Lost in his harrowing tale of ice and cold, of the salt spray freezing on the decks, Merial sipped her wine and listened, the pain in her head receding. Relaxing under the rise and fall of his voice as he spun his tale, and Henry’s purring, she let her imagination run as she followed the story.
“What is your father’s title?”
“The Earl of Dorsten,” she answered absently, still lost amidst the ice and the tossing waves.
She had not truly realized what she had said until Christopher barked a triumphant laugh. Then she gaped, astounded. “The Earl of Dorsten,” she repeated. “I know the name, but I cannot recall his face. Or his Christian name.”
“I think you are trying too hard, Merial,” he said, grinning. “And when you are relaxed, and thinking of something else, things start returning to you.”
“Maybe I am,” she replied, smiling with new joy. “The name just slipped out. I was not even trying to remember. I just did.”
“However,” Christopher went on, his voice low, his ice blue eyes intent, “I saw how your face revealed your pain. Your head still hurts you.”
“Only when I try to remember,” she admitted. “Right now, it is hardly there at all. Yet, when I fight to regain my memories, the pain comes back.”
He scrutinized her, almost making her squirm in her chair. “I do not understand how that can be,” he replied. “But it also has been only three days since your injury occurred. You must still be healing.”
Reaching back, Merial gingerly touched the knot on her head, and winced. “That swelling has not gone down.”
“That is also disconcerting, Merial,” he said with a frown. “I am not understanding that.”
Drinking her wine, Merial could not understand it, either. “I usually heal quickly from bumps and bruises when I have been clumsy. Why should this be different?”
“All I can say is the hour grows late,” Christopher advised. “We should both seek our beds, you especially, as you must have rest in order to heal fully. May I say good night?”
Picking up the sleepy Henry, Merial put him on the floor, then stood. “Yes, you are right. I will retire to my cabin now. Thank you for the wine and the conversation.”
“And I thank you for your company.”
Christopher stood as Merial offered him a quick curtsey, and returned to her a polite bow. “Sleep well, Merial.”
As Henry trotted in her wake, Merial returned to her cabin, and was not quick enough to close the door before Henry ducked inside. Someone, Mr. Mayhew perhaps, had lit a lantern for her, and she turned the wick up for better illumination. The cat jumped onto her bunk, gazing at her with expectant golden eyes.
“Perhaps you should be catching rats,” she told him. “I refuse to sleep with my door open so you may come and go.”
Henry did not move, even when Merial opened the door and pointed into the gangway. “Henry, out.”
With a sigh, she closed it again, and set her hands on her hips. “Where do you sleep when I am not here?”
He yawned, showing a pink tongue and white teeth.
“I am not accustomed to sharing my bed with a cat.”
Yet, she could not bear the thought of picking him up, and setting him outside her door. Despite the oddness of sharing her bunk with a cat, Merial felt lost and alone. Henry’s company, nonjudgmental and comforting, might be just what she needed this night. “All right,” she said, “just promise not to tell my mother. I have no doubt she would faint at the very thought of anyone sleeping with a cat.”
She hung her gown on the hook, and turned the wick on the lantern down until it gave off a very faint illumination. Merial then crawled under the blanket in her shift. Henry made way for her, then curled up in the hollow of her stomach, purring contentedly. Rubbing his ears, she listened to the waves outside the hull, the footsteps of the night watch above.
The gentle rocking of the ship soothed her to deeper relaxation, and the vibration of Henry’s purring calmed her mind. Warm and comfortable, she drifted to sleep.
* * *
“Run,” he shouted. “Go. Get to the ship.”
Flames. Red and orange, they climbed high, reaching for her. She felt their heat crisping her skin. Explosions. The screams of the dying, the injured. A hand in hers leading her to the bulwarks, helping her down to the dinghy bobbing below.
She stared up at the face above hers, frantic, panicked, screaming, “Come with me!”
Then she was falling.
Merial woke with a jolt, fearing she had cried the words aloud and alarmed Christopher and the crew. Her heart raced as the fragments of the dream scattered, leaving only her head aching fiercely and the vague memory of fire. Wiping the tears she had not known she had wept from her cheeks, she stepped from the bunk.
Turning the lantern’s wick up, Merial poured water from the pitcher into a cup and drank it. On the bunk, Henry watched her with what she thought might be compassion in his golden eyes.
“I am sorry I woke you,” she murmured. “I know that was rude.”
Pacing to the porthole, Merial gazed out over the black sea, the moon’s faint glimmer reflecting off the restless water. She stiffened in fear when the long lonely wail reached her, making her shiver.
What was that?
She had never heard such in her life, and the old legends of sea monsters from the deepest ocean came to her.
She shot a swift glance at Henry, who had perked his ears at the sound, but displayed no alarm. “I cannot remember my father’s name, yet I remember stories of sea monsters?”
The wailing sound came again, breaking gooseflesh out all over her body. Expecting the night watch to raise an alarm, she braced herself. No alarm came. No running feet charged across the decks.
“So whatever is making that sound,” she remarked to Henry, “you all are familiar with it.”
The lonely, echoing sound continued for a while before dying away. Growing cold, Merial took another drink of water, then climbed back into her bunk. Henry courteously made room for her, then once again curled into the hollow of her stomach.
Feeling the need for comfort, she put her arm around him and held him close as she once more drifted to sleep.
* * *
“Whale song,” Christopher informed her at breakfast in his cabin the next morning. “They made a very haunting noise.”
As he had insisted she dine with him at times rather than work like a drudge in the galley with Maurice, Merial ate her morning meal with him, then planned to assist the French cook through much of the day.
“How can a fish make a noise like that?” she asked, feeding Henry some bacon.
Christopher chuckled. “A whale is not a fish. They breathe air as we people do, and do not have gills as a fish does.”
“Oh. I had no idea.”
“The seas are filled with great mysteries,” he told her. “There is so much we do not know, have no knowledge of what may lie under the waves.”
“Sea monsters?”
She caught the intense stare he sent her, and she gazed back, unmoving, wondering what was behind his scrutiny of her.
“What do you know of sea monsters?” he asked.
“Nothing, really.” Merial fed Henry more bacon. “It is just that sound last night made me think of sea monsters.”
“You know about old legends,” he commented, returning to his meal, “but you cannot remember your family or what happened to you.”
She recalled, in a rapid there and gone flash within her mind, of fire, the heat of it, and a voice that echoed as though from a long distance, Run. Go. Get to the ship. “It is almost as though what I cannot remember pertains exclusively to my family, my home, and how I got onto the dinghy.”
“That is right.” Christopher replied. “What is the capital of England?”
“London, of course.”
He gestured with his knife and fork. “I am beginning to suspect your memory loss is as much emotional as it is physical.”
“
How do you mean?” she asked, confused.
“I have heard of such, though I have not witnessed it firsthand,” he went on, taking a bite of bread. “Something traumatic in your life occurred, and your mind must escape it. Of course, the lump to your head did not help, either.”
Merial frowned. “So I cannot remember because I do not truly want to remember? That makes no sense, as I do want to remember what happened to me, who my parents are, where I come from.”
“I know it makes little sense,” Christopher agreed, “but I believe the mind has a way of protecting itself from terrible trauma it witnessed. When you are ready, you will begin to remember.”
Shaking her head, Merial crunched into her bacon. “I am ready to remember, so forgive me for saying it, but what you say has to be wrong.”
“We shall see.”
“Tell me about sea monsters,” Merial urged him, eager to hear tales from the legends, from Christopher’s own experiences.
Grinning, he replied, “Now, I have not seen them for myself, mind you,” he began, “but they say the sea is filled with mermen and mermaids.”
Merial brightened. “I read a story once about mermaids. Are they real?”
“I cannot say,” he admitted. “If they are, they are not kind creatures. What I have heard is that if one falls overboard, he may be seized from under the surface by a mermaid, and eaten. There are variations of the same story—mermaids and mermen killing sailors, drowning them.”
“What about sea serpents?’ Merial asked eagerly. “Do they exist?”
“Again, there are many stories of sea creatures like the great serpents,” he answered, apparently enjoying telling these fables. “Squid and octopus that are as big as castles, and wrap their tentacles around ships, crushing and sinking them.”
Merial felt her eyes go round, and her mouth drop. “Oh, my. That would be horrible.”
“Yes, indeed. That is why I hope they are only stories, and not true.”
Henry leaped down from the table, and ambled out of Christopher’s quarters, presumably to search for rats. Christopher stood up at his place.
“I must make my rounds of the ship. Would you care to join me?”
“I would like that. After, however, I must assist Maurice in the galley. I promised.”
“Please give him my compliments.”
The sun shone bright and warm as she climbed up onto the deck with Christopher behind her, the ocean calm and serene. Merial felt that she could be content with a life at sea, seeing different places and people, experiencing things she never could while on land in England. Yet, her thoughts drifted to giant squid tentacles reaching up to drag a ship to its death, and she shuddered.
As they walked, Christopher pausing now and then to speak to a member of the crew, check the tautness of a line, or gaze up at the sails, Merial would peer over the gunwale and stare down into the depths. She fancied she saw tentacles, and drew back, her heart pounding. She could not stop herself from looking, however.
Something moved through the water toward them, and Merial cut off her gasp of terror before it escaped. A grey object of a triangular shape sliced through the water, then was joined by more of them. Spouts of mist shot up from several of the creatures, and she caught glimpses of grey bodies sinking below the surface.
“Christopher,” she asked, her voice shaking. “What are those?”
He joined her. “Those are dolphins,” he replied easily. “Air breathing creatures, so they are not fish.”
“Are they dangerous?” Merial stood on her tiptoes as the animals swam nearer, some diving under the Valkyrie.
“Actually, no,” he answered. “Tales speak of dolphins helping men who have fallen overboard to get to land. See? They even smile.”
Delighted at the sight of a dolphin’s head broaching the waves as though to have a look at her, she saw the curve of its beak as though in truth it were smiling. “How wonderful,” she exclaimed.
Others also stuck their heads from the water as Christopher continued. “They have been known to follow a ship for leagues. That I can attest to, as a group of them followed the Valkyrie for several days.”
The dolphins swam and played around the hull of the ship for a time, then dove under the water to resurface a distance away. Merial watched them until they vanished from sight. She turned to find not just Christopher watching her, but also Mr. Mayhew, and he had a tiny smile for her before he bowed.
“Dolphins are considered a good omen,” Christopher commented as they continued to walk on, Mr. Mayhew a few steps behind. “Delightful creatures, are they not?”
“Yes, indeed,” she replied, gazing out over the sea. “I could watch them all day.”
At the helm, Christopher checked the compass, nodded to the sailor at the wheel, then they continued on. “We know so little about the ocean,” he said as they paced slowly. “So many mysteries.” He smiled at her. “Like you.”
Merial felt her face heat. “I never wanted to be a mystery.”
“It makes you all the more intriguing.”
A crewman ran up to Christopher, knuckling his brow. “Schools of fish have been sighted, Cap’n,” he said, breathless. “Permission to break out the nets.”
“Permission granted.” Christopher gave the man a quick nod and a tiny smile before he ran off. “Good luck.”
Turning to Merial, he said, “That may be the reason the dolphins were around. Dining on the schools of fish.”
“I do so hope they catch some,” Merial answered, watching as the sailor vanished below.
“Then you and Mr. Gauthier will be busy cooking up fresh fish for us all. Come, let us watch.”
Torn between wanting to watch the crew catch fish and her obligation to Maurice, Merial chose her promise. “I would love to, but I must help Maurice. I gave my word.”
Christopher smiled. “Your word is your bond, even as it is mine. I expect you for lunch, however. We will dine on the poop deck, you and I.”
Merial chatted happily with Maurice, laughing at his jokes, while scrubbing pots and dishes, scrubbing the galley floor. She knew, though she could not remember it, that she had never done manual labor in her life. Yet, oddly, she enjoyed every moment of the work.
“I hope the crew catches a lot of fish,” she told Maurice on a sigh. “I love fresh fish.”
“Then I will fry them crispy in butter and lemon just for you, no?” he said, beginning preparations for the crew’s lunch, a huge pot of stew made of salted pork, potatoes, carrots, and lentils, spiced with curry seasonings and black pepper.
“That sounds delicious,” she told him, cutting up the potatoes and carrots on the big butcher block table. “How long have you been cooking, Maurice?”
“Since I was a small boy in Paris,” he answered, stoking the fire on the stove. “I ran away before Napoleon’s army, hired on a merchant’s vessel, and never looked back.”
“Will you ever go back to France?”
“One day, cherie, one day.”
Merial broke away from the galley to eat the hot delicious stew at a table on the poop deck with Christopher, the meal served by a sailor. She gazed out at the vast expanse of blue, and sighed, once again nearly wishing she did not have to go back to England.
“Did the sailors catch anything?” she asked.
His mouth filled with stew, Christopher swallowed and wiped his lips with his napkin before answering. “Indeed they did,” he replied with a smile. “Bluefin tuna for the most part, as well as mackerel, sea bass, and flounder.”
She returned to the galley to assist just as the first loads of freshly caught fish arrived from the crew. Maurice fetched a deep sigh upon seeing them, then grinned down at her. “It be a nice change from salt pork, no? Yet, I refuse to waste. We cook all this, Merial.”
The scent of the fish almost overwhelmed her, but she stoically helped fry fish in huge pans with butter and lemon, sent them on huge platters to the crew members who came for them. It appeared she was not the on
ly one who craved something fresh that had not been preserved in salt.
At last, weary beyond belief and hungry, Merial was able to sit down at the table with Christopher to dine on her own meal of fried fish with lentils and bread. At the first taste, she almost moaned. “Oh, my. This is so good.”
“I must pay Gauthier almost triple to avoid other ships’ captains stealing him away from me,” Christopher replied with a grin, devouring his own dinner. “Just wait until you taste his fish stew.”
“He said that was on the menu for tomorrow,” Merial replied, filling her mouth with the tasty fish. “He refuses to permit all that fish to go to waste, and will cook it quickly.”
The Lost Countess That Counted Stars (Historical Regency Romance) Page 6
