Tossed back and forth again, Merial went back to Christopher’s cabin, hearing Henry crying frantically from beyond the walls in hers. Wishing she could let him come with her to Christopher, she did not dare open the door. She could not bear it if he bolted to the upper decks and was washed overboard.
Christopher turned his head as she, staggering back and forth, entered his cabin. “Is he alive?”
“Yes. He may have a broken leg. Have you any laudanum?”
With a weak gesture, Christopher pointed. “In that cabinet there.”
Finding the heavy brown bottle, Merial carefully poured a healthy dollop into a cup, rocking both back and forth with every sway of the ship. She added wine, then made her way to him. “You will need some.”
He waved her away. “Johns first.”
Making sure both the bottle and the wine could not tip over, Merial carefully crept across his cabin and back into the companionway without spilling a drop of the mixture. Johns glanced at her as she entered, and carefully sat up.
“Drink it all,” she said, sitting down beside him, carefully helping him to hold the cup.
Some of the mixture trickled down his chin as he drank, but enough got into him to help through the first of his pain. Setting the cup on the floor where it slid from one wall to the other, Merial helped him to lay back down.
“Are you cold?” she asked.
“Nay, M’lady,” he answered. “I be wet through, but warm enough.”
Though she barely knew the man, much less held an affection for him, Merial brushed some of his lank hair across his brow. “Get some sleep.”
Retrieving the cup, she bounced off the companionway walls as she headed back to Christopher, Henry’s wails hurting her heart. Steeling herself against them, she ignored him, and found Christopher lying on his bunk with his eyes closed.
Fear clutching at her throat, her heart pounding, she crossed the cabin as quickly as she could. Christopher opened them as she grabbed his hand. “Johns?”
“I gave him laudanum,” she replied, relief spreading through her like hot fingers. “He seems all right for the time being.”
“Good.” Christopher closed his eyes again.
Thinking she should get up and concoct laudanum and wine for him as well, Merial sat for a moment. “What you did was incredibly brave,” she murmured. “You saved his life.”
“He is one of those who cannot swim.” A small smile quirked Christopher’s lips. “I can.”
A chuckle fought to escape Merial, but she fought it down. “You could have died alongside him.”
“There was that possibility,” Christopher agreed, not opening his eyes. “But it was a chance I willingly took. I could not just turn my back and let him drown. Not when there was a chance, however slim, to save him.”
“So he is alive thanks to you,” Merial said, smiling. “An admirable deed this day, My Lord. Now, perhaps you should sleep with a little help from Lady Laudanum.”
“I do not mind if I do,” he answered.
Rising unsteadily, Merial staggered back and forth with every yaw of the ship, hoping the storm would end soon. “Christopher and Johns cannot get the help they need with that thing still howling,” she muttered.
Pouring another dollop of laudanum into a cup, she added wine, knowing the two would mix as she lurched her way back to Christopher. He could not sit up as Johns had, but drop by drop, Merial poured the mixture down his throat.
“Lord have mercy, that is nasty.” Christopher grimaced, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“I can fetch you water to wash it down with,” she offered.
Christopher shook his head. “No. Please. Sit here with me for a while. Your presence brings me much comfort.”
Merial held his hand in hers, watching his face for long minutes as the laudanum took effect. His eyes finally closed, and his breathing evened out, and she knew he slept. Tucking the blankets around him, Merial rose from the bunk’s edge, and carefully made her way topside.
The wind-driven waves had not ceased as cold rain pelted down. Though she had not had a chance to fully dry, she had not felt this chilled until now. Balancing precariously, she lurched from side to side, salt spray lashing her from all sides, as she reached the bow. Mayhew turned, astounded to find her at his side.
“M’lady?”
“Both the captain and Johns are asleep,” she told him, raising her voice to be heard over the howling gale and the sea. “I gave them laudanum.”
“Very good, M’lady,” he shouted back. “You should be below, for your own protection.”
“I had to see how the ship and the crew are doing.”
He grinned, a vicious expression that held no humor and much savagery within it. “This storm cannae beat the Valkyrie,” he shouted, his accent stronger. “We be runnin’ before it, and we wi’ outlast it.”
Taking a moment to gaze out at the huge grey waves, and the ship climbing each crest before diving down into the valleys between, Merial gripped the railing. With the rain almost blinding her, she glimpsed the sails above, the masts showing no signs of weakening, the crew manning their posts with courage.
“We will beat this storm, by God,” she cried, a ferocious joy filling her. “Nothing can beat an angel of the gods.”
Mayhew laughed aloud. “You have it right, M’lady,” he yelled. “With you beside us, we can sail anywhere, through anything.”
She matched his triumphant grin, then lifted her right hand. Mayhew clasped it within his powerful grip, and Merial spared a moment to wonder if he would still be afraid of women after this. She dipped her chin in a nod to him, then slipped, slid, and lurched her way back down below.
Shivering uncontrollably, Merial carefully entered her own cabin, making sure Henry did not get out past her. He greeted her with sharp cries, rubbing against her ankles and threatening to pitch her headlong to the floor.
“Henry,” she gasped, picking him up and setting him on the bed. “Give me a moment.”
Stripping out of her wet outfit, she dried herself as best she could, then donned her only other set of clothes, her shift and her gown. Spreading her shirt and trousers where they could dry when the storm ended, Merial picked Henry up and cuddled him.
His loud purring almost drowned out the sound of the storm outside, and she lay back on the bed. Covering them both with the blanket, she tried to still her shivers as she huddled her body around the cat. He worked his way up to bump his face against hers, her arm around him.
“I am sorry I had to abandon you in here,” she murmured as he could not seem to stop rubbing his face against hers. “It was for your own safety, you know.”
At last soothed by her presence, Henry curled up within her arms. Finally, warm and comfortable, even with the tossing of the ship, Merial thought to only lie there. She doubted she could sleep, not with Christopher hurt and the Valkyrie still in danger, but she found herself drifting off despite her worries.
The lack of violent tossing woke her. Turning her head, she saw only grey through the porthole, but it appeared the worst of the storm was over. Sitting up, wondering what time it was, Merial cut her yawn off short. Christopher. As her shirt and trousers were far from dry, she all but ran from her cabin and into his garbed in her gown.
There, she found Mayhew and the crewman, Pierce, at Christopher’s bunk. “How is he?” she asked, hurrying forward, squashing her guilt for having slept.
Mr. Mayhew knuckled his brow with a grin. “He be fine, M’lady,” he told her. “Pierce says his ribs be bent, but nae broke.”
“Aye,” Mr. Pierce said as Merial peered over his shoulder and discovered Christopher still slept. “He be up and around in a day or two.”
“And Johns?” she asked, finding that they had undressed Christopher and clad him in a dressing gown.
“I be going there next, M’lady,” Mr. Pierce said, standing, and knuckling his brow while offering her a small bow.
“Thank you.” Merial had
no idea what to say or do, as she was not in charge here, yet feeling as though they expected her to be.
Mr. Pierce left the captain’s cabin for the smaller one belonging to Mayhew, yet the first mate lingered to smile at her. “Ye be our blessed luck, M’lady,” he murmured, bending to kiss her hand.
“I really do not think I am,” she tried to protest.
“Aye, ye are, whether ye think so or nae. We be lost without ye.”
After sending her a wink, Mayhew left the cabin to help Pierce set Johns’ leg. Mystified, Merial sat beside Christopher, and rested her hand on his brow. He had no fever, and slept quietly with no signs of pain. Henry leaped up to sniff Christopher’s face.
“Yes, you rascal,” she said sternly. “He needs you now. I am going to help with breakfast. Or whatever meal it is now, as I have no idea what time of day it is.”
She found Maurice cursing as he threw pans on the stove and tried to light a flame within it.
“What is wrong?” she asked.
“That cursed storm did wet everything in here,” he snapped. “I no cook this day.”
Merial took the flint and steel from him. “Just calm down, Maurice. I am hungry, and I am certainly not the only one. So we will cook something.”
She got the fire lit in the stove under his astonished eyes, and together they fried more sailfish, wet from saltwater but still good, adding onions and herbs to the hot oil. Merial cut potatoes and onions into a huge pot of water while Maurice, now singing a merry tune, made biscuits.
Merial doled out slabs of fried fish, biscuits, and potatoes to the men lining up with their plates, ignoring her own hunger. The Valkyrie rode the storm-driven waves under the brisk wind, Merial maintaining her balance as easily as the sailors. They knuckled their brows and thanked her as they accepted their food before bearing their laden plates away.
At last, she sat on a stool at a table with Maurice to devour her own meal, listening to the wind murmuring through the lines, the sound of the waves lashing the hull. Mr. Mayhew and Mr. Pierce appeared in the galley, and Merial smiled as she stood up to fill plates for them.
“How are the Captain and Johns?” she asked, handing them their food.
“The Cap’n is awake, yet a wee bit groggy,” Mr. Mayhew replied, gazing hungrily at his plate. “Johns still be asleep and his leg be set.”
“Will he be all right?”
“In time, M’lady, but he be on his back fer a long while.”
“I will help look—”
“Mr. Mayhew, sir,” came a voice calling down the stairs, “ye be needed on the bow, sir, straight away.”
Merial watched as Mr. Mayhew frowned, and handed the plate back to her. “What be happening now, I wonder,” she heard him grumble under his breath as he turned away.
Setting the plate down, Merial followed him, rapidly climbing the steps to the deck. Several crewmen stood at the bow, pointing and staring, talking amongst themselves as Mr. Mayhew strode toward them. The chilly wind still blew under low grey clouds, but the seas had calmed considerably as she crossed the deck.
“The storm sank her,” she heard one of the crew say as she came up behind them.
“Aye, she be broken tae pieces.”
Reaching the bow, Merial gaped in horror.
Chapter 12
Lying in his bunk, Christopher tried to make himself get up.
His chest aching fiercely, he still tasted the laudanum on his tongue, and craved a long cool drink of water. But his only company was the cat, curled up and sleeping soundly at his side. If he wanted anything, it would appear he needed to get it himself.
“Get up, you lout,” he muttered at himself, and slowly sat up, cursing at the fresh wash of pain.
He did not think his ribs were broken, even though they felt as though they had been smashed with a hammer. A swift glance down showed him massive black and purple bruising where the rope had cut into him and from when he had slammed into the hull. Standing took a greater effort, but once he was up, things grew easier.
Just as he finished dressing, he heard shouts and the sound of running feet on the decks above him. “This cannot be anything good,” he muttered, striding as quickly as his pain would let him out of his cabin.
Much of his crew, as well as Merial, stood at the bow, gazing out at the sea. Christopher needed no prescience to tell him what they gaped at, pointed to, and talked about. He knew without being told that a ship had not survived the storm.
The Valkyrie swept through a wide expanse of floating debris. Barrels, spars, pieces of canvas, ropes, bits of clothing, and much more bobbed on the waves as the ship passed among them. Christopher stared at the wreckage, and slowly crossed himself, reciting a small prayer for the dead.
“Oh, my God,” he heard Merial whisper. “What happened, Mr. Mayhew?” Christopher heard her voice shake.
He glanced toward her in sympathy, none knowing Christopher stood behind them. “She couldn’t withstand the storm, M’lady,” he replied. “No doubt she sank with all hands.”
“Oh, no,” she whispered, staring out at the dorsal fins and tails that swam effortlessly among the remains of what had once been a sailing vessel much like the one they were on. “Are they all dead?”
“Let us hope some survived.”
Merial and the others spun around at the sound of his voice, his crew knuckling their brows. Christopher observed their pale flesh, many hands holding sacred objects to ward off evil as well as to pray for the dead. He walked closer to Merial, gazing past her to what remained of a sailing vessel, and knew how that could have been his ship. Their deaths.
“Christopher,” Merial began, clearly terrified. Perhaps the sinking of this ship caused dreadful memories to surface, but Christopher could offer her little comfort. Rather than speak, he rested his hand on hers as she clutched the gunwale.
“Mr. Mayhew,” he said, not taking his eyes from the scene.
“Aye, M’lord?”
“Keep a sharp watch,” Christopher told him, his eyes scanning the spars, the ropes for evidence that the storm was not responsible for this catastrophe. “Survivors may have reached boats.”
“Aye, M’lord.”
“Could someone have survived this?” Merial asked, her hazel eyes expressing more of her fear than her voice did.
“Anything is possible,” he replied, gently squeezing her hand. “Survivors may have reached the dinghies, or the long boats, before she sank.”
Studying the remains, Christopher saw no evidence the ship had caught fire before sinking. None of the floating wood bore blackened or charred markings, and the ropes were broken, not burned. “She may have taken a wave wrong,” he murmured as the Valkyrie passed amidst chairs, one of the masts with its end splintered, and the endlessly swimming sharks. “Broke apart upon striking the trough.”
“Oh, no.”
He could not take his eyes off the sharks as he heard Merial murmur a prayer. Anyone who was not dragged to the bottom of the sea when the ship sank had no doubt been killed by the sharks. Christopher suppressed a shudder as he thought about their deaths, and how it could have been his ship and crew. And Merial.
Mayhew appeared at his side. “Should we salvage anything, M’lord?”
Christopher shook his head. “There is nothing there worth risking lives for, Mr. Mayhew. I will not expose the men to the sharks without good cause.”
“Very good, M’lord.”
He felt Merial’s eyes on his face, studying him. “Perhaps you should be lying down,” she murmured.
“Later.” He tried to smile at her. “I needed some food and water, and came on deck to find this.”
“Mr. Pierce said you did not break any bones,” she said, staring out at the debris as the Valkyrie sailed on through it and left it behind. “You were very lucky.”
“Perhaps you brought me the same luck you brought my vessel and crew.” Christopher suggested with a real smile.
Merial shook her head. “Why do you not retur
n to your cabin? I will bring you what you need.”
“I must stay on deck and observe,” he replied, turning, and taking her with him as he did not let go of her hand. “But I will sit down and permit you to bring me something.”
Merial moved slowly at his side as he limped to a bench built into a bulwark and carefully sat down with a sigh. Merial left his side to go below to the galley while he gazed at the set of the sails, the rigging, the crew working tirelessly even as others stood with spyglasses to their eyes. Finding nothing amiss with the ship, Christopher let himself relax a fraction.
Merial appeared with a tray laden with a plate of food, a jug of water, utensils and a napkin. He smiled up at her as she set it on the bench beside him. “I fear I am going to disgrace myself and dine with no table manners,” he told her with a small grin. “And no table.”
The Lost Countess That Counted Stars (Historical Regency Romance) Page 11