The Lost Countess That Counted Stars (Historical Regency Romance)

by Patricia Haverton

  She swallowed, discovering her mouth and throat terribly dry. Yet, the thought of drinking water made her stomach roil alarmingly. “Christopher?”

  He frowned slightly, and she saw him glance toward Maurice, who stood to his side and slightly behind him. Her eyes roamed beyond them, and she discovered she lay in Christopher’s bunk. The maps and flag of England hung on the walls, the drapes, indicated she was in his cabin and not her own.

  “I am afraid you were poisoned,” Christopher finally replied, his voice low. “We are not sure how, however. Or how they would have gotten it.”

  “Oui,” Maurice added with a grimace. “My galley contains no such, cherie, but the crew—”

  “A search of the crew’s possessions turned up nothing,” Christopher continued. “But the perpetrator could easily have tossed it overboard after adding it to your wine.”

  “My wine?” Merial could not seem to speak louder than a whisper.

  “Yes.” He crouched beside her, and held her hand. “We suspect that whoever did this thought to kill you, but your vomiting it up quickly saved your life. Then Maurice infused charcoal with water, and forced it down you while you were unconscious.”

  “That be a cure for poisoning, yes?” Maurice told her. “You be all right now, cherie.”

  “But how?” she asked confused. “Poison on board a ship?’

  Christopher exchanged a fierce look with Maurice, then turned back to her. “That is what we will be investigating, Merial. Try to get some rest now.”

  “I do not feel well at all,” she admitted. “Thank you.”

  Christopher grimaced. “I fear I have a ship full of suspects, Merial,” he said. “I have no idea which of them did this, and I cannot punish them all. I do not wish to punish innocent men.”

  “Please do not.” Merial swallowed hard. “Surely the culprit will try again.”

  “We must make certain he does not succeed.”

  “How? By making me stay in here?”

  Christopher nodded gravely. “That is one way.”

  “I will go mad if I am confined.”

  “Or you may die if you do not,” he chided gently. “Which would be worse?”

  Merial closed her eyes against the pain and sickness, suspecting that she would be too weak to rise from the bunk for at least a few days. “Let us talk about it again when I am well,” she murmured.

  “I will agree to that.”

  Merial felt his hand stroke her hair and down her cheek. She lifted her own, unable to believe how weak she was, and pressed her palm against it. “I am so tired.”

  “Then we will leave you to rest,” Christopher said. “Are you hungry? Thirsty?”

  “I am so thirsty, but I do not think I can keep it down.”

  “Try to sleep then,” Christopher told her, and she heard his clothes rustle as he stood up. He then bent to kiss her brow. “I will return to check on you in a short while.”

  “All right.”

  Listening to them leave, closing the cabin door quietly behind them, Merial rolled onto her side, wincing at the wave of nausea that sent her stomach to reeling like a drunken sailor. She almost smiled at the comparison, and tried to relax enough to ease the sick feeling and go to sleep. She could not sleep, for the fiery pain in her stomach would not permit it.

  Lying there in the comfortable bunk, warm under the blanket, she pondered who it might have been that put the poison in her wine. She recalled that the drink had indeed tasted odd, but she also had been too upset at the sailors snubbing her to pay attention. Though she had not gotten to know all the crew by name, Merial she knew the list of suspects was very short.

  Benson and Daunger.

  Trying to sleep, their faces intruded upon her mind’s eye. She heard them whisper, witch, and remembered how they cornered her with the intention of throwing her overboard. Unless the dead albatross turned the rest of the crew into assassins, she did not believe one of them would try to kill her.

  She wanted to believe Christopher’s assertions about them—they would never stoop to killing.

  But how could Daunger and Benson get a poison? They came on board with nothing save the clothes on their backs.

  Her pain and illness making her restless, Merial tossed and turned, unable to remain comfortable. Thinking to perhaps rise and sit in a chair for a time, she started to sit up. The nausea and dizziness, as well as the incredible weakness swamping her forced her lie back down.

  I have never been bedridden in my life.

  At last she relaxed enough to drowse. Dreams flitted here and there, random images and unknown people speaking flashed though her mind. As though they were memories of memories, she thought she should know them, but did not. They spoke her name, softly, with love, their voices faded and she dropped deeper into sleep.

  When she next woke, the lamps had been turned down low, and the ship was quiet. Rolling over to lie on her back, Merial found some of her pain and nausea had gone, leaving her weak, yet hungry as well as thirsty. She had enough light to see by as she sat up, and carefully climbed out of the bunk.

  Always considerate, Christopher had left a pitcher of water on a table.

  Ever so kind and thoughtful.

  Shaky on her feet, feeling herself trembling, Merial walked slowly to it and poured herself a cup. Despite its brackishness, it soothed her dry mouth and throat. He had also left her biscuits, which her stomach accepted with gratitude.

  Above her, she heard the night watch call the hour—an hour before dawn. Merial felt better after eating and drinking, and considered going back to bed. She did not feel sleepy enough, however, and turned the wick of a lamp up. Finding a few books in Christopher’s cabin, she sat down to read.

  I do hope he has good taste in literature.

  Perhaps he heard her moving around. Or maybe he was already wakeful, and thought to check on her. Either way, Christopher opened the cabin door and peered in. Dressed in his breeches and a shirt, with no coat or cravat, he smiled upon seeing her.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked, his voice hushed as he entered.

  “Better, thank you.” Merial closed the book she had only begun to read, and set it on the table. With his hair mussed, a slight growth of beard and his casual attire, she thought he appeared no older than seventeen and as handsome as a god.

  Christopher turned the wick up on another lamp, then sat down in a chair near her. “You cannot sleep?”

  “I think I have slept enough for now,” she replied, admiring the way the light played across his features. “Did I wake you?”

  “No. I was having trouble sleeping.” He smiled briefly. “I was worried over your health. I thought to check on you.”

  “You are sweet.”

  “I must say your color has much improved,” he told her. “Are you hungry? I can fetch you something.”

  A grin lingered over her lips. “Stealing food, Captain?”

  He laughed. “Stealing what is already mine?”

  “I have no wish for the crew to think ill of either of us if you were to go to the galley to bring me more food,” she answered. “I ate the biscuits, and they are enough for now. My stomach is still a bit rebellious, and perhaps adding more may be detrimental.”

  Christopher’s smile faded. “We think we know where the poison came from.”

  “Oh?” Merial leaned forward, expecting him to speak of a mushroom, perhaps, that was in Maurice’s galley, something that might be safe while cooked, yet harmful when not.

  “It appears that my first mate, Mr. Mayhew, has a fascination for jellyfish.”

  Merial blinked. “Jellyfish?”

  “In his cabin, we found a dead one in a jar,” Christopher continued. “One of its tentacles had been sliced away.”

  “No.” Merial gasped. “Mr. Mayhew—he could not have done this.”

  “Nor do I believe he did.” Christopher studied his hands. “The entire crew knew of his hobby, for he often spoke of it, his wonder that such a delicate cre
ature could cause such great harm. In any event, Gauthier found evidence in the galley that something had been ground up in a mortar. There was not much of it remaining, no clear evidence that it was used for the purpose of poisoning you. But the three of us have little doubt.”

  “Could Johns have done this?” Merial recalled that Johns had been given Mayhew’s cabin after he was injured.

  Christopher shook his head. “The jar was in Mayhew’s locker under the bunk. Johns, with his newly broken leg, could not have gotten to it without much pain and difficulty. Nor could he move quickly to get in and out of the galley unseen and unremarked. But anyone else who knew of the jellyfish being there could have gotten to it, then used the galley to crush the tentacle enough to extract some of its venom.”

  Merial chewed her lower lip. “Who knows that ingesting the toxin from a jellyfish is fatal?”

  “These creatures are a delicacy in the far East of Asia,” he replied. “They prepare it carefully, however, and generally eat only the types of jellyfish that are mildly poisonous. Sailors talk to other sailors, thus knowledge about such things are spread.”

  “So it could have been anyone save Johns.”

  “Mayhew is beside himself,” Christopher said with a tiny smile. “Offered to have himself chained to the mast and whipped.”

  “That sounds, to me, proof enough of his innocence.”

  “I have sailed with the man for four years,” Christopher continued. “Never have I found him to ever behave without honor.”

  “So outside of you, Mr. Mayhew, Johns, and Maurice,” Merial said, “we have the rest of the crew to consider as possible murderers. If I may narrow that down, my chief suspects are John Benson and Robert Daunger.”

  “We are thinking the same, Merial.” Standing, Christopher paced around the cabin, his head down. “I will not act without proof, however. Though I believe deep in my bones one or both of them are guilty of this horrid act, I have my own honor to contend with.”

  “I would not expect you to behave in any other way.”

  Glancing at her, he smiled briefly. “As the captain, I can have them executed on a whim. Were I to do that, believing them guilty, and the true attempted killer is found? I could not live with myself, Merial.”

  Wishing she felt stable enough on her feet to go to him, Merial watched him pace. “Christopher, I do not want you to stain your honor. When adequate proof is found, then you will act as judge. But until then, we must continue on.”

  “And you will refuse to remain in here?”

  “I will.”

  Christopher nodded. “Mayhew threw the jellyfish over the side in his remorse, so we are free of that particular threat. There are no poisons in the galley, Gauthier assures me. So if they want to try to kill you again, they will be forced into a confrontation with you.”

  Lifting her left arm, Merial said, “I still have my friend here.”

  “I just wish there was a way to give you lessons on how to use it. However, if you are confronted, stab for the vitals or the throat. Slashing is better, for it is harder to stop a slash than a stabbing motion.”

  “If we both believe the guilty parties are Daunger and Benson,” she said slowly, “will the rest of the crew rush to my defense?”

  “I wish I could say yes,” Christopher admitted, not slowing his pacing. “However, after the albatross incident, they may be inclined to watch them kill you, even if they do not participate.”

  “How reassuring.”

  Merial did not try to keep the dry sarcasm from her tone, and Christopher eyed her askance at it.

  “We also may be judging them harshly,” he said. “When the ship does not sink and carry them to Davy Jones Locker, their fears may vanish.”

  “I will try to remain optimistic,” Merial told him. She glanced through the great windows that looked out on the sea. The blackness had lightened a fraction to a dark grey, and the moon had gone down. “Dawn will be here soon.”

  “I will insist you remain here until you recover,” Christopher said firmly. “In your weakened state, it would far too easy to overwhelm you and throw you over the side.”

  “That I can agree with.” Merial grinned. “I can return to my cabin, so that you may have yours again.”

  “No. I wish you to have more space, and more things to occupy you while you recover. I will be on deck most of the time except for sleeping.”

  “All right. Perhaps Henry will keep me company.”

  “Of that I have no doubt.”

  When the dark grey had lightened to a pale shade, Christopher took fresh clothes from his cabinet, and went to her cabin to wash and change. Merial read the book, yawning occasionally, and absently considered going back to the bunk to sleep more.

  Perhaps after breakfast.

  Breakfast arrived sooner than she thought, for Maurice entered after a brief knock on the door, and grinned at her.

  “M’lord informed me you be much better,” he said, setting the tray down. “I make a tea that help your stomach, yes? You drink. Eat, cherie. You must gain strength.”

  The crispy bacon, warm bread, potatoes fried with onions and peppers, and the healthy slab of sailfish made her stomach rumble. “You will get no argument from me, Maurice,” she replied, standing to totter over to the table where he had set the meal.

  “I return shortly for the tray,” he said, then offered her a bow before leaving.

  Merial ate as much as she could hold, her guilt at not being able to finish it seizing ahold of her. Despite Henry eating some of the bacon and fish, there was still plenty left on her plate. When Maurice returned, she apologized profusely for wasting what she could not eat.

  “You no worry, cherie,” he replied with a grin and a wink. “I no eat yet. I will finish what you cannot. But you drink tea, yes? All.”

  “I will. I promise.”

  The food made her sleepy, yet she read the book while sipping the tea, and at last, yawning too mightily to see, she gave it up and crawled into the bunk. Henry joined her, his soothing purring lulling her into a slumber in which she did not dream, did not even have a nightmare.

  * * *

  By the afternoon of the following day, Merial felt wholly herself again, and returned topside. While she did not expect a warm reception, she found that most of the crew, anyway, offered her smiles as they knuckled their brows. Some still refused to meet her gaze, yet the overall attitude toward her had recovered, it appeared.

  She joined Christopher in the bow where Johns was one to greet her with his gap-toothed grin, his broken leg propped up on a cushion. She returned his warm expression, oddly happy to see him. Nor did she make any protest when Christopher, as improper as it may be, draped his arm over her shoulders.

  “Welcome back,” he said with his own grin and a wink.

  “It is wonderful to be back,” she replied, meaning it. Back to full health, back to the feel of the salt wind on her face, back to the incredible sight of the seemingly endless sea. “How I missed all this.”

  “You were missed as well.” He tugged her further under his arm until she slid hers around his waist. “It seemed so strange to not have you peering through your glass. Gauthier grumbled about having to do all the work in the galley himself.”

  Merial laughed. “I will return to my duties as his assistant right away.”

  “Only if you are ready for it,” he answered. “No hurry.”

  As he had kept her informed as to everything that had occurred while she was confined below, Merial felt prepared to return to her former habits—helping keep watch on the horizon. Nothing had happened on board while she was absent, and she wondered if she was still regarded as a bad omen.

  “Do you smell any storms?” she asked.

  Christopher shook his head. “I have sensed nothing and Henry has been quiet. Let us hope the pirates we angered cannot find us, for none of the watches have seen anything at all.”

  “If it is all right, Christopher,” she said, “I will aid in the wa
tching.”

  “You are free to do so, and you have my thanks.”

  Before sliding out from beneath his arm, Merial gave him a hard squeeze, smiling up into his eyes, then found a spot on the starboard side. Leaning on the gunwale, she peered through the spyglass. She saw, to her delight, whales’ spouts, their huge tails creating great white splashes as they dove below again.