“I agree with him. We must not waste such a bounty. It is a sin as well as bad luck.”
Maurice cooked well into the night, it appeared, for fried fish was served along with the bread and bacon the following morning, and Merial had no objections whatsoever. “I love this. How often do you have your crew catch fish?”
“It depends,” he replied. “I cannot have them continually fishing, or they neglect their duties. But the crow’s nest watches for schools of fish as well as danger or other ships, so we catch some only when we see there is fish around.”
“I heard rumors that the crew is so happy to have this fare,” Merial commented.
Christopher gave her that boyish grin. “I also heard they are considering you an omen of good luck. We have had excellent fortune since you arrived.”
Merial’s hands once again turned a bright red, painful as she scrubbed pots and the floor. Maurice pressed a brown bottle into them. “Oil,” he said. “For hands.”
The oil soothed her sore hands and eased the redness, permitting her to continue helping him in the galley without pain. Working in there also increased her appetite, and Maurice committed the sin of sneaking her extra food. “You no tell,” he warned her, his eyes flashing. “I be whipped if M’lord knew.”
While she doubted Christopher would have him whipped for giving her extra food for working so hard, she refrained from mentioning it to him. And she also began refusing what Maurice offered. If taking extra food was a crime on board a ship, then she should not accept what the crew could not also enjoy.
“You are growing thin,” Christopher commented as they dined on the poop deck on yet another sunny, beautiful day. “And you were already slender to begin with.”
Not wanting Maurice to get into trouble, Merial ate her meal as delicately as possible while craving to gobble it down as she was so hungry. “I am fine,” she replied. “Do not be concerned.”
Rather than be persuaded, he frowned. “You are a guest on board my ship,” he said. “I cannot see you dropping weight when you have none to lose. I will speak to Gauthier about feeding you more.”
“No, please.” Merial glanced around to see if any of the crew were within listening range. “You must not. Taking extra food is a crime.”
“True enough,” he told her. “But it would not be stealing if I order it.”
“But the crew does not receive extra food. Thus, I should not.”
Christopher sat back to gaze at her with those pale blue eyes. “Then I will do this instead. Everyone eats three meals a day, correct? I will speak privately with Gauthier to increase your portion. For your health, of course.”
Merial did not like that, as it did not seem quite fair to her, but secretly she, too, worried about the loss of weight she had suffered. When she dined over the next few meals, she discovered larger portions of meat or fish, bread, fruits and vegetables, and lots of potatoes on her plate. She ate until she could hold no more, and her weight loss seemed to halt.
If Christopher were full, he insisted she eat what he could not, and oddly, Merial always found room for it. “I will get fat at this rate,” she joked one evening as they made the rounds of the ship.
“I cannot abide waste,” Christopher reminded her. “If you do not eat it, Henry will. Or it goes into the sea for the fish.”
“Then give it to the crew,” she protested. “I believe they also need it.”
“Believe me, Merial,” he said, “I never permit my crew to go hungry. They eat every scrap, and earn every bite. If they complain I am not feeding them enough, I increase their portions. Look around. Do any of them seem underweight to you? If so, I will demand they eat more.”
In truth, all the sailors appeared to have excellent flesh on their bones, and to be content in their work. Merial had often listened to them talk amongst themselves when they did not realize she was near, and never once did they ever say they did not get enough to eat.
“Only you, my dear Merial,” Christopher told her, “have lost weight under my command. That worries me.”
“Perhaps it is merely that I am performing manual labor for the first time in my life,” she said. “I am getting more exercise than ever before.”
“That may be so.” He glanced down at her. “That does not mean I like it.”
“We do not always get what we want,” Merial replied loftily with a grin. “You truly must cease being so stuffy, Christopher.”
He opened his mouth to answer, but was interrupted by the shout from the crow’s nest.
“Ahoy there, Cap’n,” the sailor bellowed, pointing. “Sharks.”
Chapter 7
Christopher watched the circling sharks from the bow, Merial at his right, Mayhew at his left. Henry rubbed against his shins, purring, and in a moment of unease, he picked the cat up. The sharks, perhaps a dozen of them, seemed to be following the ship. Christopher’s gut clenched in worry. Not because he truly believed that a shark following a ship meant death, but that his crew did.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Mayhew make a sign against evil, and snatch a lightning glance at Merial. “They will go away soon,” he said, trying to make his voice light.
Turning, he found all the sailors within his sight staring either at the sharks or at Merial.
“Get to work,” he roared, furious. “I catch any man shirking his duties, he will be flogged forthwith.”
The crew hastily ran back to their duties, yet he still caught many fingers making the sign against evil, their eyes showing white. He turned back to find Merial’s expression concerned, and he found a smile to reassure her.
“They’re just sharks,” he said. “Perhaps drawn by the scent of the bilge.”
He inwardly winced at the lie he just told her, as sharks were drawn by blood in the water, not the bilge. She seemed to accept it, however, and turned back to watch the circling sharks. He glared at Mayhew, who had opened his mouth as though to correct him. Mayhew snapped his mouth closed hastily, and turned to bellow his own orders, and used that as an excuse to leave Christopher’s side.
“They are unlucky, are they not?” she asked, staring at the creatures with their dorsal fins cutting the water. “They do not scent the bilge, do they?”
Christopher sighed. “No, they do not. And yes, they are seen as an omen of death.”
“I suppose the crew believes I summoned them.” Merial watched the grey fins pacing the Valkyrie. “What can I do to persuade them I am not evil?”
“You cannot, Merial,” he told her gently. “The superstitions will come when they will. Once the sharks depart, then something will occur to make them believe you are a symbol of good luck. Like the fishing and the dolphins. Then they will view something else as a bad omen, and we start the cycle again.”
She gazed at him solemnly. “So there is nothing I can do?”
“I fear not.”
To add to the sailors’ nervousness, the sharks followed them all day before vanishing at sunset. Christopher hovered on deck, keeping a watchful eye on the men as they set the sails for the night, then went below for their evening meal and dram of rum. Mayhew served Christopher and Merial in Christopher’s quarters, his eyes not meeting Merial’s as he placed their plates of salted beef, peas, bread, and a hard oat cake in front of them, never once looking at Merial.
He knuckled his brow before he left, where once he might have offered her a small bow and a smile.
They have gone back to thinking of her as a bad omen.
“I hope we run into schools of fish again,” he told her lightly. “I could do with some fresh seafood, even though we just had plenty.”
Merial did not return his smile. She ate with downcast eyes and little appetite, and did not even finish her meal. Sipping her wine, she pushed her plate away. “I am sorry,” she murmured. “I know it is wasteful, but I just cannot finish it.”
“It is a good thing I am still quite hungry,” Christopher answered, taking her uneaten oatcake from her plate. “The beef
may be too salty for Henry, but he likes bread.”
Henry munched down the slender bit of bread Merial offered him, and she then wrapped her salted beef in a napkin. “Perhaps I will eat it in my cabin later,” she told him, still not looking up.
Christopher wanted to reach across the table and take her hand, but that went beyond the bounds of propriety, even for their situation. “Merial, things will change,” he told her softly. “We will receive a fresh, good omen, and you will be in their good graces again.”
“And if the bad things continue?” she asked, finally meeting his gaze. “Will they throw me into the sea?”
He scowled at the very idea. “No. None of them will resort to murder. Stay with Gauthier as much as possible. He is less superstitious, and he likes you. As do I.”
Merial offered him the ghost of a smile. “I will retire now, Christopher. Good night.”
He noticed Henry following her to her cabin, and Merial closed him in with her. Striding up to the deck, he ordered a sailor to remove the empty plates from his quarters, then paced angrily on his rounds. At the helm, he studied both the stars and the compass, but failed to inform the helmsman he did a good job as he usually did.
Knowing it would be hours before he could sleep, Christopher spent time on the poop deck, watching the moon and the stars above, praying for a good omen that would lift the men’s spirits. He felt comforted by praying, and the light breeze pushed the Valkyrie ever closer to England. He pondered that for a while, pacing the deck, wondering about that moment.
When they docked in London, Merial would leave to find her family, and Christopher would unload his current cargo, reload with the next cargo and supplies, then sail on the next tide.
I may never see her again.
That notion bothered him a great deal, for he had become attached to her. Exactly how attached he had become in the short week since he had known her, he was not sure.
Did he simply like her for her company? Did he just enjoy looking at her beauty? Was he fascinated by her curiosity as she absorbed the sea-faring life? What exactly was it that he wanted to have continue?
Christopher did not know.
It was well past midnight when he decided he should try to get some sleep. Striding down the companionway, past Merial’s cabin, he heard her cry out in terror. Fearing one of the crew had indeed attempted to solve the problem of her presence on board, he opened the door to her chamber. Though it was nearly full dark inside with only the faint glow of a lantern offering a small amount of illumination, he saw she was not under attack.
Rather, she thrashed on her bunk, sweat and tears covering her face. As he stood there, appalled and confused, he heard her cry out, “Go. Run. Get to the ship.” Immediately upon the heels of that, she yelled, “No, Papa, no.”
Merial arched her back in the throes of her nightmare, tears running down her cheeks as whatever she witnessed in her dream caused her both terror and grief. Pity and worry filled him as he gently closed the door, and leaned against it, watching her.
I should not be in here, spying on her as she sleeps.
Merial uttered a short, sharp scream that sent chills down his back, and he immediately went to her side.
Henry sat upon the bunk near her, and now Christopher understood why the cat remained with her through the night. Though she still slept, contorted under her blanket, he drew her into his arms. Merial shrieked three words, “They are coming!” and then woke.
“Easy now,” he soothed, his voice in her ear as she panicked upon finding herself caught within the strength of his arms. “It is me, it is Christopher. You are safe, Merial, I promise you are safe.”
She broke down into sobs, clinging to him as though she were drowning, weeping, even as he droned nonsense words into her ear. She shivered as though caught in an ice storm, yet the room felt warm enough to him. He caught Henry’s eyes as the cat watched with an odd knowledge in those golden orbs.
At long last, Merial’s storm of weeping shuddered away into fits and starts. “I am so sorry,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “I woke you.”
“No,” he murmured, stroking her hair. “I was awake. I passed your cabin and heard you cry out. You had a nightmare?”
She nodded against his shoulder, then straightened. Instantly, Christopher let his arms fall away from her, since she stiffened against the improper touching between them. To offer her greater physical and emotional distance, he scooted along the bunk away from her.
“Will you tell me about it?” he asked.
Merial clutched the blanket tightly to her, her eyes watching him warily. “I do not remember much,” she answered, her voice low. “A fire. Me on a galloping horse. Someone shouting at me.”
“From what I heard from you,” he said, his tone mild, “I am guessing that was your father.”
Merial lifted her face. “What did I say?”
He quoted, “’Go. Run. Get to the ship’.”
She nodded. “Though I barely remember it, I keep hearing those words in my dreams. What else?”
“Then you cried, ‘Papa, no, Papa’, and after that, ‘They are coming’.”
He watched as she gazed blankly into the near darkness, observing her need, her desperation to remember.
“I fear you are remembering your father placing you on the ship for your protection,” he said gently. “Then he died by fire.”
Merial shuddered. “I am terrified you are right, Christopher,” she replied, her voice shaking. “If my father is dead, what of my mother? Do I have brothers? Sisters? Where are they? What did I mean by ‘they are coming’?”
He reached for her trembling hand and clasped it in his own. “Time will relay all that to you,” he told her, his voice soft, compassionate. “You need not be afraid at the moment. You are safe, and I will protect you.”
Her fingers squeezed his. “Can you protect me from grief?” she asked. “From the past?”
“No,” he answered. “You know I cannot. But once we reach port, I will put all my family resources into finding out what happened to your family. If your father died by violent means, London will know about it.”
“Who could have killed him?” she asked, then instantly added, “Do not answer that. Of course you would not know.”
“No,” he replied, “I would not. But I will keep you safe on board my ship, and I will deliver you safely into the hands of any family you still have.”
“Thank you, Christopher,” Merial said, her lips curving into a small smile. “Please know you have brought me great comfort this night.”
“Can you sleep now?” he asked. “I will bring you wine if it will help you to return to slumber.”
She hesitated, then said, “If it will not be any trouble, then yes, I would like to have a bit of wine. Especially if you will join me.”
Christopher stood. “I will return in a few moments.”
Leaving her cabin, he went to his own, and poured wine into two goblets. When he returned, Merial had seated herself in a chair and wrapped the blanket around her like a covering robe. She had also turned the wick of the lamp up, and caressed Henry’s ears, who now perched in her lap.
“My Lady,” he said with a grin, offering her a cup.
“Thank you, My Lord,” she replied, smiling.
He took the other chair, gazing at her drawn cheeks and hollow eyes. “More than ever,” he began, “I am of the belief the trauma and grief you have suffered is why you are not remembering what happened. Your mind is afraid to face it, is hiding from the truth, yet expresses it in your dreams.”
Merial nodded, gazing at her cup. “I have not told you about the nightmares,” she admitted. “I apologize for keeping them from you.”
“As far as I am concerned,” Christopher replied lightly, “a person’s dreams are their own affair, and not to be spoken of. That is your privacy.”
She actually chuckled. “Please inform my sense of guilt of that.”
Christopher bent forward, staring inten
tly into her eyes. “Be not guilty for having bad dreams,” he intoned, hoping for a laugh. He received it.
“Oh, stop,” Merial choked, laughing. “I feel much better now.”
“Good,” he replied, grinning, “I would hate to put your guilt in the brig for harassing you.”
“Can you do that? Put a person’s conscience in the brig, in chains?”
“I have no idea,” he replied lightly. “I would like to try, however. It might make for a fascinating discovery.”
Rewarded by more laughter, Christopher felt that she would be all right now. Though now would be the proper time to bow and leave her, he did not want to. Nor did her expression or demeanor appear to demand it. Quite the opposite, Merial’s attitude seemed to warrant his staying in her cabin with her, with the ship’s cat as a chaperone.
The Lost Countess That Counted Stars (Historical Regency Romance) Page 7