The Red Siren (33 page)

Borland shook his head, trying to dislodge the water in his ear. Perhaps he had misheard his captain. “Turn yourself in?”
      Dajon crossed his arms over his chest but said nothing.
      Borland inched his way back toward him, certain that his captain no longer intended to kill him. There had been a moment, a brief moment, when Dajon had held Borland over the railing that he could not claim such confidence.
      But now the rage had fled, replaced by a calm, sincere resolve. “But why? Why submit to certain death?”
      “What is it to you?” Dajon faced the sea.
      “But you can still save yourself.”
      “I told you, I will not run away.”
      Borland peered at his friend inquisitively. Perhaps Dajon had not thought things through. “Surely you realize that if you leave, Sir Wilhelm will no longer have a card to play in this mad scheme of his. Miss Westcott will not have to marry him. And you’ll be free to live out your life.”
      “And you’ll be free to assume my command at no expense to your conscience, eh?” Dajon’s sharp gaze bit into Borland. “Isn’t that it?”
      Shifting his eyes away, Borland recoiled in shame. Dajon was right. After all the trouble Borland had caused, he still thought only of himself.
      “Nevertheless, you are correct.” Dajon released a sigh and gripped the railing. “I have betrayed my country. I allowed a known pirate to go free. And I will not run, nor will I abandon Miss Westcott in her greatest hour of need.”
      Borland searched his mind for some other plausible explanation, some other reason for which a man would willingly die, certainly not for honor and duty, and certainly not for a foolish woman. “There will be
other women, Dajon. You attract them like sailors to grog.”
      Flinching, Dajon frowned. “None like Miss Westcott, I’m afraid.”
      
Sentimental fop.
“This is madness, Dajon. You have been bewitched. Regardless, you still won’t have her. You’ll be dead, and if she doesn’t marry Sir Wilhelm, she will soon join you.”
      The
Enforcer
dipped over a swell, nodding in agreement. Milky froth leaped onto the deck and swirled about Borland’s boots like the confusion in his mind.
      “Perhaps.” Dajon tore off his waistcoat, draping it over the rail. “Or Sir Wilhelm will relent at the last minute, or the King’s pardon I’ve requested will arrive in time.” He shrugged. “’Tis in God’s hands. At least she will not be forced to marry a man she abhors just to save me. Because there will be no saving me. But if she is hanged”—Dajon winced as if the thought pained him—“then you are correct. We will be together in a far better place.”
      Wiping the sweat from his neck, Borland suppressed a chuckle at his friend’s foolhardy faith. “Don’t tell me you truly believe that.”
      “With all my heart,” Dajon replied without hesitation, his tone neither defensive nor patronizing. “I took my eyes off eternity for far too long and put them upon rules, regulations, and things of this world. But no more.”
      “But are you not relying on your rules again by turning yourself in?” Fear squeezed Borland until sweat began to form on his brow. If he couldn’t convince Dajon to run, the captain’s death would be on his hands forever. He doubted he could live under the weight of that guilt.
      Scanning the dark, churning sea, Borland wondered at the existence of so grand a God-King that men would willingly die to follow Him. “So am I to believe that God wants you dead?”
      “I don’t know. But I do know this.” Dajon shot him a confident gaze. “He doesn’t want me to run.”
      “You stand ready to turn yourself in for treason, willing to be executed, and for what? To follow the leading of this unseen God.” Borland grunted and shifted his boots over the damp wood. A bell tolled, echoing over the deck, followed by another, announcing the change of watch.
      
Crazy, sanctimonious fool.
Turning, Borland began pacing across the deck, trying to make sense out of something that could not be made sense of. He halted at the edge of the forecastle and studied Dajon. His captain stood tall and strong, gazing out over the ocean as though
deep in conversation. A peaceful power exuded from Dajon that drew Borland back. When he reached his side, the captain glanced his way.
      Borland lowered his gaze. “How can you bear to be near me?” he asked, rubbing his sore neck, remembering that only a moment ago, Dajon indeed hadn’t been able to bear it. “I am the reason you find yourself in this predicament. I am the reason you will die.”
      A flash of anger sparked in Dajon’s eyes but quickly dissipated. “No, Borland. I must admit I was angry at your betrayal, but truth be told, I broke the law and I deserve my punishment. What’s done is done. In the end, I’m no better than you.”
      Borland swallowed a burning lump in his throat. “How can you say that? You’re the most decent, honorable man I know.” He shook his head and followed Dajon’s gaze to the onyx sea. A sudden calm had overtaken it. Only a slight rustle stirred the black liquid. The frown of the moon reflected off the dark waters as a large fish broke through the mirror with a crystalline splash. A dolphin, perhaps. A breeze tickled the angry sweat on his neck and brow, and Borland lowered his shoulders. Peace settled over him, but it was more than peace. It was a knowing.
      “I can’t do it.” His voice rent the stillness of the night.
      Dajon glanced his way.
      “I won’t testify against you.” Borland locked his gaze upon his captain’s. “I’ve told only Sir Wilhelm. It’s his word against mine. I will simply tell the court I have nothing to say in the matter.”
      Dajon’s eyes narrowed as if he pondered whether he could trust him.
      Borland ground his teeth together. “I don’t blame you for your mistrust. What I have done is far too ghastly to forgive. But I now see that my indomitable pride, my envy, and my selfishness have led me down this vile trail. And I find I detest the direction they have taken me.”
      “Sir Wilhelm will still bring charges.” Dajon tore his gaze away.
      “No doubt. But without witnesses, what can he do?”
      The captain tightened his lips. “That would depend on whether the Admiralty Court would believe him or not.” He flashed a disbelieving smile at Borland. “A moment ago, I wanted to kill you.”
      “And a moment ago, I had a plot in place to kill you.” Borland cocked a conciliatory brow.
      “And you say there is no God.” Dajon clutched the back of Borland’s neck and tossed him back and forth.
      “Careful with the neck, Captain.”
      
Dajon released him, and both men grew silent for a moment.
      “We should tell Miss Westcott immediately,” Borland said. Grabbing Dajon’s coat and hat, he handed them to his captain.
      “Sir Wilhelm forbids me to see her.”
      “Then I will go.”
      Dajon scratched his jaw. “Nay. Find out when the wedding is to take place.” A slow smile stretched across his lips. “I have a better idea.”

G
reat guns, Mr. Jamieson. Where are all the cockboats?” Dajon scanned the empty braces perched atop the deck then glanced over the port side as Borland dashed toward the stern and leaned over the taffrail.
      “None here, Captain—sir!” Borland yelled.
      “Who took them out?”
      “Midshipman Salles took one out, sir,” Mr. Jamieson offered.
      “Yes, but who else?” Dajon spiked a hand through his hair. “I gave no one else permission to leave the ship.” He glanced up at the smoldering sun now halfway across the sky and swiped the sweat from his brow.
      He must get to shore. He had only an hour before Faith would marry Sir Wilhelm. Alarm gripped him, squeezing hope drop by drop from his heart. Everything, his entire future and that of Faith’s rested solely on his perfect timing.
      Fisting his hands on his waist, he scanned Charles Towne port, nearly a mile from the ship. Nothing but indigo waters, stirred only by passing ships and diving pelicans, separated him from reaching his dreams.
      Borland approached on his left. “I don’t understand it. All the boats have disappeared.”

Faith slid her silk shoes up the stairs of the brick courthouse, the clank of the irons around her ankles ringing a death knell with each step she took. Reaching up, she tried to wipe the perspiration from her neck, but the chains binding her wrists forbade her. On each side, deputies of the assembly gripped her elbows and assisted her onward. If she wasn’t so distraught, she would laugh at all the fuss they were making over one small woman.
      
But she was a pirate, after all.
      And after assessing the slight men beside her, she’d decided they were wise to use such precautions. Freed from these chains and with a cutlass in hand, she had no doubt she could dispatch them with ease.
      But regardless, she wouldn’t dare attempt it. Not with Dajon’s life on the line.
      Would she never see him again? The pain of that possibility stabbed her deep in the gut. What had he done when Lucas had given him the news of her decision to marry Wilhelm? Perhaps he had gone to Bath himself to speed up Governor Eden’s pardon. She had no way of knowing where he was, no way of informing anyone of the abominable event about to take place. After Lucas, Molly, and her sisters had left, Sir Wilhelm had prevented anyone from calling upon her again.
      Two giddy girls shuffled along behind her, fussing over the lacy trim around her hem and waist.
      “Oh, Miss Westcott, you do look so beautiful,” one of them said.
      “Beautiful. I so love weddings,” the other girl chirped, reminding Faith of Morgan’s meaningless squawking.
      She longed to spin around and ask them if they did not see the chains that bound her feet and hands but thought better of wasting her energy. They were naught but young girls, with no more brains than begonias, hired by Sir Wilhelm to prepare her for this loathsome farce of a ceremony.
      Choking down a rising clump of disgust, Faith took the final step, the silk of her emerald gown swishing over her stockings. Neither her warm sudsy bath, nor the beautiful gown now adorning her, nor the string of pearls at her throat had been able to remove the filth of the dungeon from her skin.
      Or the repulsion of marrying Sir Wilhelm from her heart.
      One of the deputies shoved aside the massive oak door, and a blast of mold, human sweat, and decay assailed her.
      She swallowed, hesitating as her legs seemed to melt. The deputies tugged on her elbows, but snatching them from their grasp, she stepped inside of her own free will. She would not be led like a condemned prisoner to her death. She had made her choice.
      Faith took another step inside, and the girls scrambled to get by her and take their places at the front. The door slammed shut, showering Faith with dust from the rafters and locking her in a vault from which
there was no escape. As her eyes became accustomed to the dim interior, the form of Sir Wilhelm took shape like a specter at the far end of the room. He stood before a long, upraised judge’s table dressed in all the finery of his class. Turning to face her, he licked his gaunt lips as a grin slithered over them. Beside him, a man dressed in a fine cambric shirt and a richly embellished velvet waistcoat and breeches eyed her with suspicion. A priest, wearing the flowing white robes of the Church of England, stood at the front, sifting through the pages of a small book.
      Sir Wilhelm beckoned her forward like a snake into his coils, sunlight glinting off his jeweled fingers. The deputies nudged her from behind. Her chains scraped over the wooden floor as she glanced out the window to her left. A wooden platform broiled in the hot sun, two nooses dangling lifelessly in the windless day. No doubt Sir Wilhelm had planned the ceremony within sight of her alternative.
      
Pompous half-wit.
Little did he know she would gladly put the noose around her own neck rather than marry him. ’Twas only thoughts of Dajon that kept her feet moving toward a fate worse than death.
      
Oh God, help me. I know I deserve this and far worse. But if there’s any way in Your mercy to rescue me while sparing Dajon and my sisters, even if by my death, please come to my aid.
      Faith inched ahead, praying for a breeze to whip in through the window, but the air remained tepid, static as doldrums at sea. No movement, not a single wisp stirring. Dead, like her heart.
      Keeping her face forward, she finally reached the front.
      “Miss Westcott, may I introduce Judge Nicolas Trott.” Sir Wilhelm gestured toward the finely dressed man beside him.
      
Trott.
Faith had heard of the man. An Anglican priest, descended from a highly influential British family, he was known for his lack of mercy and his particular hatred of pirates.
      With an arrogant snort, he perused her.
      Sir Wilhelm retrieved a paper from his coat and waved it before her face. “On Judge Trott’s recommendation, Governor Johnson has graciously given me your full pardon.”
      How she longed to snatch the document and stuff it into his pretentious mouth.
      The judge snapped a quick glance her way as if staring at her too long would infect him. “I trust you’ll not be pirating again, Miss Westcott.”
      “I trust I’ll not be doing anything pleasurable ever again, sir.”
      
A hint of a smile lifted the judge’s lips.
      Perspiration streamed down Faith’s back, drawing the silk close against her skin. Somewhere in the distance, a bell tolled. Sir Wilhelm took his spot beside her, rubbing his arm against hers. Disgust swept over her like raw refuse, and she stepped away.
      The young girls giggled with delight from their seats, oblivious to the nightmare playing out before them.
      Faith glanced over her shoulder at the thick wooden door holding her captive, the deputies flanking each side. Oh, that Captain Waite would come barging through those doors and whisk her away from this madman, but she knew that would never happen. He probably had no idea this marriage was even taking place, and if he did, to halt it would mean his certain death.
      As if reading her mind, Sir Wilhelm leaned toward her with a sneer. The smell of starch and stale breath curled in her nose. “Looking for your Mr. Waite, perchance? Hoping for a heroic rescue, my dear? Even if he knew about the proceedings, I’ve arranged for him to be detained today. We wouldn’t want our blessed nuptials to be interrupted, now, would we? Besides, if he dares show his presumptuous face, I’ll have him arrested on the spot.” He brushed a speck of dirt from his waistcoat as if it were Dajon himself.
      Regardless of the man’s omens of doom, a spark of hope lit within Faith. Dajon was still free—and alive! And that speck of knowledge gave her the courage to continue.
      She thrust her hands toward him and rattled her shackles. “Do you suppose you could unchain me for the ceremony, Sir Wilhelm, or am I to be kept in irons our entire marriage?
      A lecherous fire glinted in his eyes. “If it keeps you forever mine.”
      “All the chains in the world will never accomplish that, sir.”
      With a curse, he snapped his fingers and called for one of the deputies.
      After her chains were removed, Faith flexed her ankles and rubbed her aching wrists, sure they were red beneath her pristine gloves.
      “We are ready, Reverend.” Sir Wilhelm faced the priest, who had been observing the odd proceedings with both interest and disapproval. For a moment, Faith hoped he would not agree to perform such an obvious mockery of the sanctity of marriage, but all hope was dashed when he adjusted his red sash and said, “Very well. Let us begin.”