warm flush surged through Faith. She snatched her arm from his grasp and turned away. “Frightened?” She waved a hand through the air. “Nonsense. You merely surprised me.” She bit her lip. She must remember that Mr. Waite was not only a man—something she doubted she could ever forget—and therefore not to be trusted, but her enemy as well.
But such an enemy. With her back to him, Faith grinned, hoping to turn the tables and have a bit of fun. “Beg your pardon, Mr. Waite, but do I smell a hint of alcohol about you?”
She heard him expel a deep breath. “’Twas a difficult day.” The frustration in his voice stung her conscience.
She swerved around and placed a hand to her chest. “I daresay I am shocked, Mr. Waite. I would never have expected a godly man such as yourself to partake of the devil’s brew.”
“I have a sip of port on board my ship when the occasion calls for it,” he replied with confidence. The tiny upturn of his mouth and the playful look in his eyes let her know he was not a man so easily ruffled by her barbs.
She longed to make some sarcastic comment about the occasion that had caused his annoyance. But the way his intense gaze drifted over her sent her insides quivering in a warm pool, and she just stood there, locked in the hold of his blue eyes.
Forcing herself to look away, she set the candle down, fetched a handful of tea leaves, and tossed them into a pot on the table. Shame weighed upon her. She was not some weak female who swooned over the attentions of a man—albeit a most handsome, honorable man.
No, no, no. Not just a man but an enemy—an enemy who stood between her and her goal of plundering one more treasure-laden ship, an enemy who stood between her and the safety and happiness of her sisters. Anger flared within her, melting her passion and igniting her determination.
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