The Lost Countess That Counted Stars (Historical Regency Romance)

by Patricia Haverton

  “Your grief is too fresh,” he answered, “you were not in the dinghy for very long before we found you. We were only three weeks out of port, which means your ship was perhaps the same distance from England.”

  “What do you think happened to that ship?” she asked. “You do not believe it sank in a storm.”

  At his hesitation, Merial looked up to see his furrowed brow, the anxiety in the set of his mouth. She frowned. “Christopher?”

  “I believe pirates sank that vessel,” he answered finally. “I have not mentioned it before now, but there were holes from musket balls in that dinghy.”

  Feeling shock ripple through her, Merial gaped. “Someone was shooting at me?”

  “Perhaps not you specifically,” he said, squeezing her shoulder, “but at anyone trying to escape.”

  “Why have you not told me before this?”

  “At first, I feared to frighten you,” he admitted with a quirky grin. “Only recently have I discovered how difficult that prospect can be.”

  Merial shook her head slowly. “Pirates make sense now. They roam these waters, and prey on ships. We discovered that.”

  “But who got you to safety, I do not know. Perhaps the crew got you into the boat before it sank.”

  “It makes sense now. Someone got me, and that box, into the dinghy before the ship went down. So whatever is in that box must be very important.” Merial wondered what could possibly be in it that it was nearly as valuable as she was.

  “Precisely. I suggest we keep trying to decipher the code that opens it.”

  She shrugged under his arm. “Or just take an axe to it.”

  “Why do we not use that as a very last resort?” Christopher chuckled. “As you said, we do not want to damage what may be inside it.”

  “True enough, I suppose. Perhaps after breakfast we may sit again, and see if we can open it.”

  “I have nothing better to do,” Christopher replied with a grin.

  Merial nudged him in the ribs with her elbow. “Such as run your ship, My Lord Captain?”

  “If I must.”

  Still caught under his arm, Merial went with Christopher as he left the gunwale, nodding greetings to the crewmen who came up, yawning, onto the deck and saluted him with knuckles to their brows. Merial glanced around and saw Benson had vanished from her sight, feeling glad he was not there to stare at her with evil eyes.

  “A moment, Merial.”

  Christopher left her side to walk amidships to speak with Mr. Mayhew. Waiting for him, she returned the smiles of the crew who offered her greetings, and knew she should be assisting Maurice in the galley. Indecisive, she glanced around as the crew awaited their orders or their breakfast, a few clustering together to speak in low tones.

  A sharp creaking sound from above her caught her attention.

  That does not sound normal.

  On the mast above, a spar had broken loose from the mast and swung heavily from side to side. Directly below it stood Christopher and Mr. Mayhew, oblivious to their danger. If that stout chunk of wood fell with them underneath it—

  “Christopher!”

  Merial did not wait for her scream to catch his attention.

  She ran forward, conscious of the huge piece of wood breaking off from the mast, and had an instant of thought to wonder why she appeared to be the only one who noticed it. The spar fell, breaking off lines, falling, tumbling toward the two men below.

  Crashing into Christopher, who had just turned around to see what the matter was, Merial threw all her weight into him. She knocked him flat into Mr. Mayhew, who lost his balance and fell in a heap with Christopher and Merial atop him.

  The spar struck the deck hard enough to splinter the planks inches from Merial’s legs.

  “What the devil?” Christopher tried to disentangle himself from both Merial and Mr. Mayhew even as Merial tried to get her trembling body to answer her and stand up.

  Shocked sailors, their voices raised in fear and concern, helped her to stand shakily, then assisted Christopher and Mr. Mayhew up. Dusting off nonexistent dust from her shirt and trousers gave her a moment to compose herself, even as she stared at the fallen spar.

  That was too close.

  At her side, both standing within a circle of whispering crewmen, Merial saw Christopher look at the spar, up to the mast where it had broken off, then at her. “You,” he began, then swallowed hard. “You saw that fall?”

  Unsure if her voice worked, Merial nodded. “I, er, I heard it crack. I looked up—it would have struck both of you, Mr. Mayhew and yourself.”

  Christopher glanced beyond her to where she had been standing. “How did you cross the distance so fast?”

  “I have no idea.” Her shakes giving in to such a fierce relief that she laughed, Merial went on, wiping tears of reaction from her eyes. “I just did.”

  “M’lord, I think we owe Her Ladyship our lives.”

  Mr. Mayhew had stepped from the midst of the crew, his face wearing a broad smile. He took Merial’s hand and bowed over it, planting a soft kiss to her fingers. “Thank you, M’lady.”

  “Yes.” Christopher, still stunned by how close he had come to death, if Merial were any judge of his expression, enfolded her in his arms. “We owe you our lives, Merial.”

  “As I owe you mine,” she replied, still chuckling, “then that makes us even.”

  Around them, Merial listened to the approving murmurs of the crew, the words, she saved the Cap’n, M’lady gots courage, she does, as well as talk of how she knew before anyone else that the spar had broken loose. She wriggled free of Christopher’s arms, and stared up.

  “Why did that break?” she asked.

  Christopher stared up as well. “Too much pressure from the sails,” he answered. “I expect that was bound to happen, as the stronger winds may have weakened it while we escaped the pirates.”

  “Can it be fixed?”

  “The crew will get right on it, M’lord, M’lady.” Mr. Mayhew knuckled his brow, then started giving the sailors orders to fetch a new spar from below, then climb up the mast to make repairs. The men trickled away with respectful salutes to both Merial and Christopher, at last leaving them alone again.

  “I did say I wanted a miracle.” Christopher gazed down at her with a grin.

  “Excuse me?”

  “To get you back in the men’s good graces, it might take a miracle to do it. It appeared you delivered on it, my love.”

  Merial laughed, and slid her arm around his waist. “I would not call it that. I saw you in danger, and had to do something. I could not bear it if you were killed.”

  “I feel the same for you. I have fallen so deeply in love with you, Merial—” Christopher’s voice choked off.

  Her emotions overwhelming her, Merial pulled him in close, tears burning her eyes. He hugged her tightly to him, her face buried in his shoulder. “I love you,” she murmured, her voice muffled in his shirt.

  “And I love you.”

  Merial and Christopher stood for long moments, Merial breathing in the clean, masculine scent of him, felt the strength of his arms around her, and never wanted to let him go. She had seen, just moments before, how close he had come to death, and her inner trembles had not receded by much.

  “How about you let Gauthier cook breakfast by himself this morning,” he said. “I think you have done the Valkyrie, and me, enough service for one day.”

  Permitting him to lead her toward the stern and the poop deck, Merial was once again indecisive. “I should help him, Christopher.”

  “Then consider it an order from the Captain,” he went on. “You do not work the galley today.”

  Merial feigned a scowl. “Since when do I obey an order, Captain?”

  “Starting right now. Gauthier has worked alone for years. He can manage one day by himself.”

  With the closeness of death averted still lingering, Merial did not want to be parted from him. “I suppose this is one order I can obey. At least this time.
But I feel guilty for not helping him.”

  Turning her around to look at him, Christopher stared deeply into her eyes. “Do not be feeling guilty,” he intoned.

  Naturally, Merial laughed. “As though it were so easy.”

  “It should be,” he replied, holding her chair for her. “You are under no obligation, and I ordered you to dine with me.”

  She made a fair imitation of knuckling her brow, and said, “Aye, Cap’n.”

  That wrought a chuckle from Christopher as he sat opposite her. “Have I told you how much I adore a lady with a sense of humor?”

  “Actually,” she replied primly, watching the sailors scurry up the mast with the nimbleness of monkeys to begin replacing the spar. “You did not.”

  “What a cad I am. Yes, I adore a lady who has a sense of humor as well as intelligence. You, My Lady, are well endowed with both.”

  Smiling at him, Merial said, “It is so nice to be appreciated.”

  If Maurice felt annoyance for preparing breakfast without his assistant, his expression never showed it. He set laden plates on the table with a smooth bow, poured their tea with a smile, and sent Merial a quick wink. “Ah, Paris is the place to be when one is in love,” he commented. “The pair of you go there when married, no?”

  Merial blushed, laughing, while Christopher scowled. “Just you never mind, Frenchie,” he snapped. “That is none of your business.”

  “You make her a happy woman, yes?’ Maurice replied calmly, not in the least bit intimidated. “Or you make Maurice one bad enemy.”

  “Get back to your galley before I have your hide stripped from your neck to your heels.”

  Maurice shrugged and ambled away, not in the least bit worried about Christopher acting on his threat. Still chuckling, knowing she still blushed bright red, Merial admonished him. “Now that was not very nice.”

  Christopher’s scowl never altered. “Remarks like that can make others think they can get away with them as well. Then there is a mutiny on board and men get killed.”

  After a quick glance around, Merial lowered her voice. “I do not think anyone was close enough to hear him. You can relax now. I think it is humorous that Maurice is so protective of me.”

  Taking a deep breath, Christopher did relax, and his dark expression turned milder. He started to eat his breakfast, and Merial more slowly followed suit, still watching the men repair the spar and the lines. The work progressed slowly, and Mr. Mayhew supervised from the deck, craning his neck to see.

  “Perhaps he is,” Christopher agreed at last. “However, he should keep his opinions to himself until we are in private and on shore.”

  “Do they know what they are doing?” Merial asked, gesturing toward the crewmen up high hammering and nailing, laughing as they worked. “I fear one of them will come tumbling down to his death.”

  “Do not say such.” Christopher’s urgent tone startled her, and she glanced at him. “Speaking of a bad event happening may often bring it about.”

  “More superstitions, Christopher?” She eyed him with amusement, and ate while the crew completed their work and returned safely down the mast to the deck.

  “We were lucky this time,” Christopher said darkly. “But I have witnessed it happen time and again. We must be careful of what we say, Merial.”

  “Perhaps you should carry a lucky totem around with you,” she replied, smiling. “Something to ward off jinxes and hexes.”

  With a grin, Christopher pulled a small medallion from his shirt and displayed it. “St. Christopher, the patron saint of travelers.”

  Merial laughed and clapped her hands together in delight. “I should have guessed. Your namesake as well.”

  “Indeed.” Christopher tucked the medallion back inside his shirt. “He has blessed many a voyage for me, and I will not go anywhere without him.”

  “And you also have the blessing of St. Elmo, for he showed his fire. So how can you keep believing things will go wrong?”

  Christopher’s grin faded. “While I am not saying I believe in them, there are sailors who believe in mischievous sea spirits. These nymphs enjoy taking loose talk and twisting it into terrible occurrences. They cause the waves to rise up, the sharks to come, men to fall overboard for no reason.”

  Merial listened with neither true belief, nor disbelief, but nodded. “There are many things in this world we do not understand,” she murmured. Gazing at the wide, endless sea, she added, “We have no idea what lies beneath the waves, do we?”

  “We do not,” Christopher replied. “Only the sunken vessels who have sailed her surface, and the sailors who have drowned over the eons know what is down there. I, for one, have no interest in exploring the depths.”

  “Sea monsters,” Merial said, “whales. Sharks. Orcas. Perhaps there are beasts down there even bigger than whales, or squids larger than castles.”

  “The Kraken is believed to be imprisoned down there by the god of the seas,” Christopher told her lightly. “If Poseidon is offended, he will release the Kraken to wantonly slay and destroy ships, or towns on the edges of the water.”

  “Let us make certain we never offend the god of the sea.”

  “There is much to fear and respect out here on the ocean’s face,” Christopher mused, gazing into the distance. “Yet, most sailors would not trade their lives for any on land. I know I would not.”

  “What is Davy Jones Locker?” she asked.

  Christopher offered a mild shrug. “It depends on who you ask, I suppose. Some believe it a hell for sailors and ships. Others believe Davy Jones conveys drowned men to the afterlife on his ship, The Flying Dutchman. Still others say it is an evil spirit at the bottom of the sea, waiting to claim the lives of men.”

  “And here I thought the one hell was enough.” Merial smiled.

  “Again, you are talking about the mysteries of the deep, and the beliefs of men who spend more time on water than on land, or in church. They see things, experience things, and the tales grow taller with every telling. Superstition plays its roll, as do the stories spread by sailors in taverns, and then the tales alter, change, and grow bigger with every telling.”

  “It suppose they are akin to the old stories of men turning into wolves, or vampires who feast on blood,” Merial suggested, thinking of the old tales from hundreds of years ago.

  Superstitions are not just for the men on board ships.

  “Yes, indeed. Those stories grew with every telling hundreds of years ago, and many still believe in them. Villages in the remote mountains of Europe still believe the dead walk, I am told.”

  Merial grinned mischievously. “What an educational breakfast conversation.”

  “Far better under the full light of day,” Christopher replied with a chuckle, “than under the light of the moon when it is easier to believe the tales.”

  Watching the crew eat their breakfast around the deck, Henry wandering among them in search of tidbits, Merial commented, “It is easier to understand these superstitions now, I expect. When you look at the tales from long ago, and the beliefs that still exist in remote villages.”

  “We like to think ourselves as modern and cultured,” Christopher agreed, “but we still answer to our baser fears and instincts.”

  “True enough.” Merial stood up. “If you still wish to try to open the coffer, I will fetch it.”

  “I must make my rounds, and will meet you here shortly.”

  * * *

  A short while later, Merial joined Christopher on the poop deck again, and under the warm sunlight, they took turns punching in the letters of words that may open it. After hours of failure, both Merial and Christopher grew short tempered with the stubborn box.

  “It must have something to do with you,” Christopher snapped, pacing with his head down. “We must think of aspects pertaining to you, and you alone.”

  “Such as? We already tried a dozen variations of my name.” Merial pushed the coffer from her in exasperation.

  “Try to think,�
�� Christopher insisted. “Did you ever go by a nickname? A name no one but your father, or mother, called you?”

  “For the hundredth time,” she retorted, angry, “I do not remember. Now cease and desist asking me that question.”

  “I cannot help but feel that is the key. And it is deeply locked in your memories. If we can but retrieve that name, it will unlock this box.”

  Chapter 25

  He knew they were there before they pounced on him with daggers nearly the length of swords.