How to Catch an Earl with Ten Lies: A Historical Regency Romance Novel

by Patricia Haverton

  “Steady as she goes,” he ordered.

  “Steady as she goes.”

  Setting his spyglass aside, Christopher leaned over the gunwale to watch as his ship slowly drifted toward the small craft. “Get the hook and grab a hold of it,” he bellowed.

  A sailor ran toward him with the huge iron hook tied to a length of rope. Twirling it over his head a few times, he threw it out and down, then swiftly drew the slack in as the hook caught the edge of the dinghy.

  “Cap’n,” he said, awed. “It be a gal.”

  “Tie it off,” Christopher ordered, staring in shock at what appeared to be an unconscious woman on the bottom of the boat. “Lower the ladder. I’m going down to fetch her up.”

  As other crew lowered the slender rope ladder over the side of the hull, Christopher removed his hat and jacket for greater mobility, and handed them to Mr. Mayhew. Mayhew stared down, then he swiftly crossed himself.

  “Think she be dead, M’lord?”

  “I expect I will find out shortly.”

  After quickly and effortlessly climbing down the rickety ladder as the dinghy sped alongside the huge ship towering over it, Christopher gingerly stepped onto its bottom. The unstable craft rocked under him, threatening to spill him into the sea. He crouched to both stabilize it and check the woman’s wrist for a pulse.

  It was there. Strong, it throbbed under his fingers, and her flesh was pliable and warm. He gazed up into the faces along the gunwale that stared down. “She is alive. I will carry her up.”

  “Cap’n is bringing her up,” Mayhew shouted to the crew.

  Carefully standing in the rocking boat, Christopher lifted the unconscious woman into his arms. She weighed almost nothing, as light as a child, and he could not help but notice her slenderness, her almost fragile beauty. Not daring to keep looking at her for fear they would both be pitched into the sea, he carefully lay her face down over his broad shoulder.

  Now with both of his hands free, he grasped the thin rope ladder and started to climb. Half fearing she might slide down over his back and vanish under the waves, he paused now and then to steady her weight evenly. As he was a big man, a hand taller than most, Christopher had little difficulty in reaching the gunwale with his burden.

  “Easy,” he told Mayhew and the sailors who reached to take her from him. “She may have injuries.”

  “Set her down in that shade there,” Mayhew ordered as he helped carry her to the deck.

  Christopher completed his climb, then happened to glance back down into the dinghy before ordering the sailor to unhook it and let it loose on the open sea. A wooden box lay half under the seat, almost unnoticeable with the woman’s body covering it. He glanced back at Mayhew and the crew surrounding the strange woman.

  “There is something else in there,” he said. “I am going back down.”

  Once again, he scampered down the ladder, as nimble as a cat, and dropped lightly into the dinghy. Once again, he was forced to balance the small boat with his weight as he bent to pick up the wooden box. It was made of plain cedar wood, with no markings save a strange alphabetical set of buttons on the side. He hefted it, but heard nothing from inside it. “Not jewels or coins,” he murmured, then glanced up at the faces staring down once more.

  “Catch,” he called up.

  Throwing it upward, a sailor named Andrews caught it neatly. “Got it, Cap’n.”

  Taking a moment to gaze around the small craft for anything else of note, he stiffened. He narrowed his eyes at the small holes in the wooden sides, just below the top edge. Counting five of them, he crouched and stuck his finger through one. Glancing around, he observed they were just above the spot where the woman’s head was.

  Back on his own deck, Christopher ordered the dinghy cast off. He gazed down at the woman, almost closer to being a girl, he estimated, and wondered what to do with her. There was no place for a woman on board a sailing ship with a crew of men. Men of the sea were coarse, foul-mouthed, and crude, and if this lady was of the gentry as he suspected, well, that was not a good mix at all.

  “M’lord?”

  Christopher glanced at Mayhew and the question in his steady blue eyes. He cleared his throat. “I expect I will place her in the guest cabin,” he said at last. “I will look after her.”

  Mayhew’s expression spoke of his relief. He was not comfortable around women, and Christopher wondered if his superstition about ladies on board a ship being bad luck preyed upon his mind. As he glanced around at the crew, he observed the uneasiness in their eyes. No doubt they did believe the superstition.

  “That be a good idea, M’lord,” Mayhew said on a gust of breath. “Ye being a gentleman and all, ye’d not, er, take, er—”

  Christopher lifted his right brow. “Take advantage of her? Of course not.”

  Mayhew stiffened. “I meant nothing by it, M’lord. It be just that, men being men, ye see.”

  “If I catch any man on board being less than a gentleman to this lady,” Christopher intoned, his voice low and hard, “he will be whipped until the bones in his back show white. Am I clear?”

  The crew gulped and quickly assured him of their good conduct, tipping their caps to him and knuckling their brows.

  “Good,” Christopher snapped. “I will take her below.”

  He picked her carefully up in his arms, and carried her across the deck and down the steps. The guest cabin was next to his own, which he felt would assist him in keeping a watchful eye on her. It was also fairly roomy for a cabin on board the crowded ship, and as private as his own. Mayhew, as first mate, had a cabin across from hers, and he hoped his fear of women would keep him at arm’s length.

  Setting her gently on the wide and comfortable bunk, Christopher covered her decently with a blanket, then sat beside her. Clearly she was injured, but how badly? His gentlemanly protocols forbade him from touching a woman unmarried to him, yet there was no woman on board who could examine her.

  “It is up to me, I expect,” he muttered. “I dare not have any of those oafs look at her.”

  He had no physician on board, and most injuries that occurred were fixed by the most competent. Christopher thought that title fell to the aged Colin Pierce, a sailor who had traveled extensively, and sailed under him for the last three years. Pierce knew how to fix just about anything on the human body, but Christopher could not permit him to look at her.

  I will see what I can find, then ask his advice.

  Bracing himself for doing the dishonorable, he carefully felt around her skull, under her wealth of jet black hair. Lifting her neck, his fingers found crusted blood and a large knot on the left side of her head.

  “Aha,” he murmured. “That is something, anyway.”

  He doubted her back had been damaged, as it felt firm when he carried her, but that did not mean she did not have broken arms or legs. Feeling a right cad for touching her, he carefully ran his hands down her legs while they were under the blanket, and discovered no terrible swellings or breaks. The same for her arms, and he could not bring himself to touch her torso for possible broken ribs.

  “I expect you will tell me if you hurt somewhere when you wake up,” he told her.

  She lay silent, breathing evenly, her lashes sooty against her pale cheeks. Studying her high cheekbones, large eyes, and full lips, he thought she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. He wished her eyes were open so he might see their color, and wondered if they were of a dark, sultry shade.

  He grinned at the silliness of talking to her. “Do not die, My Lady,” he said. “I want to get to know you.”

  Leaving her for the time being, he left the cabin, and closed the door behind him. Back on the deck, he found Mayhew had ordered the Valkyrie under full sail and back on course. That was one, among many, things he liked about Mayhew as his first mate. The man knew what needed to be done, and saw it through.

  Mayhew approached and knuckled his brow. “Might I ask how the lady be, M’lord?”

  “Still u
nconscious, but has a huge lump on her head,” Christopher replied, his eyes scanning the rigging, the sails, the crew as they worked, even as his mind lay elsewhere. “I need Mr. Pierce, on the double.”

  As Mayhew left his side to call for Mr. Pierce, Christopher strode across the deck to the sailor at the wheel, and checked their heading. The hand knuckled his brow, keeping a firm hold on the ship’s wheel, and offered him a slight bow. “Cap’n.”

  “Good work,” Christopher said. “Maintain this course.”

  “Aye, Cap’n.”

  He turned around to observe Mayhew hustle Mr. Pierce toward him, seeing the scrawny, unshaven old man who had more experience at sea than any seaman Christopher had ever known. Both knuckled their brows.

  “Cap’n,” Pierce said, his brown eyes narrowed from a lifetime of squinting in the sun, salt, and spray, and his lips puckered around his almost toothless mouth. He was old, that was for certain, but still as strong and agile as he had been when he was young.

  “Mr. Pierce,” Christopher said, “what can be done for an unconscious person with a lump on her head?”

  “Nae much at the moment, Cap’n,” Pierce replied, his Irish accent almost brazen. “She be awake, then bedrest till she recovers.”

  “I see. How long might she remain unconscious?”

  Pierce shrugged. “I cannae say, Cap’n.”

  Nonplussed, Christopher nodded. “I may need your advice later, Mr. Pierce. Carry on.”

  Pierce knuckled his brow, then trotted back to his duties. Mayhew eyed him with concern. “What we be doing with a woman on board, M’lord?” he asked in a hoarse whisper. “You know they be bad luck.”

  “I am quite aware of the superstition regarding women, Mr. Mayhew,” Christopher replied. “Would you suggest I throw her overboard?”

  Mayhew’s eyes bugged from his head. “No, of course not, M’lord. I just cannot help but fear the old saying that women be bad luck.”

  “We have a minimum of three weeks till we dock, Mr. Mayhew,” Christopher told him firmly. “If they crew gets wind of your worries, then there will be no end of them fussing over it as well. You keep your mouth shut about it.”

  “Aye, M’lord.”

  With a sharp nod, Christopher walked on. He inspected the work, the way the ropes were tied, the set of the sails, the crew working industriously under his eye, all the while worrying about having a woman on board his ship. Not the silly superstition, of course, but of the crew’s morale in general. As she recovered, he certainly could not order her to remain in her cabin and out of sight.

  Having a female, and a very beautiful one, strolling about the decks might create all sorts of havoc among the men on board. He had little doubt they would not harm her, but not tying a knot correctly because a sailor’s eyes watched her and not his task? Heaven forfend. Christopher shook his head.

  Hours later, as the sun set, the wind died and he ordered the sails rigged for the night. Christopher lit a lamp, and went below decks. The crew, save the helmsman and the night watch, had also gone below for their evening meal and the dram of rum he allotted them every evening. At the door to the guest cabin, Christopher opened it, and let the light fall upon her frightened face.

  Chapter 2

  Her head aching as though struck by an axe and split in two, Merial gazed at the room around her with no comprehension of where she was or how she had gotten there. When her eyes first fluttered open, she stared at a wood-beamed roof, and felt the gentle rocking of the bed under her, heard the clear sound of the wind caught in canvas.

  I am on a ship. How do I know that? Have I been on a ship before?

  She did not know. She tried to remember ever being on a ship at sea, yet, details, memories of any voyages at sea, escaped her.

  Lifting her hand from the blanket that covered her from shoulders to feet, she rubbed the painful spot, felt the crusty lump on her head, and tried to remember what had happened. Nothing came to her. She remembered nothing from before she woke, and stared at the beams above her.

  Frowning slightly, Merial half sat up, and lifted the blanket covering her. Her gown of rich gold, yellow, and white hues gave her no idea, either. She did not remember donning it, buying it, or what she had worn the day before. Rubbing her brow, she tried to think through her problem.

  “Why can I not remember?”

  Fear and horror stole over her.

  I cannot remember anything. Who am I? What am I? What happened to me? How did I get here?

  The more she tried to remember, the more her head hurt. The more her head hurt, the more scared she grew. “What happened to me?”

  Not daring to get out of the bed, Merial lay back, frightened, frustrated, and worried about leaving the small room.

  Who and what is out there?

  She heard male voices, laughter, singing, the sound of their steps above her, and she dared not venture out. Who knew what they might do to her?

  Time passed slowly, and from the small round porthole above her, Merial knew night grew close.

  Will I starve down here? Does anyone know I am here?

  Surely someone knew, someone would come, for how else did she get here? Who covered her with the blanket? With her fears and worries gnawing at her, she almost cried out as the door swung open.

  Staring into the lamplight, and the shape of a man beyond it, terror leaped down her throat. Frozen with panic, Merial knew, knew, that shadowy man had come to kill her. She had nothing to hand to fight with, could not escape, was as cornered in this room as a mouse in a trap while the cat stalked near.

  “You are awake.”

  The friendly, kind voice startled her nearly as much as his presence, and he lowered the light so it showed her his warm, smiling face, as well as his lack of sword or pistol or club. “How do you feel?” he asked, closing the door, yet not approaching her.

  “S-scared,” she stammered. “C-confused. Who are you?” Merial clutched the blanket to her as though that might protect her if he attacked.

  He hung the lantern on a hook, and bowed smoothly. “I am Lord Christopher Buckthorn, second son of the Duke of Heyerdahl, and Captain of this vessel, the Valkyrie.”

  Merial studied him in the light, observing his tidy coat, muslin shirt, the silk cravat, and his pale breeches, how big he was. Yet, he was also quite handsome with thick blond hair that curled around his neck, large ice blue eyes, and a smile that helped to calm her.

  “And you are?”

  Merial yanked her eyes from him, as she knew openly staring was exceedingly rude. “Merial Hanrahan,” she replied softly.

  “Miss Hanrahan,” he said, “welcome aboard. I fear you caught us well out to sea without a chaperone. How are you feeling?”

  His smile continued to soothe her frazzled nerves, but she held the blanket tightly around her for comfort. “Where are we?”

  “Eastbound to England with a cargo and mail from America,” he replied easily. “About three weeks from port, in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.”

  Merial gaped, astonished, finding it strange she knew what he spoke of, just as she knew her name, but unable to remember how she came to be aboard a ship. “The Atlantic? America? How did I get here?”

  Lord Buckthorn gestured toward a chair. “May I sit?”

  “O-of course.”

  “Thank you.”

  He sat down, straightening his coat, his smile gone. “We found you floating in a dinghy some hours ago. I pulled you out myself, and I promise I only touched you when necessary. None of my crew laid a hand on you.”

  Merial felt her face heat at the thought of this man bringing her up from the sea and placing her on this bed. “I suppose you did what was best,” she replied, her voice faltering.

  “I do know you hit your head, Miss Hanrahan,” he continued, “but touching you was necessary to assess your injuries. I am, and will remain, a gentleman.”

  “Oh.”

  Merial gazed down, abashed and shamed that this man touched her while she lay
unconscious. Where might his hands have roamed while she could not defend herself, and had none to defend her? “I, er, I—”

  “Please be at ease, Miss Hanrahan,” Lord Buckthorn said hastily, his expression concerned, his hand half extended. “Are you well?”

  Something in the way he spoke endeared him to her, and Merial found herself smiling shyly. “As well as can be expected. I suppose I should thank you for looking after me, My Lord.”

  He looked relieved. “I must thank you for not being offended, Miss Hanrahan. I promise, I would not have done so were it not important. I am not familiar with the name Hanrahan, yet your gown, your manners, inform me you are gently born. Who is your family?”

  Merial’s throat closed up as swift fear seized her once again. She could not remember. She must have a family, she must have had a home, yet no memory of them surfaced. Struggling to find an answer, her head pained her again.

  “I am sorry,” she whispered, frantic, terrified. “I do not know. I cannot remember.”

  Lord Buckthorn frowned, and leaned forward. “You cannot remember your family?”

  “No.” The words choked her as she tried to explain. “I do not remember anything before waking up in this room.”

  “Dear God.”

  “I know my name, obviously, and I knew I was on a ship at sea,” she continued, her mouth dry. “Yet I cannot remember being on a ship before.”

  Lord Buckthorn sat back in his chair, staring blankly into space. “I vaguely recall hearing something of this,” he murmured. “A head injury erasing memories. Yet, in time, I believe, the memories do come back.”

  Hope rose as her terror sank a fraction. “Truly?”

  “Of course, I can make no guarantees,” he replied, then smiled. “Save these. You will be safe here, Miss Hanrahan, and cared for. None will harm you. I will see to it you have food and this cabin for your privacy, and when you are able, you may come up on deck.”

  Merial found a smile for him. “Thank you, My Lord. You are most kind.”