The Red Siren by M. L. Tyndall Page A

Navy.
      The captain’s eyes drifted to hers again, and in a flash, Bishop plucked a gun from inside his vest and pointed it at Mr. Waite before he could react. But the captain only glared at him—a confident, icy glare that sent a shiver down Faith’s back. Her fear for Mr. Waite’s safety suddenly shifted to a fear for her crew’s.
      In one swift motion, Mr. Waite yanked his pistol from its brace and pounded the handle on Bishop’s gun, knocking it the ground, then he whipped his pistol around by the trigger and pointed it straight at the man’s heart.
      “I can handle a pistol as well,” he said with an insolent smirk, cocking the weapon.
      A cheer rose from the crowd as the three men stood with their jaws agape.
      Mr. Waite wiped the sweat from his brow. “Now, if you please, I will be on my way.”
      Unwilling admiration surged within Faith as she watched the captain dispatch her hardened crew so quickly and with such skill. Without so much as a glance her way, he sheathed his sword, brushed by her men, who backed away from him, and took her arm. He tugged her through the crowd, his pistol still firmly gripped in his hand. When they were well away from the center of town, he housed it again then whirled her around to face him, seizing her shoulders.
      “Of all the preposterous, dangerous things to do—wandering around the port at night without an escort.” His gaze skimmed over her. “Are you hurt? No, of course you’re not hurt.” He snorted and released her. “Did you know those men?”
      “Nay.” She gazed up at him, barely able to discern his features in the darkness. A cloud moved aside, allowing moonlight to flood over him. Somehow the mixture of silvery light and sinister shadows made him appear far more dangerous than he did in full sunlight. Or maybe it was because she’d just witnessed him best three of her most skilled crewmen. And his height did naught but aid the impression. Rarely had Faith, who herself was taller than most women, met a man who towered above her.
      “They seemed to know you.” Suspicion sharpened his tone.
      “I only paid them a shilling to delay you.”
      “To delay me?” Mr. Waite said. “They could have killed me.”
      “You handled them quite well, Captain. And besides, I returned as soon as I saw the situation escalate.”
      “To do what? Protect me?” He snickered and spiked a hand through his dark hair. “All you did was incite them further by telling them who I was.”
      “Nevertheless, I’m flattered that you were willing to engage them in order to escort me home.”
      Mr. Waite released a long sigh. “I do not wish to see you harmed. Regardless of your insistence that you can take care of yourself, Miss Westcott, I fear you do not understand the wicked intentions of most men.”
      Concern burned in his eyes—for her or merely for maintaining his position with her father? He took her hand in his, and the warmth and strength from his touch sent streams of assurance through her. She did not care for the unfamiliar sensation.
      A salty breeze blew in from the bay and played with the wayward strand of hair dangling over his cheek. The muted sounds of music and laughter from town swirled around them then combined with the orchestra of leaves fluttering from beech trees that lined the avenue.
      A horse and carriage clattered by, startling Faith back to her senses.
      “We should be going.”
      When they reached the Westcott home, the captain took Faith’s elbow and led her up the stairs to the porch. “Quite an interesting evening, Miss Westcott.”
      She swung about. “I’m glad I amused you, Mr. Waite.” She lowered her gaze to his muddied breeches and giggled. “But I see you have soiled your pristine uniform.”
      “A battle