The Red Siren

by Marylu Tyndall

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

  Chapter 32

  Borland paced across the elaborate drawing room of the 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. . .

  That Dajon was his captain, not his friend.

  Perhaps they had been friends once, but those days were long gone. And if Borland were to consider Dajon by rank alone, then his captain had made a terrible mistake. Allowing the Red Siren to slip from his grasp was bad enough, but then to refuse to chase after Stede Bonnet when he had been spotted so close to Charles Towne was beyond incorrigible. By refusing to do his duty, Dajon had in effect caused his entire crew to miss out on the glory, the praise that the capture of a pirate would bring them back at the Admiralty. And for what? A trollop—a pirate wench, at that!

  Borland blew out a snort. He would show the mighty Dajon Waite who the real captain of the HMS Enforcer should be.

  Guilt stabbed his gut, twisting and turning its blade until he could almost feel the pain. But what else could he do? He threw back his shoulders. It was his duty to report the captain. And if he was going to command one of His Majesty’s ships, he’d have to learn to make tough decisions.

  Even if it cost Dajon his life.

  But no. He would not let it get that far. And that was why he needed Sir Wilhelm. That and the considerable fortune he knew the man would hand over for the information Borland possessed.

  “Sir Wilhelm.” The butler’s drone buzzed into the room from the arched doorway, announcing the entrance of his master as if he were the king of England himself. Sir Wilhelm floated into the room on a puff of stale air and gave Borland a cursory glance before plopping down onto the settee as if coming downstairs had completely exhausted him.

  “Devil’s blood. What is it, Mr. Borland? You know I am a busy man.”

  Borland gritted his teeth. Pity he needed this vainglorious nitwit to carry out his plans. “I have sent you several urgent posts. Did you not receive them?”

  “Of course.” Sir Wilhelm adjusted the lace that drooped about his sleeves. “I cannot be bothered with every minor correspondence.”

  Borland grabbed the back of one of the chairs and nearly punctured the fabric with his violent grip. “I have information which may greatly aid your cause.”

  Sir Wilhelm’s brows flashed upward with interest. “And pray tell, what cause is that?”

  “Your quest for the red-haired Westcott lady.” Borland crossed his arms over his chest, feeling some of the man’s power drift his way. “I hear she is about to be hanged.”

  “Yes.” Sir Wilhelm shifted his gaze, but not before Borland saw the anger and bitterness fuming in his eyes. “What is your news?”

  “It concerns Captain Waite.”

  h

  Something scampered over Faith’s arm. With a start, she jumped to her feet and swiped at her soiled gown. A cockroach skittered away beneath the straw. Shuddering, she gripped her arms. She knew she should be used to the bugs by now, but for some reason, the huge cockroaches still made her skin crawl. Filthy, tormenting beasts—like demons from hell.

  She glanced at the sludge and refuse littering the murky dungeon, felt the heat sear her skin and the reek sting her nose. Hell. Perhaps this was it, after all.

  But no. Yesterday a bright light had pierced this sepulcher. Dajon had come to see her. And surely God would not allow an honorable man like him to visit a damned place like hell.

  It was near midday. She knew because the heat became unbearable at this hour and the air so thick with fetor that she gasped for every breath. She’d given up on her pacing and had succumbed to a moment’s sleep, a near impossibility in her nest of bugs and rats.

  A jangle of keys, a crank of a lock, and the scrape of a door opening, followed by the sound of footsteps, perked her ears. Was Lord Gordon coming with another proposition? Making her way to the bars, she strained to see the bottom of the stairway, daring to hope she had another visitor, longing to see Dajon again or perhaps Lucas or her sisters.

  The thump and scrape of Gordon’s limp foot on the wooden stairs grew louder until finally the jailer emerged into the dim lantern light, followed by the shiny buckled shoes, white stockings, and velvet breeches of a stylishly attired man. Bile rose in Faith’s throat. Sir Wilhelm again. No doubt seeing if she’d had enough of this place and would agree to his proposal.

  When he approached her cell, the eyes that met hers did not contain the usual pleading conceit but instead beamed with a victorious confidence most unnatural for the silly, diffident man.

  Faith’s throat went dry. “What do you want?” she huffed, backing away from the bars lest he try to touch her. Odd that she now found her cage a refuge instead of a prison.

  “Me, want?” He snickered. “Why, I believe ’tis you who will be wanting something from me.”

  Uneasiness pricked the back of Faith’s neck. “Never.”

  Sir Wilhelm turned to Gordon, who casually leaned against the stone wall across the way. “Leave us.”

  Scowling, the jailer shuffled back up the stairs, dragging his foot behind him.

  Withdrawing a handkerchief, Sir Wilhelm held it to his nose. “Still so brave, so spirited after living in this muck for days.” Was that a twinge of admiration in his gaze? He coughed and tugged upon his cravat. “However do you stand this place?”

  “Somehow I find it preferable to your company.” Faith retreated into the shadows, hoping that if he couldn’t see her, he would give up his quest and leave.

  Hideous laughter echoed through the dungeon, and Sir Wilhelm turned and stared down the row of cells before shifting his cold brown eyes back to her. “Would you find the death of your precious Mr. Waite preferable to my company?” The corner of his thin lips lifted in an exalted smirk.

  Alarm fastened onto Faith like a leech. “What nonsense is this?” She fisted her hands on her waist, bracing herself against this desperate cur’s lies.

  He leaned toward the bars. “I know that your illustrious captain caught you before I did.” His whisper hissed over her like a snake. “And that he let you go.”

  All remaining strength drained from Faith’s legs. They began to wobble. Ambling farther into the shadow
s, she leaned against the wall for support, not wanting Sir Wilhelm to see her fear. Gathering her wits, she responded in her most unruffled tone, “He did no such thing. And besides, what does it matter to you?”

  “Nothing.” He adjusted his wig and jumped when a cockroach scurried by his shoes. The folds of his face contorted in disgust as he watched the insect dart away. “It matters naught to me. In fact, Mr. Borland intends to have his captain arrested soon.”

  The realization struck Faith as violently as if the ceiling of the dungeon had crashed down on her. Mr. Borland has betrayed his best friend. But why? “Mr. Borland?”

  Sir Wilhelm grinned, obviously detecting the crack of alarm in her voice. “Yes, you remember, my dear, Mr. Waite’s first lieutenant—the man standing upon the deck of your ship, the Red Siren, when he and Mr. Waite boarded her?”

  Faith pressed a hand against the wall. The craggy stone scraped her raw skin. So Borland had told Sir Wilhelm everything. A chill overtook her, even in the tepid heat. It made no sense. “If Mr. Borland intends to arrest Dajon. . .Mr. Waite, then why hasn’t he done so already?”

  “Mr. Borland and I have an arrangement.” Sir Wilhelm blew his nose into his handkerchief then scanned above him with wary eyes, no doubt looking for flying insects. Faith prayed for a sudden swarm to nest in the man’s elaborate wig.

  Pushing off the wall, she crept toward the row of iron bars, longing for them to disappear so she could use her remaining strength to throttle the beast.

  Sir Wilhelm tugged off his cravat and blotted the sweat covering his brow. The white, sickly skin of his neck matched the ghostly pallor of his face. A tuft of grizzly black hair peeked around his lapel as if looking for an escape. “You will marry me in two days,” he announced, the tone of his voice leaving no room for argument.

  “And if I don’t?”

  “Then I fear Mr. Borland will arrest Mr. Waite for treason.” Sir Wilhelm waved his handkerchief through the air. “And as you know, he’ll be court-martialed and executed.”

  Faith approached him, ignoring the way his gaze slithered over her and the resultant brew of disgust churning in her stomach. Something still didn’t make sense. “What is in it for Borland?”

  “Let’s just say Mr. Borland is a much wealthier man today than he was yesterday.” His eyes glinted with cruel delight.

  Would Mr. Borland betray his captain for money? Perhaps. The greed for wealth and power often drove a man—or a woman—to malevolence. She cringed at her own guilt.

  Oh God, what am I to do?

  “You have two days to ponder my proposal. Otherwise, I fear Mr. Waite shall meet an untimely death. And I know you do not want that on your conscience along with everything else.” Withdrawing his snuffbox, Sir Wilhelm snorted a pinch into each nostril then stared at her. A shameless grin angled over his mouth, and he extended his hand through the bars.

  Faith retreated beyond his reach—at least for the moment.

  He snapped back his hand. “Never fear. I can wait. It shall make our union all the much sweeter.”

  Faith longed to respond, to tell him that if he ever took her as wife, it would be anything but sweet, but her love for Dajon stilled her tongue.

  Twisting on his heel portentously, he sauntered toward the stairs then swerved back around. “Oh, and by the by, I’ve given strict orders forbidding Mr. Waite to call upon you again. Although I have permitted your sisters to visit. Perhaps that will soften your opinion of me and give you more reason to consider their futures rather than just thinking of your own.” He snickered and began his ascent. The stairway soon swallowed him up, along with his bestial laughter. Faith wished he would disappear from her life just as easily.

  But before she had a chance to fully absorb the implications of Sir Wilhelm’s threat, the thumping of footsteps sounded on the stairs, and much to her delight, behind Gordon, Lucas’s burly body descended. And following him, Molly, Hope, and Grace emerged in the darkness. Sunlight from above filtered down upon them, highlighting their colorful gowns and glowing cheeks—like a grand parade filled with all the people she loved.

  Faith’s heart nearly burst through her chest. It was by far the most wonderful sight she’d seen in quite some time.

  “Faith!” Hope gathered her skirts and dashed to the cell, thrusting her hands through the iron bars and grabbing her by the shoulders. Tears streamed down her sister’s reddened cheeks.

  Grace slid beside her and clutched the rods, a frightened look pinching her face.

  Lecherous comments assailed them from deep within the dungeon. Hope’s eyes widened, and Faith felt her sister’s tremble through her hand. A crimson blush stole over Grace’s ivory skin.

  “Ignore them. They can’t harm you.” Faith took Hope’s and Grace’s hands in hers. Grace’s eyes locked upon Faith’s, but strength beamed from behind her anxious look.

  Faith gave an appreciative nod to Lucas and Molly standing behind them.

  Darting a frenzied gaze over Faith’s cell, Hope raised a hand to her nose. “Oh, Faith. Pirating?”

  “’Twas quite lucrative.” Faith cocked one penitent brow, hoping to alleviate her sister’s distress with a bit of levity.

  “I’m sure. But the Red Siren. Mercy me.” Grace shook her head, but instead of giving Faith the expected disapproving glare, her eyes filled with tears.

  “Lucrative but wrong.” Faith let out a jagged sigh. “Very wrong. I didn’t mean to hurt you, Grace.” She glanced at Hope. “Nor you, sweet Hope.”

  “I didn’t want this for you.” Grace swallowed. “I’ve tried so hard to keep us all from any pain. How often have I told you that bad things happen when you disobey God?” Grace shook the bars as if trying to force home her point. “Look what happened to Mother, to Charity.”

  “Whatever did they do wrong?” Hope swiped a tear from her cheek and frowned at her sister.

  Grace flattened her lips, her green eyes etched with sorrow. “You know Mother was not, shall we say, the most virtuous woman in her youth, and Charity. . .how oft did she have trouble telling the truth?”

  “Oh, bah. I care not. I think being a pirate would be exciting.” Hope sniffed then snapped her gaze to Faith. “Why didn’t you tell me? I could have joined you.”

  “That is precisely why I didn’t tell you,” Faith shot back, but her slight smile soon faded beneath a wave of shame—shame for her, shame for her sisters, shame for their family. She released their hands and looked away. “No matter what you think of me, I was doing it for you—for us.”

  “Yes, Lucas explained.” Grace leaned her head on the bars. “I’m so sorry that you believed you had no other recourse. I had no idea the burden you bore for our welfare—what you must have gone through to try to ensure our future. Please forgive me.”

  “You bear no blame, sweet Grace.” Faith brushed a black curl from her sister’s face.

  A baby rat scampered across the stones by Hope’s shoes, and she screamed and jumped back. “Oh my. How do you stand it in here?” She sobbed. “All that time when we thought you had abandoned us, you were risking your life for our welfare.”

  “Please do not make it a noble venture,” Faith huffed.

  “But we could have helped you.” Hope reached through the bars again and brushed a reassuring hand over Faith’s arm. “We could have worked something out together.” She smiled at Grace. “We are sisters, after all.”

  “Yes, we are.” Faith took Hope’s hand in hers. “What I should have done is trusted God to take care of us.”

  Grace smiled.

  “Can you both ever forgive me?” Faith asked, sorrow clawing at her throat. She wished more than anything she could go back in time and make things right. Do the right thing. Make the right choices. Save her sisters all this pain. But she couldn’t. “I’ve made quite a mess of things.”

  “Of course we forgive you,” Grace said, and Hope nodded.

  Foul insinuations followed by fiendish chortles pierced their ears, and Faith bit her lip, an
gry that her sisters must endure this for her sake. Yet one more harmful consequence of her stupidity.

  She gazed at them. Perspiration dotted Grace’s upper lip, and Hope, like a precious flower, seemed ready to wilt at any moment.

  “You mustn’t stay long. ’Tis quite beastly down here, I’m afraid.” As much as Faith longed to see her sisters, she could not force them to bear a punishment fit only for her.

  “Nonsense.” Hope squared her shoulders. “If you can endure it for this long, then we can surely abide it for a few minutes.”

  Faith blinked at her sister’s sudden bravery. Reaching through the bars, she grabbed Grace’s hand, too, and brought both sisters close.

  Grace’s tender gaze swept over Faith. “Your gown is in tatters. And you look so thin. How much longer must you stay here?”

  “What will happen to you, Faith?” Hope’s voice was strained with fear. “They hang pirates.” New tears forged trails down her cheeks. “First Mother, now you. I cannot lose you both.” She broke out into sobs, and Grace released Faith’s hand and swung her arm over Hope’s shoulder.

  “We can pray, Hope. We will pray.”

  “Oh, what good will that do?” Hope snapped the words out between wails.

  Grace continued to console her, tears filling her eyes.

  As she watched her two sisters suffer for her mistakes, Faith wished the ground would suddenly open up and swallow her alive. Oh, Mother. I’m so sorry. I have failed you. I have failed my precious sisters, and most of all, I have failed God.

  She battled against the tears burning behind her eyes.

  They need me, Lord. They cannot endure another loss. It cannot be Your will that I hang. Please, Lord, save me. Not for my sake, but for theirs.

  But perhaps God had already given her a way out. If she married Sir Wilhelm. . . Releasing Hope, Faith pressed a hand over her roiling stomach. Truth be told, she deserved to live out her days with the odious man for the pain and suffering she had caused.

  Faith shifted her gaze between her sisters. “Listen to me. You aren’t going to lose me. Do you hear?” Faith shook off a quiver of repulsion at the thought of becoming Sir Wilhelm’s wife. “I shall be out of here in two days.”