The Red Siren (20 page)

T
he drunken men formed an oscillating row. Dajon sped straight for them, intending to run them down if he had to. But at the last minute, they jerked aside, some tumbling to the ground, others scrambling for their fallen pistols. Dajon bolted ahead. He did not look back.
      A barrage of cracks and pops split the night air.
      A bullet whizzed past his ear.
      Dajon jerked the reins to the right and then the left, weaving a chaotic path down the street, dodging the volley of bullets. Lucas galloped beside him doing the same, one arm holding Hope in a fierce grip.
      Lightning cracked the sky in a fork of brilliance, casting an eerie gray flash over the buildings that lined the road. Laying propriety aside, Dajon wrapped his arms around Faith’s waist and pressed her back against his chest, then they lunged around the corner down Meeting Street. The thud of horse hooves in the mud matched the furious beat of his heart. Thunder bellowed above them as if war in heaven had broken out right over their heads. Faith jumped, and he gripped her tighter as he cast a quick glance over his shoulder. No one followed.
      Easing the horse to a trot, he wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve before returning his hand to Faith’s waist. Lucas drew up alongside him and cast a glance his way, his expression lost in the shadows.
      “Hope.” Faith beckoned to her sister, reaching her hand across the distance between them, but no response came from the dark mound bounding at their side.
      “She be all right, mistress,” Lucas said. “Her breathin’ be steady. And I ain’t seen no blood.”
      Faith released a sigh. Her shoulders drooped slightly. Dajon brushed
the curls from her cheek and leaned toward her, intending to offer her a word of comfort. Instead, his gaze landed on the black shape of a pistol clasped tightly between her hands.
      Reaching around her, he touched her arm. “Give me the pistol, Miss Westcott. ’Tis over now. You are safe.” Yet he wondered if she gripped the weapon out of fear—or anger. Truth be told, none of her behavior that evening had portrayed an ounce of fear—and certainly none of the trembling, swooning, or outright panic one would expect of a lady in the face of such danger and debauchery.
      She hesitated for a moment then flipped the pistol in the air, catching it by the barrel, and handed it to him over her shoulder, handle first.
      
Like an expert marksman.
      Dajon stuffed it in his belt and swallowed against the horrifying revelation rising in his throat.
      He pulled back on the reins, slowing the horse to a walk as they approached the city gates. Visions of Faith storming into the tavern as boldly as she would her own parlor and then standing her ground in a room full of drunken villains, pirates, and ruffians blasted across his mind. Not just standing her ground, but drawing her weapon, demanding her sister’s return. Why, she had not even blinked at the lewdness and profanity surrounding her. What sort of lady was she?
      
A pirate lady.
      No. He could not believe it. He would not believe it.
      Through the city gates, Dajon turned the horse onto the dirt path to Hasell Street, searching for an explanation for Faith’s behavior, any explanation besides the one that kept shoving its way to the forefront of his mind. Perhaps her father had trained her in arms. Perhaps she’d been forced to defend their home in the past. No. He knew Admiral Westcott. He would never allow one of his daughters to behave in such an improper and audacious manner.
      She wiggled in the saddle and pulled away from him. “You do not have to hold me so tightly anymore,” she shot back over her shoulder.
      He leaned toward her ear. “Enjoying yourself too much, perchance?”
      “I’m sure many women succumb to your infinite charms, Captain, but I am not among them.” Dajon chuckled but kept a firm grip upon her. “I am deeply wounded, Miss Westcott. After all we’ve been through, ’tis only that I wouldn’t want you to fall.”
      “If you don’t control those hands, it won’t be me who falls from this
horse, Mr. Waite.” She shuffled in the saddle again, and the movements of her body against Dajon sent a surge of heat through him. He released her momentarily and cleared his throat. What was he doing? The last thing he needed was to entangle himself with a woman, especially an admiral’s daughter—and especially this particular woman who had far too many secrets stowed under hatches.
      But Miss Westcott. Never had he encountered such a lady, such a dichotomy of charm and venom all wrapped up in a curvaceous, fiery parcel.
      He leaned toward her, longing to savor the moment of her close proximity—one that he doubted would ever come again. But the stench of that awful soap bit his nose, overpowering her normal sweet, lemony aroma. He huffed. Certainly the lady knew no more about soap making than he did.
      She flipped her hair behind her, swatting him in the face with the fetid strands, and glanced toward Lucas and Hope. “I do thank you, Mr. Waite.” Her voice had softened, had even taken on a penitent tone. “My sister appears unharmed, at least on the outside. I thought surely all was lost when we entered the tavern and she was nowhere to be seen.”
      “’Twas my pleasure. I am only glad we arrived in time.” Dajon glanced at the groaning petite form in Lucas’s arms. “If you and your sisters would simply follow the rules, you could avoid putting yourselves in such danger. That is what rules are for, Miss Westcott—for your own safety and the safety of others.”
      She gave a most unladylike snort. “I fear your task as our guardian has been much more than you bargained for, Mr. Waite. Perhaps you now wish to reconsider?”
      
His task?
Surprisingly, neither Dajon’s obligation to the admiral nor the consequences to his career had even penetrated his decisions tonight. He had acted only out of fear for Hope’s safety, and in particular, out of his strong desire to alleviate Faith’s distress. When had he begun to care for this family? And more important, when had he begun to put his career, his very life on the line for them?
      
Surely, Lord, this unselfish act will pay off a portion of my past debt.
      He felt a shudder course through Faith. “I fear for what my sister endured before we arrived.”
      Dajon remained silent. He knew all too well the wickedness that went on in those nefarious dens. As he envisioned the fiendish group of
men that had surrounded Hope, he loathed to think what they had done to her, what they had planned on doing. Certainly even more evil had been afoot than ravishing a young woman.
      But the Lord had shown up strong! The strange fire, the presence of God that had protected Hope. A surge of faith lifted Dajon’s spirits. “Never fear, God was with your sister the whole time, even before we arrived.”
      A brisk wind swirled, shoving dark clouds aside and allowing the glow of a half-moon to shine upon them.
      Faith shook her head.
      Lucas cleared his throat. “Beggin’ yer pardon, sir, but what exactly did happen back there? I ain’t seen nothin’ like that before.”
      “That, Mr. Corwin, was the mighty hand of God.”
      “But the fire—it jest disappeared.”
      “Amazing, wasn’t it?” Dajon still found it hard to believe himself. Yet how could he deny what he had seen? It reminded him of the pillar of fire God had sent to protect the people of Israel as they traveled across the wilderness. Excitement sped through him.
      “And those men couldn’a see Miss Hope till the fire was gone.” Lucas’s normally hearty voice quivered slightly.
      “And the ground was cold and wet beneath the flames after they disappeared,” Faith added, awe softening her normal confident tone.
      “Aye.” He smiled.
      Lucas shifted in his saddle, adjusting Hope in his arms. “And those men—they stopped. They didn’t chase us after ye commanded them in the name of Jesus to stand down.”
      “The name of Jesus has been placed ‘far above all principality, and power, and might, and dominion, and every name that is named, not only in this world, but also in that which is to come,’ ” Dajon said, quoting from Ephesians. He felt a tingling sensation throughout his body.
      Faith stiffened against his chest.
      “God exists,” Lucas announced incredulously.
      “That He does, Mr. Corwin. That He does.”
      “I am sure there is another explanation.” Faith’s sharp tone bit into Dajon’s joy. The Lord had rescued one of the Westcott sisters from evil, but the other was still locked in a dungeon of disbelief.
Lord, if this miracle cannot convince her, what will?
Without God, she would forever be wandering through life searching for something that could not be found.
      
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.

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 perpetual 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.”