They have learned my habits rather quickly.
He had enjoyed an early morning walk for years, from when he was a strapping youngster to his current age of his early thirties. Rising early, he liked to walk for several miles down the main avenue toward Westminster, listening to the bells chime the hours. Even after the parties that ran late into the night, he still rose shortly after dawn for his morning walk.
The traffic had yet to grow heavy with the noise of hooves on the cobbles, the shops were only just opening for the day’s business. The air felt fresher on his skin, smelled cleaner. Sometimes he would stop at a bakery for a roll or two of freshly baked sweet rolls with a certain cinnamon glaze on the tops.
This morning, however, he passed the bakery by. If he glanced into the shop windows as he passed, he could see the felons Smith and Jones behind him, slowly closing the distance. As he strode, he whistled and twirled his walking stick in his fingers. The idiots had no idea the stick contained a slim, razor-sharp sword concealed within its hollow core, and that he was most proficient in its use.
He knew that it was only a matter of time before they grew courage enough to kill him. After he had cheated them—well, it was not exactly cheating as they failed to do the job right—he knew they would crave revenge. In their minds, they had been bereft of the gold he had promised, yet they had not killed the girl as they had promised.
I just love greed. It makes such fools of men.
It mattered not that the pirates on the open sea did the job for them. They failed, and in their failure, they did not receive their full payment. In the reflection in the glass, he noticed they had closed the distance.
Within moments now.
He felt glad that they chose to attack him in broad daylight, for it would give him plenty of witnesses that he killed them in self-defense. They knew too much about him, and needed to die. Now he need not send his valuable hunting dog to track them down and kill them. He could do it himself, and walk away without a single condemning eye on him.
A few rapid stabs in the kidneys, the lungs, and I would fall to the cobbles dead before anyone realized a murder had occurred.
Smith and Jones would walk on, hiding their bloody blades and no one would be the wiser. He almost smiled at their confidence.
Come on, gentlemen, I do not have all day.
Soon he would be near to Westminster, and he suspected they would lose their nerve once he approached the heavily guarded palace. A rapid glance in the shop windows showed him they had lengthened their strides, had pulled their weapons, had tensed their faces. He waited, barely turning his head to watch, holding his breath—
Now.
Smith and Jones pounced, lunging forward, their steel reaching for his vulnerable back. With a simple sideways step, as fluid as a dancer, he dodged their plunging blades and whipped his thin sword from its sheath. He almost laughed at their comical expressions when their knives hit nothing but air.
Faster than an eye blink, he slashed his sword across Smith’s wrist, then twisted to drive his blade into Jones’s chest. Smith screamed and dropped his long knife, but Jones merely gurgled, staring blankly at the long metal sticking from his heart. Even as it was yanking from his chest, he still stood, blinking almost sleepily before collapsing forward.
“No, M’lord,” Smith pleaded as his sword pricked the murder’s throat. “I beg ye. Spare me life.”
He feigned deep contemplation, then shook his head with sorrow. “I do not think that is a good idea. You understand.”
Plunging his blade into Smith’s jugular, he stepped back and permitted the man room to stagger around as he tried to keep his life from pumping out of his throat. At last, he, too, fell, and joined his companion in death. The entire incident took less than thirty seconds, and he glanced around for witnesses.
A woman screamed. “Ah, about time,” he murmured, then bent to wipe his sword clean on Smith’s jacket.
For the next hour, he explained to various men of authority how he had been forced to defend himself from these two thugs, who no doubt thought him an easy mark. The witnesses corroborated his story, that he was ruthlessly attacked, and he defended himself.
“See their knives? They planned to skewer me with those.”
The constable nodded. “Good thing you skewered them first, My Lord.”
“It is becoming too dangerous to walk the streets anymore,” he complained. “Why, this neighborhood used to be as safe as a convent.”
“Aye, My Lord, the thugs and thieves come up from Cheapside or Whitechapel in the hopes of bigger prey. Good thing you were armed.”
“I never go anywhere without my stick.”
At last he was free to go, leaving the constables in charge of cleaning up the mess he left behind. On his way home, he stopped at the bakery and bought two sweet rolls. Eating them as he walked, he felt cheered that he had eliminated two threats to his person, and saved himself the expense of having them eliminated.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” he murmured as he ate and walked. “Always a pleasure doing business with you.”
Chapter 26
“I do not understand why you would think this box would open under a nickname of mine,” Merial told Christopher, exasperated. “It could be my father’s name, or perhaps even my mother’s. If I knew what those were, we could try them.”
“I just have this bothersome hunch that you are the key,” Christopher replied, nearly as annoyed by the coffer’s stubborn resistance as she was.
Though she recognized the importance of the box, as whoever put her in the dinghy made certain it was saved along with her life, Merial did not agree that her name would open it. “We have tried everything we can think of,” she snapped. “If its contents were so important, why would the combination to open it be so difficult?”
“For that very reason.” Christopher scowled at the coffer. “So important, only the right person can access it. Whoever created it must not have taken your memory loss into account.”
Leaning back in her chair on the wide poop deck, Merial gazed out at the blue sea, whales surfacing to blow in the far distance. According to Christopher and his charts, they would dock in London in two days, if the wind remained strong.
Soon the adventure will be over, and I must take up the reins of my old life, whatever that was.
“Merial?”
She turned back to find Christopher watching her closely. “What is it?” he asked.
“I was just thinking, what if I have no home to go to,” she replied, swiping a tendril of hair from her eyes. “If all my family is gone, what will I find? Where will I live?”
He smiled slightly, shunting his gaze away from her. “This is hardly the way I would have wished to ask,” he murmured. “But I had hoped you would agree to marry me, and I would care for you all the days of my life.”
Catching her breath at his words, his sweet smile, Merial felt tears of happiness burn her eyes. Unable to speak and with her fingers trembling, she reached for his hand.
“I guess that is a yes, then?” Christopher chuckled, squeezing her hand gently. “I wanted to ask you to marry me under more romantic circumstances, but I could not bear to see you worried over your future.”
“I still fear for what I will find once we return to London,” she admitted. “Knowing that we will always be together does indeed assuage my fears considerably.”
“I know my parents will agree to have you reside at their home until the wedding,” he went on. “We can have as long an engagement as you like.”
Soaring on the wings of her new-found joy, Merial asked, her tone light, “And where will be live once we are married? On the Valkyrie?”
Christopher laughed. “I should say yes, as she brought us together, my dearest love. However, I have a lovely home in Mayfair not far from Hyde Park.”
Merial sighed blissfully. “My own home to raise children in. Think of it, living there while I wait for you to come home from your latest voyage.”
&nb
sp; “Hmm, yes, well,” Christopher replied, looking out over the sea even as she had. “I made a promise to myself a long time ago that once I married and started a family, I would give up actually sailing.”
“But, you love it so.”
“I do. My father and I will still run the shipping business from our offices. Life at sea is too risky and I do not wish leave behind a widow.”
“Now I feel as though you are giving up what you love on my account,” she said, withdrawing her hand from his. “I do not like that.”
Christopher shrugged lazily. “It is not on your account, Merial, but my own free choice. I had not planned to captain the Valkyrie until I grew old and grey. And I will not sell her, and will continue to make shorter voyages to France, Spain, or the Netherlands.”
“That makes me feel better.”
“That is good then. It is nearly time for dinner, and I must make my rounds of the ship.” He stood up, then walked around the table to her. Taking her by the hand, he stood her on her feet, smiling down at her. “Now I will kiss you for the first time as my fiancée.”
Merial closed her eyes and felt his lips on hers, a tender and loving gesture that set her nerve endings to tingling. Her love for him swelled and grew, and she leaned into the kiss with all of her emotions pouring from her and into him. She never wanted it to end, but Christopher released her far too soon for her liking.
“Until dinner then?” he asked with a wink and a smile.
“I will return below and assist Maurice,” she answered, gripping his hands tightly. “And yes, we will dine as usual right here.”
While Christopher went to inspect his ship and his crew, Merial returned the obnoxious box to her cabin, then headed to the galley. On her way, she came face to face with Robert Daunger, and stopped short, staring at him while concealing her trepidation behind a bland countenance.
His upper lip curled in a faint sneer of derision even as his hand lifted to his brow. For a moment, she thought he would not let her pass, and would say something derogatory to her. He did not, and at last stepped aside. As she swept past him, she caught a glimpse of Mr. Mayhew watching him closely.
Hopefully he knows he is being watched. And within a few days I will be rid of him for good.
Entering the galley, she found her work waiting for her. With a sigh, she sat down to peel potatoes as Maurice grinned at her. “Ah, cherie, our days together are now few. Soon we must part, and my heart weeps.”
Merial eyed him sardonically, hiding her amusement. “As though you do not already know Lord Buckthorn and I are to be married. Come, admit it, you knew he would propose to me.”
Maurice chuckled. “Oui, cherie, I did indeed long suspect his affections for you, and you for him. You marry M’lord, and I retire from the sea, and cook for you as M’lady.”
Concealing her joy at the prospect of having Maurice as their household cook, Merial feigned a scowl. “No doubt, you would demand I peel the potatoes for you every day.”
“Ah, to be sure.” He laughed, and offered her a bow. “To keep M’lady close at hand, oui.”
Though she felt Daunger’s malicious gaze on her while she and Christopher ate dinner at their table, Merial decided not to say anything to him about it. His stares certainly could not harm her, nor did she want Christopher angry at the man during the last days of their voyage. It seemed, however, that Christopher knew more than she suspected.
“I do not care for the way Daunger stares at you,” he commented. “I feel as though I should have him thrown in the brig for your safety.”
Merial shot a covert glance at Daunger, who ate his meal alone while seated on a bench. “He will not dare your wrath by trying to harm me,” she replied. “I beg you, please, do not make an issue of it. In a matter of days, we will dock in London, and he will go his way, perhaps to another ship.”
Christopher grumbled under his breath. “Neither he nor John Benson will ever sail on one of my vessels, or those of my father. I will see to it.”
“I cannot blame you there, I suppose.”
“They are decent enough sailors,” he continued, his tone morose, “however, I cannot tolerate their less than admirable attitudes.”
Merial lifted her goblet of wine, smiling. “Here is to being free of them both.”
* * *
Fire. People screaming. Fierce heat crisping her skin. The stench of smoke in her nostrils. The voice yelling, “We must go. They cannot get out.” Her grief, leaving them behind to die. The squeak of a door creeping open.
Merial clawed her way awake, the scream lodged in her throat, her mouth dry. She blinked, seeing little in the faint light of the lamp. At her back, she felt Henry stir, then oddly, he hissed. She lifted her head toward him, murmuring his name. “Henry?”
He hissed again, then leaped from the bed. Her head muddled with sleep and the after-effects of the nightmare, she started to sit up, confused. In that same instant, a heavy weight pinned her to the bunk. A hand smashed down over her mouth, stilling the scream before it reached her lips.
“Quick like,” hissed a voice. “Out the door and o’er the side.”
She recognized Daunger’s voice even as it whispered. Breathing in his noxious scent, the odor of his foul breath, observing his evil eyes so close to her own, Merial panicked. She let loose a cry, muffled by his hand, and fought to escape his grip, his weight on her over the blanket that covered her.
“Pick ‘er up,” Benson snapped under his breath. “Hurry.”
Kicking with her legs, trying to flail with her arms, Merial’s struggles were hindered by the blanket as Daunger lifted her into his left arm, his right hand still covering her mouth. He cursed under his breath when she nearly wriggled free, biting at the palm of his hand. Her bare heel struck his shin, but he barely flinched.
“Keep ‘er still,” Benson gritted, opening the door wider to accommodate Daunger, carrying Merial around her waist.
My knife! Her arms, still wedged under the blanket, were held closely together, and she gripped the hilt of the dagger in her right hand. Daunger took a few steps toward the door, and she fought to free her arm from under the confining wool.
If they got Merial up to the deck, she knew through her panic, they would cast her over the gunwale. Benson was the night watch—he would never report the sudden splash. Nor would the crow’s nest or the helmsman pay much heed, as sea creatures often made noise even as night.
He had her at the door now. Still unable to free her arm, Merial twisted slightly in his grip, and stabbed at his gut straight through the blanket. A fiery pain in her left arm informed her she had cut herself as the blade slid easily, as if oiled, deep into his belly.
Daunger, all hopes of secrecy fled, choked off a scream, and dropped her. The blade, caught in her fierce grasp, exited his body as easily as it went in. Merial staggered as she fell, trying to keep her balance and knocked into the lamp. It fell with a resounding crash of metal and broken glass, the tiny flame igniting the spilled oil.
Benson and Daunger broke and ran, their boots pounding down the companionway and up the steps. Merial cried out, backing away from the flames that reached for her hungrily. As though from a distance, she heard shouts and yells, and her name called.
The fire, straight from her nightmares, blinded her with panic. It filled her vision, growing higher, its heat searing her flesh, the hot oil seeking her bare feet. Screaming, inarticulate, she cringed in the corner, frozen in terror, unable to move to think, only stare in horror as the flames licked toward her, ever hungry.
A hand yanked her away, staggering, all but throwing her to the floor and clear of the flames. Huge shadows, their faces invisible, beat the fire with blankets, with rugs, halting its advance, defeating it. Smoke and the stench of burned wool singed her nostrils, but she could not stop staring at the fire.
Soft moans, as though from a stricken animal, came to her ears. Merial covered her head with her arms, sinking to the floor, unable to halt the noise that came from
her own mouth. “No, no, no, no,” she muttered thickly, helpless to cease uttering the word over and over.
“Merial.”
Strong hands lifted her, held her close to a broad chest that scented of smoke. “You are all right, you will be all right, you are safe now.” The voice soothed some of her panic, even as it coughed. Then she realized, she, too, coughed, her throat burning.
“M’lord, we must get her above, the smoke is still too thick in here.”
Christopher picked her up in his arms. Merial, hiding her face in his neck, started to cry, weeping, sobbing as her fears receded slightly. She still held the dagger in her hand, and she let it fall in order to wrap her arms around his neck. She felt herself trembling as hard as a leaf in the wind.
The Lost Countess That Counted Stars (Historical Regency Romance) Page 24
