The Lost Countess That Counted Stars (Historical Regency Romance)

by Patricia Haverton

  Merial stared through her own glass. “Are they sinking?”

  “No,” he answered. “We did not do enough damage, and they can make repairs quickly enough to keep from going under. But meanwhile, their prey is escaping, and so are we.”

  Mr. Mayhew joined them. “A perfect execution of your plan, M’lord. I fear, however, they are now angry enough to hunt us without relenting. They will want revenge.”

  “Then we must stay well ahead of them,” Christopher replied. “Should they try, they will realize we have teeth and can bite back.”

  * * *

  After an hour of running before the wind, Christopher ordered their course changed to east by southeast. “I had a look at the charts,” he told Merial as they stood once again in the bow. “This heading will still take us to England, and we have the wind at our backs. Once again, we will become lost on this vast ocean.”

  “That was a truly clever trick,” Merial told him with a grin. “But how could they not see us until it was too late?”

  “Had we been sailing under a full moon,” he answered, gazing through the spyglass, “they would have seen us almost immediately. But running dark and silent, with very little light on the water and their own lamps interfering with their night vision, naturally they could not see us.”

  “And who would run directly toward a dangerous pirate ship?” she went on with a light laugh. Then she sobered when a thought struck her. “They were pirates, right, Christopher?”

  He chuckled, lowering his glass. “Yes, they were. As we passed them, I saw their banner. The skull and crossbones.”

  “As Mr. Mayhew says,” she continued, “they will be hot for revenge.”

  “This is true. However, they must first find us. Then catch us. As we just demonstrated, the Valkyrie is lighter and faster than their ship. If we remain on our guard, and keep a sharp watch, they will not sneak up on us.”

  Merial nodded slowly, gazing out over the black water where little light danced over its surface. The crew, save the helmsman, the crow’s nest, and the night watch, had vanished below for their dram of rum and talk before turning in to sleep. She had made certain to see Daunger and Benson retreat below, and lightly touched her knife in her sleeve.

  “How long before we reach England, do you think?” she asked.

  “If the winds hold,” he replied gazing up at the fully rounded sails, “a little less than two weeks.”

  Leaning against the gunwale, Merial drew a deep breath as Christopher followed suit. “It seems as though I have been on this ship for a lifetime.”

  “When you cannot see the passing of landmarks,” Christopher commented with a smile in his voice, “it almost seems as though one is motionless. True, you know you are traveling, you see the wake behind you, but unless the scenery changes, you feel as though you are going nowhere.”

  “Does that drive sailors mad?”

  “It can,” he replied. “I have experienced men go insane with the boredom, the endless water out there. But I have also seen the many changing expressions of the sea. From kindness to raging horror.”

  “Like that storm when Johns went overboard?”

  “Far worse than that. Hurricanes that can smash a ship to splinters with such incredible ease. The sea is not ever to be trifled with.”

  In the distance, the long wailing cry she first heard when she came aboard the Valkyrie sounded, sending a shiver through her. Merial’s skin broke out into goose flesh. She stepped closer to Christopher. “That is a whale?” she whispered.

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Why does it make that cry? It sounds so lonely. Woeful.”

  “I fear I do not know,” Christopher admitted. “No one does.”

  “It is almost the sound of a soul in purgatory, damned forever.” Merial rubbed her arms together, feeling a sudden chill.

  Christopher set his arm over her shoulder, and drew her in to him, sheltered under his strength. “If a whale has a soul,” he murmured, “it would not be damned. It is my theory, my own you understand, that the whale is calling, searching for a mate.”

  Merial let her arm snake around his waist, feeling comforted by both his strong presence and his words. “You are probably right,” she agreed. “But it seems such a frightening sound.”

  “One gets used to it. After a time.”

  Social propriety may demand a man and a woman not touch one another, but Merial liked his arm around her too much to demand he keep his distance. As she listened to the lonely whale song, she pondered her liking for Christopher in the short time she had known him. “I feel as though I have known you all my life.”

  Twisting her head, she gazed up at him, observing his smile even if the darkness hid his eyes. “I hope that is a good thing,” he replied.

  Reaching across her stomach, she poked him hard in the ribs with her finger, hearing him grunt, and chuckle. “You are playing the fool, sir.”

  “Am I? In truth, one can feel that way, that one has known another for many years, out of a deep aberration for that person.”

  Merial sighed, snuggling deeper against him. “Yes,” she breathed. “I hold you in deep aberration.”

  “Oh, good. For a moment I thought maybe you liked me.”

  Inhaling deeply of his masculine scent, listening to his heart thud in his chest, Merial thought she had never been happier. “Why would you ever think that?”

  His other arm came around to hold her close, cradling her as tenderly and safely as he might a precious infant. “Oh,” he murmured. “Little things, I suppose. Your penchant for drinking wine in my quarters without a chaperone.”

  “Henry was busy.”

  “Your sweet smile just for me.”

  “That is the sun in your eyes.”

  “How you cared for me when I was injured.”

  “Do not let that go to your head.”

  “You, in my arms at this very moment.”

  “I am cold.”

  His chest vibrated under her cheek as he chuckled. “Ah, My Lady, confess it. You like me. Say it.”

  Turning her head so her chin dug into his breastbone, Merial gazed up at his grin. “Oh, very well. I do like you. Not nearly as much as I adore Henry, mind you. But I do like you. A little.” She lifted her hand with her thumb and forefinger separated by a quarter inch. “That much.”

  “Ah. Thus I come second to a fractious feline who dines on bacon and rats, and has not the sense one might expect from a garden variety vegetable.”

  Merial slapped his arm. “You apologize to Henry. You will hurt his feelings with that kind of talk.”

  She froze as the familiar body rubbed against her shins, the lilting purr that rose upon the near silence, and witnessed Christopher’s wide grin.

  “I hurt his feelings, did I? It would appear he has forgiven me all.”

  A giggle burst from her throat before she could stop it. “You scoundrel.”

  Christopher bent his head toward her face, and lightly brushed his lips against hers. A tingle spread from her toes on upward, her happiness at being in his arms surging into joy.

  Am I falling in love with him? I do not want this moment to ever end.

  It did, however, when Christopher lifted his lips from hers, but tenderly kissed the tip of her nose.

  “I dare not keep kissing you,” he murmured, his face an inch from her own. “For I would not dishonor you, Merial.”

  Though she wanted to cry out for more, she knew he was right. They had already ventured too far across the boundary of propriety. “No. Best not.”

  “As we have already done so with no mishaps,” Christopher asked, “would you care to come to my quarters for a cup of wine?”

  “As Henry is here to be my chaperone,” she replied with another small laugh, “then I accept.”

  Christopher’s arm steered her toward the stairs. “Come along, Henry. You have a duty to perform.”

  Henry followed them below and into Christopher’s cabin, where he left the door open so
that any casual glance inside would see nothing than the pair of them talking, and drinking their wine. The cat leaped up onto the charts still spread over Christopher’s desk, and played with the feather on his quill pen.

  “No, sir,” Christopher admonished him, picking him up to set him in Merial’s lap. “Your duty is there, not on my desk.”

  Merial watched him roll up the charts and set them neatly aside before pouring wine into two goblets. He fascinated her, the way he moved, his handsome face that was quick to scowl, and even quicker to smile. Unwilling to take her eyes from him, she again wondered if she was falling in love.

  Surely he has had lady friends by the score.

  “Have you ever been in love?”

  Christopher grinned as he handed her wine to her. Sitting down in a chair opposite her, he met her eyes with his icy blue orbs. “No,” he said at last. “I have not met a woman I could fall in love with.”

  Merial looked away, abashed at the feelings that roared in her, yet clearly did not affect him at all. Shutting her jaw against the disappointment, she raged against herself that she had let him kiss her when he felt nothing at all for her.

  “Until now.”

  Her eyes flew to his. “What do you mean?”

  “Now who is playing the fool?” he asked lightly, his smile warm—loving. “Until I met you, I thought there was no woman in the world I could love. Now, I feel as though the world was mine to conquer.”

  Stroking Henry’s fur, Merial gazed down. “So you like me?”

  “Well, I would not go that far.”

  Her laughter startled Henry, who jumped from her lap and into Christopher’s. “So,” she said when she could talk again. “How much do you like me?”

  He lifted his hands and spread them about a foot apart. “That much.”

  “Ah. You like me more than I like you.”

  Chuckling, he said, “Thus, I must work to win the fair maiden’s heart.”

  “Then I suggest you get busy,” Merial observed. “We have less than two weeks.”

  “I suppose I must.” Christopher raised his cup to her. “To the fairest maiden I have ever seen.”

  Merial lifted her own cup in return, then took a drink, watching Christopher over the rim. “Is it not fateful that I, lost at sea with no memories of how I got there, or who I am, should be found by none other than you?”

  “What is fate but God’s hand at work?” he replied. “I will not tempt fate, or God’s plan, by questioning such.”

  Nodding briefly, Merial glanced away. “The key to everything is locked away from us both,” she murmured. “Who I am, what happened to me, how I got here. Will I ever remember?”

  “You will. I know it.”

  “I am not so sure. I am beginning to believe I will go through life ignorant of my past. I will never know what truly happened to my father.”

  Chapter 18

  Merial screamed in the throes of her nightmare, flames all around her, licking, reaching for her with evil fingers. She felt its heat on her flesh, her skirts were burning, her hair caught. Then she was running, running, the fire fading into the distance along with the shrieks of those who had not escaped.

  A horse under her, galloping, galloping, its hooves beating in time with her frantic, racing heart. She left them behind. She had left them behind to die. Weeping as she rode, her cold tears on her cheeks, her heart broken in her chest. “I am so sorry.”

  She woke with a start, tears wet on her cheeks, choking on her sobs. The grief she felt was all too real, she had left them behind to die. But who did she leave? Someone dear to her, much loved, but she could not recall their faces. “I am so sorry,” she muttered thickly. “I am so very sorry. Forgive me.”

  Pulling her knees up to her chest, she lay on her side on her bunk, her tears trickling down to tickle her ear. Gazing at the tiny flame in the lamp, Merial wished she had died with them, whoever they were. Her parents? Brothers? Sisters? A fiancé she could not remember? Who?

  Letting her gaze drift to the porthole, she found the once inky sky greying toward dawn. Above her, the night watch paced the decks, and she knew Maurice would be rising to begin breakfast.

  I should get up and go help him. It is better to do that than lie here and feel sorry for myself.

  But she could not command her leaden limbs to move, to stand, to wash and dress. A weight climbed over her hip, paws stepped daintily up her waist to her ribs. Henry’s purr filled her ears even as his front feet kneaded up and down, over and over, bringing comfort just when she needed it.

  Letting his soothing rumbling wash over and through her, Merial closed her eyes, drifting. Already the nightmare faded, leaving only the grief, the feeling of betrayal, behind.

  When I return home, I must obtain a cat. I never knew what delightful creatures they could be.

  She fell asleep to dream again, this time about cats.

  Rising to full daylight streaming in, Merial washed and dressed, pausing often to yawn and stretch. During one such stretching session, her eyes fell on the cedar wood coffer Christopher said was in the dinghy with her. She had forgotten all about it.

  “After breakfast, I will have to see if I can open it.”

  Leaving Henry to continue to sleep on her bunk, Merial left the door open for him, and went up on deck. Obviously, she slept too long, for the crew had already received their morning meal, and ate while seated or standing in small groups. Christopher waved to her from their table on the poop deck.

  Heading in that direction, she spied Benson and Daunger watching her from under a bulwark, their plates in their hands. The cold menace in their eyes had not changed one jot from before they tried to throw her over the gunwale.

  “I am so sorry,” she said to Christopher, joining him and ignoring the echo of her words from within her mind.

  “Do not be,” he replied, smiling at her as she sat down at the table. “Another nightmare?”

  Merial gazed down at the tea he poured for her. “I betrayed someone,” she whispered. “I left them to die.”

  “Did you kill them?”

  “No. But I feel as though I had.”

  “Your inner self is trying to force the memories out,” he said softly. “Something so terrible, so dreadful, occurred, that your mind is hiding from it.”

  “So you said before.” Merial tried to smile and picked up her tea. “I am not so sure I want to remember if my memories are so terrible.”

  “You must. Or you will never be whole again.”

  Maurice arrived to set plates laden with food in front of them. Christopher quirked his brow. “Are you trying poison this time, Frenchie?”

  “You are no amusing, M’lord,” Maurice snapped. “I poison you, you know it.”

  He stalked away, muttering under his breath in French as Merial broke into helpless giggles. “That was not fair, Christopher,” she said.

  “Had you felt the way I did,” he grumbled, scowling, “you would be suspicious of eating his food again, too.”

  “You must forgive him. It was an accident.”

  “I should have had him flogged.”

  “Now, now. Let us not be vengeful.”

  “That is easy for you to say.”

  Eating the delicious bacon, potatoes, fresh bread, and slabs of salted pork fried to a crisp with a dash of curry seasonings, Merial gazed out at the quiet, yet restless sea. “This is almost heaven on earth,” she murmured.

  Christopher gazed at her with narrowed eyes.

  “What?” she asked, almost defensive.

  “Why have you not been seasick?”

  “Why ever should I?”

  “Most landlubbers always get seasick. Why did you not?”

  Merial laughed. “I have no idea. Why this sudden interrogation about seasickness?”

  “Because it is odd. I have to understand things that are odd.”

  Spreading her hands, Merial replied, “I have been under your command for over a week, and only now you wonder why?”<
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  “Do not change the subject.” He pointed his fork at her. “You have sailed before.”

  “I do not believe that is in anyway relevant.”

  “It is,” he said firmly. “Somehow.”