The bread and broth tasted nearly as wonderful, but her appetite still had not come back. Nor could she seem to get enough water. “I do not understand why I am not hungry,” she murmured.
“I suspect you have been through a tremendous shock, Miss Hanrahan,” he replied. “You will start feeling better soon.”
Picking up her goblet of wine, Merial took a sip, hoping it might help soothe her headache. “What do you think happened to the ship I was on?”
Something crossed his expression so quickly she wondered if she had truly seen it.
“I dare not venture an opinion just yet,” he replied. “I do not have enough information. But that you were on a ship at one time, there is no doubt. You could not have survived long in the dinghy, so you did not set sail in it from England, that is for certain.”
Merial sipped her wine, desperate to remember. “And there is no land anywhere near where we are?”
“None.” His icy blue eyes rested on her with warmth and compassion. “We are three weeks from London, five from New York. We have seen no other vessels since our departure.”
“Perhaps it went down in a storm,” she suggested.
Lord Buckthorn shook his head. “How did you get into the boat, Miss Hanrahan? Who put you there? You were not in it long, as you are hardly sunburned, perhaps less than half a day. There have been no storms. Indeed, this is quite the mystery.”
“If I could only remember.” Frustration and fear rose once again in her heart. “What if my memories never come back? I will not know my family if ever I meet them. I will never know what happened, never understand where I came from. What will become of me in the future?”
As she spoke, Merial knew her voice lifted in near hysteria, but she could not seem to help it. Her heart raced, her head feeling as though it might burst at any moment. Lord Buckthorn made to reach for her, but he drew his hand back at the same moment Merial flinched from him.
“Calm yourself,” he said, his voice low, soothing. “You have only recently awakened from a traumatic injury. You must give yourself time to heal.”
Holding her arms across her stomach, staring at the table, Merial nodded. “I will try,” she whispered. “But please understand I am so very frightened.”
“Believe me when I say I do understand,” he replied quietly, and his deep yet gentle voice did much to quiet her fears. “When we dock in London, I will do my very best to help you return to your family. My father and my older brother have considerable influence in the city. If anyone knows the Hanrahan name, they will.”
Merial finally glanced up to meet his kind eyes, and tried to smile. “You are so good to me, My Lord. I hope that one day I may be able to repay you.”
“That will not be necessary,” he told her. “Just seeing you safe and back in the arms of those who love you is payment enough. So please, drink your wine and try not to be afraid.”
Merial did her best to obey him. He spoke to her about his vessel, the Valkyrie, his noble family, and the shipping business his father, the Duke of Heyerdahl, had founded. Between the food and the wine, it was not long before Merial grew tired, and she fought to keep her eyes open.
Lord Buckthorn noticed, and stood. “Get some sleep, Miss Hanrahan,” he said lightly, picking up the tray. “Perhaps, if your appetite has returned, you will join me in my cabin for breakfast.”
“Yes, thank you.”
Once again, he gave her the polite bow, and left her alone. Merial ambled, now unsteady on her feet, and gazed out into the darkness again. Above her, the tramp of feet informed her of the night watch pacing the deck, and she dimly heard a voice call the hour.
Blowing out the lamp Lord Buckthorn had left her, she undressed slowly, and hung her gown on a hook. Lying down on the bunk garbed in her shift, she covered herself with the blanket, grateful for it as the night sea air had grown chilly. Staring into the darkness for a time, she felt sleep overcome her at last.
* * *
Fire. Red and orange flames reaching for her. A man’s face, his mouth open as he shouted something at her. His expression of anger, of fear. A horse galloping under her. The wind in her hair.
Merial woke abruptly in the darkness, panting, panic gripping her throat.
Did I just scream?
Sweat trickled down her ribs, her body hot despite the cool breeze wafting through the round porthole. She sat up, the blanket pooling in her lap as she fought the fear, the terror.
I am safe. I am on board the Valkyrie.
The vessel creaked as she swept through the waves, the canvas sails snapped as the wind ebbed and flowed. Merial’s breathing gradually grew quieter, and she heard the watch call the hour.
Nearly dawn.
Her head throbbed as she rubbed her face with her fingers, pondering the idea of going back to sleep.
I will not be able to.
Covering herself back up with the blanket, Merial tried to remember the dream that terrified her, but all she could recall was fire.
What fire? Where?
Gazing at the round porthole, slightly lighter than the darkness in her cabin, she wondered at the significance of the fire in her nightmare.
Chapter 3
He strode down the cobbled street in East Chepe, disgusted by the sights, smells, and the fact that he was clad in foul wools, a cloak covering him from head to toe. He sweated in the heat and the heavy garment, but did not dare wander in this part of London while wearing the fine clothes and jewels he often did while in his own neighborhood, or his townhouse.
“God rot this hellhole,” he muttered, glancing at the cluttered shops, the buildings that appeared as though they had not been repaired since the Middle Ages. “They would slit my throat for a copper, I would wager.”
Apprentices hawked their masters’ wares, their shouts grating on his ears. Children ran past him, and a pair of curs fought over the scraps tossed into the street by a matron who stared at him with scorn.
Had he not the need for the disguise, he would have had the woman thrown into gaol for not offering him proper respect. Wishing he could at least rail at her, he clamped a tight rein on his temper and walked on, searching for the tavern where he was to meet his henchmen.
They had done their work well. The ton mourned the deaths of the Earl of Dorsten, his Countess, and their daughter, all tragically killed in a fire the night before last, while staying at a London Inn.
The poor dears, the bodies were so charred identification was next to impossible. What were they doing at an inn? Perhaps it was not the Dorstens at all. No, they were recognized, and were not counted among the survivors. When will the funerals be held?
The fire was ruled an accident, the ton moved on to the next scandal, the next bit of juicy gossip, and life went on. He did not dare meet his henchmen at his townhouse. No, they might be seen and questions asked. Thus, he had donned this ridiculous, foul-smelling disguise, left his horse at a livery stable, and walked through the trash, the excrement, and the milling commoners to the tavern.
Entering, he found it dark, gloomy, with lit tapers hardly able to thrust the darkness back. Yet, he welcomed the smoke and murky atmosphere within it, for surely none would recognize him in here. A hand lifted, beckoning him to a high-walled booth. Joining the two occupants, he finally threw the hood back from his face.
“Welcome, M’lord,” said the man who had called himself Jones.
He knew it was most likely not his real name, as the other had called himself Smith. “Di’ ye bring th’ gold?” Smith asked, his beady, greedy eyes on him.
He brought the leather pouch out from under his cloak, and set it on the table, glancing around for anyone who may be paying the three of them a little too much attention. Yet, he kept it close to him, his hand hovering near to prevent one of them from grabbing it.
“All three are dead?” he asked, his voice low.
The pair exchanged a quick glance, and he knew they were about to tell him a lie.
“Aye, M’lord,”
Jones answered. “All three.”
He pulled the gold closer to his body, leaning menacingly over the table. Staring them in the eyes, he said, “You tell me the truth. Right now.”
Smith’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. Shooting a glance at his partner, he said, “The girl got oot.”
Leaning back against the booth, he stared at them, feeling as though the world was crashing down about his ears. Rage swamped him, flooded him, and he nearly yanked his knife from its sheath to slit both their throats where they sat. “The girl got out.”
“Aye. Them servants was quick, like,” Jones said, his voice a near whine. “Grabbed her, dragged her oot.”
“The ‘ad ‘orses waitin’, M’lord. Musta figgered we was comin’. Done galloped away faster ‘n you can say Bobs yer uncle.”
“Do you two imbeciles know what this means?” he grated, glaring his fury, feeling spittle forming at his lips. “That girl can tell the courts, the magistrates, what I had done. She knows too much. And you let her escape.”
“We, er, dint let ‘er escape, M’lord,” Smith protested, his voice low. “We could’nae get close. We done what ye asked.”
“You were to kill all of them,” he barked, then shot a glance around the tavern. No one seemed interested in them, or if they overheard his loud remark, they did not care. Turning his fury back onto them, he lowered his voice. “The job is not done.”
“Aye, it be done.” Jones met his furious stare, his own anger burning in his deep-set eyes. “Gie’ us uir gold, and we be oan uir way.”
He opened the neck of the pouch, and picked out several gold coins. He slapped them on the table, and put the leather bag back under his cloak. “You want the rest,” he snarled, “you find and kill the girl.”
“That nae be what we hired oan fer, laddie,” Jones said. “You owe us the rest o’ it.”
He leaned over the table again, smoothly drawing his knife from its sheath. With a lightning move, he slashed the blade across Jones’s cheek, laying it open. The man fell back against the booth with a hoarse cry, his hand at his cheek, yet unable to stem the flow of blood.
He whipped the knife at Smith, pointing it at the man’s nose while Smith stared at its deadly edge, his eyes wide. “Now this is what is going to happen, laddie,” he snarled. “You will keep that as payment for your work, and that is all you will receive. Choke on it for all I care, but you come near me again, I will kill you like the rabid mongrels you are.”
Rising from the booth, he stared down at them, murderers and cowards both, then spat. His spittle landed on the table between them, their eyes not leaving his. Flipping the hood once more to cover his face, he said, “Have a good day, gentlemen.”
Leaving the tavern, muttering foul curses under his breath, he vented his rage by viciously kicking loose stones out of his way. It was a good thing no curs or children came within reach of his boots, for he would have kicked them as well.
“The girl is alive,” he muttered amid the swearing. “She is alive. By all that is holy, I will find her, and send her to perdition along with her bloody parents.”
Chapter 4
When she woke again, daylight streamed in through the porthole. She heard the seamen calling to one another, the slap of their feet on the deck. Though her head still ached, the throbbing had subsided somewhat, and she rose from the bed to stretch. Hunger gnawed at her stomach, and she realized Lord Buckthorn did not tell her what time breakfast was.
A light tap at her door made her jump. “Yes?”
“Miss,” came a strange voice, “the Cap’n requests your presence in his cabin for breakfast.”
“Ah, yes, thank you. I will be along directly.”
“I will inform him, Miss.”
Merial donned the gown, and realized she had no comb, no brush, no means of putting her hair up. “I can hardly look a proper lady under such circumstances,” she muttered, running her fingers through the tangles in her black locks. “Am I to wear the same gown day in and day out?”
Opening the door to the cabin, Merial peeked out. Realizing she had no idea where the captain’s cabin was, she glanced around the gangway, and discovered to her right an open door. Being unfamiliar with the ship’s layout, she thought that she stared at her stern, and thus Lord Buckthorn’s quarters.
Closing her door softly, she tiptoed to it, and tentatively peered around the wall’s edge. Sure enough, Lord Buckthorn stood with his back to her as he gazed out the wide array of windows at the rear of the Valkyrie. Taking a moment to inspect the place, she found a table laden with delicious-smelling food, a pile of rolled paper she suspected were maps and charts, various navigational instruments, and comfortable looking chairs strewn around the big chamber.
What she thought might be his bunk stood behind a thick curtain. Maps in frames hung on the oak walls, as did the English flag. Taking a step further in, Merial cleared her throat to not startle him, and watched him turn around with a smile.
“Come in, Miss Hanrahan,” he said, lifting his hand to beckon to her. “How was your rest?”
Reluctant to tell him about her dream, Merial replied, “Very well, thank you.”
She paced further into his quarters, still finding it uncomfortable to be alone with him without a chaperone. Yet, if she really thought about it, she was alone on a vessel in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean with at least twenty men. Lord Buckthorn’s quarters were as nothing compared to that.
“Please sit down,” he invited, holding her chair for her. “Are you hungry?”
At last, Merial returned his smile as he went around the table to sit. “Yes, I am, My Lord,” she replied. “All this smells delicious.”
“As I said, I hired the best ship’s cook in England.”
He filled her plate with bacon, fried potatoes, stewed apples with cinnamon, and hot fresh bread, then poured steaming tea into a cup for her. Remembering her manners, Merial ate with greater delicacy, when truly she craved to shove the food into her mouth in haste.
A feathery touch on her leg brought a short cry to her lips. She jumped, nearly frantic in her need to escape and see what touched her at the same time. “What was that?”
Lord Buckthorn chuckled, wiping his mouth with his napkin. “Henry, I fear,” he replied. “His manners require some work, but he refuses to learn.”
Merial gazed at him in puzzlement. “Henry?”
As though in response to his name, a huge black cat leaped onto the table and gazed at her with golden eyes. A soft meow emerged from a rather squashed muzzle, and his thick tail stood straight up. Merial laughed, her momentary fears gone as she fondled the cat’s ears. “Oh, my. He is beautiful.”
Lord Buckthorn broke off some bacon and placed it in front of the cat with a grin. “He is quite fond of bacon, Miss Hanrahan, and though he dines on the ship’s rats, I cannot resist giving him his morning treat.”
Henry chewed the crispy bacon as Merial ran her hands through his thick, long fur. “Henry,” she said, “it is delightful to meet you. You may call me Merial.”
A vibrant purr rose from the cat, and he searched her fingers for potential bits of bacon, which she was happy to give him. She glanced at Lord Buckthorn. “Are black cats not bad luck?”
“Not to us sailors,” he replied. “We consider black cats to be good luck, and Henry’s presence on board seems to keep the men’s worries at bay. Since I brought him on three years ago, we have had a few harrowing adventures and always came through them.”
Merial chuckled, and gave the cat more bacon. “Why Henry?”
“Oh, well, my brother, whose name is Henry, gave him to me when he was a wee kitten. I thought it fitting to name him after my brother.”
Merial lifted the cat’s face with her finger, examining the oddly shaped face. “I have never seen a cat with a face like this.”
“I am told they come from the Far East,” Lord Buckthorn explained. “They are bred with that squashed-in muzzle. At any rate, these cats are excellent ratters, and
Henry is one of the best I have ever seen.”
Henry arched his back and rubbed against Merial’s hand, butting his face into hers. “He is adorable,” she exclaimed. “So incredibly friendly.”
“Yes, well, he usually is standoffish with strangers,” Lord Buckthorn replied, eyeing the cat. “To see him take so quickly to you tells me a great deal.”
“And the crew like him?”
“He is their best friend. I fear they will spoil him, and then he will be derelict in his duties as a ratter.”
Merial laughed. “But you feed him bacon.”
The Lost Countess That Counted Stars (Historical Regency Romance) Page 3