“What?”
“They do not care. If their neighbors gossip, they shrug and carry on. They have dropped, for the most part, the restrictions society placed on them. Yet, we English are still hide-bound, still obey the strict rules of our culture, still worry about a scandal.”
“Does that make them better than we English?” she asked, pausing to gaze up at him. “Or are we better than they?”
“I think it is an equal thing. Take Gauthier. The French Revolution brought about the end of their caste system, yet you like Maurice as he treats you as an equal. Am I correct?”
He watched as Miss Hanrahan gazed out at the black sea, the moonlight casting a glow upon its endlessly moving surface.
“Yes,” she said at last. “I think I do like him for how he treats me, as though I were a friend, not a noble. Though I cannot recall details, I know I was treated as a superior, one who is served. And I feel as though I had no friends at all. Just servants.”
Christopher leaned against the gunwale, and though he was the son of a Duke, he understood exactly what she was saying. His family had servants by the hundreds, yet he could count his friends on one hand. “Sometimes I wonder if the French and the Americans have the right of things,” he murmured. “Perhaps with everyone being equal, there is a greater opportunity for happiness.”
“I just know I enjoy his company,” Miss Hanrahan said. “I like that he calls me cherie, not, “my lady.” Why that should be, I have no idea.”
He glanced sidelong at her. “Are your memories returning?”
Miss Hanrahan shook her head. “No. Just images, feelings, sometimes odors. Knowing things, knowing that I was addressed as “my lady” and having servants, have come back without the specifics. No details, no names, faces.”
“But it is a start,” Christopher told her, turning so he leaned his elbow on the gunwale to look at her in the moonlight.
“If I am of the higher nobility,” she said, her voice low, “then it may be easier to find my family. If they are alive.”
Christopher frowned. “Do you have reason to believe they are not?”
“No. But how else did I get out here, onto a dinghy, injured with no memory except that my family died while I lived? As you said, someone put me in that boat. There were no other vessels that you saw.”
Christopher shook his head. “That means little. You could have been tossed into the dinghy, and the other ship sailed over the horizon before we found you.”
He saw her pale oval face lifted toward him. “And how many ships toss noble passengers with injuries onto dinghies?”
He swung back to face the sea with no answers. “I cannot say,” he replied, and he knew that was the weakest answer he could have said to her.
In the silence between them, Henry ran, yowling, crying, frantic to be picked up. He rubbed against their ankles, first one, then the other, his meows loud in the night’s stillness. Miss Hanrahan obliged him, cuddling him close. “What is wrong, Henry?”
A shiver trailed down Christopher’s back. He knew instantly what the cat was trying to tell them. “All hands on deck,” he roared. “All hands on deck. Shorten the sails. Fasten down the hatches.”
“Lord Buckthorn?”
He gazed down at Miss Hanrahan. “Henry is trying to tell us we have a storm coming. He has done this before. It will hit us within the hour.”
Her opened mouth appeared as a shadow among the pale of her face. “How does he know?”
“I have no idea,” Christopher replied, grim, as the crew ran up to the deck, yelling, taking their places, obeying his orders. “It appears he has a sense for things like that. Please take Henry with you below. Go to your cabin, and shut him in with you. When it gets rough, I do not want him to get washed overboard. Go, now.”
Still holding the crying cat, Miss Hanrahan ran quickly to the stairs and vanished down them. As Mr. Mayhew shouted orders and the crew scrambled into the rigging to shorten the sails, Christopher gazed out at the black sea. The moon still shone brightly down, the wind remained calm, yet he felt the swells beneath the Valkyrie rise.
“You have the right of it, Henry,” he murmured. “Again.”
“I see nothing, M’lord,” Mayhew reported from his side.
“The cat foretold it,” Christopher informed him tersely.
“Ah, o’ course.” Mayhew’s voice expressed his relief. “Then we have perhaps an hour before it hits.”
The wind freshened and the Valkyrie leaped forward like a horse under the spur. “Perhaps not that long,” Christopher replied, gazing up at the stars. “I will be in the bow.”
“Aye, M’lord.”
Striding to the helm, he checked their heading and the sailor at the wheel. The word of the approaching storm had not rattled the helmsman in the least, and he knuckled his brow. “Evening, Cap’n.”
“Hold her steady.”
“Aye, Cap’n.”
The swells under the ship grew higher, forcing the Valkyrie to climb them, then drop down into the valleys between. Christopher scented rain on the wind, then observed lightning flashing on the horizon. He was about to make a turn around the ship to make sure all was in readiness when he found Miss Hanrahan at his elbow.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, his surprise making his voice abrupt and rude.
“I want to ride out the storm from up here,” she replied.
“It is safer for you below.”
“I am not afraid.”
Christopher bit his lip to avoid barking an order at her. She was not a member of the crew to be ordered about, and a lady besides. “I fear you may be washed overboard if the seas get really rough, Miss Hanrahan.”
Even as he spoke, he observed her balanced stance, how she rode the swells without the need to hold onto anything, her confident smile. “I will be fine, My Lord.”
Shaking his head in frustration, Christopher went about his task of ensuring the sails were storm-set, the rigging proper, and that all hands were at their stations and ready. The moon vanished as the squall’s clouds covered it. Thunder rumbled in the distance as he returned to the bow, finding Miss Hanrahan in much the same place as when he had left her. Once again, her ability to maintain her balance while the ship pitched and yawed beneath her amazed him.
“You must have been at sea before,” he commented, standing beside her. “You have natural sea legs.”
In the light of the lanterns, he saw her smile up at him. “I wish I could remember if I had. Apparently my legs do.”
By habit, Christopher checked their heading again, then said, “Do you realize what your name means, Miss Hanrahan?”
“My name?”
“Merial,” he replied with a grin. “It means ‘sea spray’ in Gaelic.”
“Oh, my,” she answered, her hazel-green eyes wide. “I wonder if I come from a shipping family as you do.”
“I wish I could say yes,” he told her, watching the sea and the storm approach. “But I know most of the sea-faring noble families, and none bear the name Hanrahan.”
“Well, it was a thought.”
“Your memories will return,” he assured her. “How is your head?”
“It aches sometimes,” Miss Hanrahan admitted, gazing out at the lightning.
“I do wish you would return to your cabin,” he said. “I do not know what might happen if you struck your head again.”
She laughed. “Perhaps another knock will bring my memories back.”
Though he thought that unlikely, Christopher suspected she would not return below unless he had her physically dragged there. At least while she stood with him, he could keep a watch on her safety. The thunder rumbled more loudly, and the lightning flashed nearly overhead.
“At least grab a hold of something,” Christopher snapped as the first drops of rain splashed down.
Miss Hanrahan obeyed him, and wrapped her arms around the sturdy railing in front of her. The Valkyrie plowed through the waves, their crests gleaming white in the
flashes of lightning. The bowsprit with the figurehead carved into the likeness of a Valkyrie plunged low, only to rise again on the next wave.
Checking their heading again, Christopher approved of the helmsman’s handling of the wheel, keeping the ship steady and driving directly into the rolling waves. Miss Hanrahan, her clothes wet, her braid dripping, laughed with a nearly maniacal joy as the squall passed directly over them.
“Look,” she cried, taking her hand from the rail to point upward. “What is that?”
Christopher turned to gaze where she indicated, seeing the bright greenish glow dancing at the tops of the masts. He grinned. “That is St. Elmo’s Fire,” he shouted over the roar of the wind, the clashing of the waves. “A good omen, for it means the saint is with us.”
“Aye, Cap’n,” called the helmsman, “but our compass be whirling out of control.”
“Just keep her steady and heading into the waves, Mr. Andrews.”
“Aye, Cap’n.”
Though it was clear from her expression that Miss Hanrahan had questions, Christopher decided to answer them after the storm passed. By how quickly it had blown up, he suspected it would not last long. He proved himself right, for within an hour, the heavy winds died, along with the thunder and lightning as the squall hurried along.
The rolling waves, pushed by the wind, would take longer to quiet, yet the Valkyrie could ride them out with ease. “Mr. Mayhew,” Christopher called. “Inspect the ship for damages.”
“Aye, M’lord,” Mayhew yelled back from amidships.
He turned to Miss Hanrahan, who now shivered slightly in her damp clothes under the light, chilly breeze. He, too, felt the cold from being wet, but he would not return to his quarters to change until he knew the ship was secure and undamaged. “Miss Hanrahan, perhaps you will go below now. I would not want you to catch a chill.”
“Who is St. Elmo?”
“St. Erasmus,” he replied. “One of the patron saints of sailors. Often during storms, his light appears over the tops of the masts.”
“How intriguing,” she said, awed. “If the saint is with the ship, perhaps my presence will not bring you bad luck.”
From the corner of his eye, he saw Andrews lift his crucifix from his shirt and kiss it, keeping a wary eye on Miss Hanrahan. Though he would not admonish the man for the gesture, Christopher knew that the crew still regarded her with superstition. “You do not, and will not, bring us bad luck, Miss Hanrahan,” he said firmly. “Now please, go below to your cabin and get warm.”
Dipping her knee in a quick curtsey, Miss Hanrahan obeyed him, and went amidships to the stairs, and vanished below. Muttering under his breath, and wondering if there was any truth to the old superstition about women on board a vessel, Christopher made his rounds of his ship.
He found only minor damage, quickly being repaired, the sails reset and their heading once more on course. The wind had driven them slightly south of where they needed to be, and Mr. Andrews steered them back onto the proper path. The moon and stars returned as the crew, no longer needed on deck, trickled below to their bunks and hammocks.
The night watch paced his rounds, gazing out at the now calm sea. Christopher glanced up at the sailor in the crow’s nest, only the moonlight glinting off the metal of his spyglass indicating he was up there. Deciding he could at last go to his quarters for a glass of wine and a change of clothes, he took the steps down.
Miss Hanrahan had replaced her wet shirt and trousers for the dry gown, and stood in the gangway. “All is well, I trust?” she asked.
“Indeed, yes,” he replied. “If you give me a moment to change, I would ask you to my quarters for a glass of wine. I merely wish your company for a short time.” He observed her slow smile in the light of the lamp nearby.
“I will happily accept, My Lord.”
Changing out of his wet clothes and donning a fresh pair of breeches, muslin shirt, a cravat and a coat, Christopher pondered the idea that he could be damaging Miss Hanrahan’s reputation by engaging with her in private. Yet, the ton was not in the middle of the Atlantic with their judging eyes, either.
“Were we on land, she would have a chaperone, and the result would be the same,” he murmured. “We have a lovely conversation and that would be all.”
As it was unlikely his crew’s tongues would wag in the parts of London where her reputation might possibly be discussed, Christopher opened his cabin door and spoke as she stood just outside. “Before you enter, Miss Hanrahan,” he said. “I know to speak with me privately is against our society’s protocols. Naturally, I would never take advantage of your person, and all I wish for is your conversation.”
Miss Hanrahan chuckled. “Yes, it does go against everything I was raised on how to behave. Yet, how else am I to exist? Unless I remain secluded in my cabin for the next few weeks, which I will refuse to do, I have little choice but to be alone with you. As it is, I am alone on this vessel with how many men and weeks from port?”
Christopher grinned, and bowed. “Then please come in, and sit with me, if you will. I will leave the door open so that none on board will think ill of you.”
“You are very kind,” she replied, strolling past him as he stood aside to permit her entry.
Miss Hanrahan sat down, and immediately Henry jumped into her lap, purring. Pouring wine into cups, Christopher handed her one, then also sat. “I wish to say how much I appreciate your trust in me,” he said. “I am happy to have earned such trust in a very short time.”
Miss Hanrahan looked down as she stroked Henry’s fur. “You saved my life, My Lord,” she said softly. “You could easily have left me to drift on the sea, and not risk your crew’s regard by bringing a woman on board. You have treated me with kindness and respect.”
“No, I could not have left you to die in that dinghy,” he declared. “How dishonorable would that be? I may be the son of a Duke, and the captain of this vessel, but I am a gentleman first and foremost. Where would we be, if we as a people had no honor?”
She glanced up with a warm smile. “Not in a very good place at all.”
“I must admit,” Christopher said slowly. “I do enjoy your company. Very much so.”
“And I yours, My Lord.”
Clearing his throat delicately, he ventured, not sure what her reaction might be to his proposal. “I am wondering, Miss Hanrahan, if you would address me by my Christian name. Christopher.”
“Certainly.” Her smile widened. “If you, in turn, will call me Merial.”
“I will be happy to,” he replied, delighted, “Merial.”
“So, Christopher,” she asked, her light green eyes contrasting in an interesting fashion to her black hair and pale complexion, “how can we retrieve my lost memories?”
Chapter 6
Merial held her breath as Christopher frowned slightly, averting his eyes from hers as he thought. Though she had been honest with him when she told him her headaches had been reduced, she had not been forthcoming in telling him of her nightmares of flames, of the man shouting, or the horse galloping. Nor did she confess the sharp pains she received when odd flashes of images crossed her mind’s eye.
“Though I cannot truly say,” he replied slowly, “it had occurred to me to spend some time questioning you, to see if somehow your memory might be jolted.”
Henry nudged his way under her hand when she ceased petting him, thus she continued to stroke his rich fur. “We can try that,” she answered slowly. “What would you ask?”
He shrugged. “How about we start with the county where you were born?”
Trying to remember, Merial furrowed her brow. “I, I cannot—”
“What is your father’s name?”
She opened her mouth, feeling as though the name was right there, then it vanished. “I do not know.”
He sent question after question at her as Merial fought to answer them, faster and faster, as though by asking them quickly, she might be able to regain a lost memory. Her head began to ache fie
rcely as she fought to remember, to find the answers, to become the person she had lost. She clutched her wine cup, desperate to recall the details of her life.
“I cannot remember,” she cried, near tears, bending over the cat in her lap, holding Henry tightly to her.
“That is all right, Merial,” Christopher told her, his voice soothing. “Why do I not tell you of the wicked storm we endured last winter? We sailed the North Atlantic, and it was so cold the ice covered the rigging, and Henry refused to come out of my cabin. We almost lost two hands in that storm, but the Lord enabled us to rescue them.”
The Lost Countess That Counted Stars (Historical Regency Romance) Page 5