“I will refrain from watching you,” she replied, answering his grin. “I would like to look for survivors as well.”
“If that is what you wish, please feel free.”
Merial borrowed a spyglass and leaned against the gunwale on the starboard side, peering through it. Christopher continued to inspect his crew’s activities as he ate ravenously, finding little to complain about after what the Valkyrie had been through. The food did little to assuage his pain, yet he felt better for having eaten.
After sending his empty plate and utensils back to the galley, Christopher strode on his rounds, the cup of water in his hand. After being contained in barrels for these many weeks, it had begun to taste brackish, yet was still good. At the wheel, he checked their heading, and was satisfied with what he saw.
“We should reach England in two weeks if the wind holds fair,” he said to the helmsman.
“Aye, Cap’n.”
“Ho, to port,” yelled the lookout in the crow’s nest. “A dinghy, Cap’n, ten degrees.”
As his own spyglass was in his cabin, Christopher swore under his breath and hurried to the port side. From the corner of his eye, he saw Merial leave her post on the starboard side to run across the deck. As did Mayhew and the others on watch upon hearing the shout from above them.
“May I use that?” he asked as she joined him.
Without a word, she handed the cylindrical object to him, and it took him a moment to locate what the crow’s nest had seen. Two men waving wildly, their mouths open in silent shouts, trying to gain the ship’s attention.
“It appears we have survivors,” Christopher commented, lowering the glass. “Ten degrees to port.”
“Ten degrees to port, aye,” called Mayhew. “Prepare to come about.”
“Slow us down, Mr. Mayhew. They seem healthy enough, so lower the ladder and let us hope they can grab on and climb.”
The Valkyrie slowed her headlong pace as the great sails were lowered, her bow now pointed toward the two in the small boat. He glanced sidelong at Merial as he pondered her rescue not so very long ago. Yet, it almost seemed a lifetime.
“Steady as she goes,” he called, lifting the glass to his eye as he witnessed the clear joy in the antics of the sailors trapped on the dinghy.
“Steady as she goes, aye.”
The big ship slowed almost to a crawl, wallowing ponderously in the waves as she approached the tiny boat.
“Tell them to grab the ladder, Mr. Mayhew,” Christopher ordered, not needing the glass to witness the event now. Merial watched in fascination as the Valkyrie bore down upon the two men, Mayhew relaying his orders. The sailors reached for the ladder at the same time, as there would be no second chances.
“They have it,” Merial exclaimed as the ship dragged them through the water while they clung to the slender rope ladder. Mayhew leaned over the gunwale, calling instructions down to them. One went first, creeping up the ladder while the other stayed behind, still catching the backwash of the ship in the face until the first had gotten out of the way.
Christopher breathed easier once both made their steady way up the hull to the gunwale. He grinned at Merial. “We saved lives today,” he said, “for they may have died from the sun and the lack of water before another ship came along.”
“I am very glad of it,” she replied, her eyes dancing as she gazed up at him.
She turned to watch as the two were assisted over the gunwale and onto the deck. Christopher strode forward, Merial at his side and slightly behind him as the two laughed with joy, shaking hands with their rescuers, talking with excitement. The talk and laughter ceased as he approached.
“Welcome aboard the Valkyrie,” he told them. “I am the captain of this vessel, Lord Buckthorn.”
The two doffed their caps and knuckled their brows while his own crew stood in a half circle around them, watching. Then their happy expressions drained from their faces, their eyes grew wide, and their jaws dropped. Christopher glanced aside to see Merial staring at them with narrowed eyes, as she clearly recognized their shock.
“This is Her Ladyship, Lady Hanrahan,” Christopher went on, his voice hardening. “A guest.”
Christopher glanced at her and tried to see her through their eyes. Small and beautiful, her gold gown contrasting sharply with her black hair, falling loose over her shoulders and down her back. The wind lifted tendrils of it, and he knew what she was thinking—the crew accepted her, and now she would be forced to deal with new men and fresh superstitions.
“What are your names?” Christopher demanded, annoyed.
They tore their gazes from Merial, and back to him. “Uh, I be John Benson, Cap’n,” replied the taller fellow with dirty blond hair plastered to his skull, brown eyes, and a scar down his right cheek. “Former bosun’s mate aboard the White Gull.”
“I be Robert Daunger, Cap’n,” said the other, reddish of hair and freckles over his pale flesh, his bright green eyes flicking to Merial and back to Christopher, never still. “Also formerly of the White Gull.”
“Where are you from?” Christopher asked. “What was your cargo and where were you bound?”
“Sailed from Southampton, Cap’n,” Daunger answered, “cargo of wool and fine porcelain from London, and bound for New York. The Cap’n, he never listened to his first mate, sir, and didn’t order the sails lowered for the storm.”
“It ripped the masts straight off, it did,” added Benson. “Ship sank in minutes, sir, but some made it to the boats. The Gull took the boats down with her, sir, but me and Daunger, we rowed far enough away.”
“The sharks got anyone who jumped free, sir.” Daunger’s eyes went to Merial again, and Christopher wanted to smash the air of superstitious fear from the man’s expression.
“Her Ladyship did not cause your ship to sink,” he snapped, his pain adding to his fury. “That was clearly the fault of your captain, who should never have been given the command of a ship in the first place. Now you will pay her the respect she deserves or you can swim back to England.”
Both hastily bowed, knuckling their brows, their flesh pasty white. Merial nodded to them coolly, and even Mayhew scowled darkly at their backs.
“You will join my crew,” Christopher continued, his voice cold, “and work for your bread and rum. Once we dock in London, you will be paid a portion of what you might have earned for a full voyage. I am sorry about the tragedy you endured and the loss of your shipmates. No doubt you can collect the rest of your wages from the ship’s owner. Mr. Mayhew is the first mate on board, and he will see you quartered and give orders to you on your duties.”
Both bowed again, knuckling their brows, then Mayhew ushered them like a dog with a flock of sheep to below decks, and Christopher expelled much of his anger with a gust of breath. Then he winced and rubbed his sore ribs at the sharp stab of pain lancing through his chest. “I am sorry, Merial.”
She glanced up at him, and for the longest time she did not smile, only stared into his eyes. Then a wan expression crossed her features, and her lips curved upward. “Do not apologize for saving their lives.”
“It is not that,” he said, floundering, trying to explain. “It is just that—I do not know what I am trying to say.”
She took his hand. “What you are trying to say is this, ‘Merial, I have a strong need to lie down on my bunk.’ Do I have it correctly?”
He dared not laugh for certain that would catch his ribs on fire. “Why, you do have the straight of it. I believe I will lie down for a while.”
“Good.” She tugged on his hand and led him toward the steps that would take them below. “You need to rest, for if there is another emergency, we need you strong and hale.”
“Mayhew did quite well in my absence, did he not?” Christopher asked, following her. “He brought us through the storm intact with no loss of life.” He glanced around at the crew they passed, seeing their smiles and knuckled brows, many of them aimed at Merial.
“It was you who preven
ted the loss of life,” she commented. “At high risk to your own. Mr. Mayhew is an experienced sailor, and has earned his place as your first mate.”
She paused at her cabin, and gazed up at him. “Now I will change, if my trousers and shirt are dry, and hope the newcomers will stop seeing me as a dreadful danger.”
Christopher traced his finger lightly down her cheek. “Come wake me if anything untoward happens.”
“I will. Now get some rest.”
* * *
After eating, and sleeping through the rest of the afternoon and through the night, Christopher woke to bright sunshine the following morning. The pain of his injuries had died nearly to a whisper as he washed and dressed, and he felt fortunate that he always healed quickly. He shaved carefully in the looking glass, and wanted to look in on Johns as well as take a turn around the vessel before breakfast.
Johns, sitting up in the bunk with his broken leg wrapped stiffly, gave him a gap-toothed grin and knuckled his brow as Christopher entered. “How are you, sailor?” he asked, returning the man’s grin. “You look well.”
“Aye, Cap’n, thanks to ye. Ye saved me life, ye did.”
Christopher shrugged. “You did not know how to swim, lad. Someone had to fetch you out.”
A harsh throat clearing from behind him made Christopher turn. Merial stood there, faintly scowling, with a tray of food and a pot of tea as well as water on it, and he realized he filled the cabin doorway. She had garbed herself once again in the shirt and trousers, her black braid hanging down her shoulder.
“This man needs his nourishment, Captain,” she snapped. “Do you want to let him wither away and die of hunger while you chat with him to no end?”
Christopher heard Johns chuckle as he stepped aside with a bow, realizing she could not enter while he stood there. “I thought one of the crew might tend to him,” he said lamely.
Merial set the tray down on Johns lap, then fussed at him. “You eat every bite, Mr. Johns,” she ordered, “and drink the tea. Maurice says it will ease your pain and help you rest.”
“Aye, M’lady.”
Christopher cocked his head to the side at the tone of warm affection and respect in both of their voices. It had only been a few days since Johns tried to convince Mayhew and Pierce that she was a danger to the ship. What had changed?
Merial turned and set her hands to her hips, gazing up, scowling. “And you are well enough to be up and about?” she asked, her tone cool.
He heard Johns snicker, yet he could take no offense. Not when it was clear the crew had grown fond of Merial, and clearly enjoyed their banter. “In fact, I am. Will you have breakfast with me this fine morning, My Lady?”
She huffed. “I suppose, as I have yet to eat, busy as I have been in feeding the crew while you slumbered.”
He grinned as she ducked passed him and up the companionway, then glanced back at Johns. “You, er, you like having Her Ladyship on board now, Mr. Johns?”
“Oh, aye, Cap’n,” he replied. “She done blessed this ship, she did. She be our lucky omen.”
“And all the crew feel as you do?”
“Aye, I think so. Without her, we all be lost, Cap’n.”
“I see. Do as she says, sailor, and get better.”
“Aye, Cap’n.”
On deck and making his rounds, he found the two newcomers busy with their duties and making friends among his crew. They saluted him with respect as he passed, working with an industriousness that impressed him. With Johns taking weeks, if not months, to heal from his broken leg, Christopher needed the extra hands to replace him.
He waved to Merial seated at the table on the poop deck, but spent a moment conversing with Mayhew. Satisfied that all was well with the ship, the sails were set properly, and the heading they were on would take them to England, he finally strode to the upper deck.
“Greetings, My Lady,” he said, bowing over her hand like a medieval courtier and kissing it. “You look lovely this morning.”
Merial blushed, grinning, and even though she wore a man’s garb, he did not lie. “I am so glad you are healing well, Christopher.”
He sat down as Maurice served them both breakfast, and Henry jumped up on the table to stare at them from his golden eyes in the hopes that would make them feel guilty and feed him.
“Bruised ribs are far better than broken,” he replied with a grin. “Were they broken, I fear I would spend the rest of the voyage in bed. Like Johns.”
“I am sure he does not mind,” she chuckled, cutting into her fish. “Though I expect that after a few days, he will crave to be out of there.”
“I believe we have some crutches around here someplace,” Christopher added. “He may not be able to work much, but put him in the bow with a spyglass and he can earn his keep.”
“He is a sweet man.”
Startled, Christopher peered at her, wondering if she knew of his previous animosity toward her.
Of course she did. But she will not bear him a grudge now that he acknowledges he was wrong about her.
He gave Henry a piece of fish, and ate his breakfast with appetite.
The cat chewed his treat with delicacy, licking his whiskers while he waited for more. Merial gave him fish as well as bacon, and Christopher made no objection as Henry certainly earned his keep. Even if half the rats he killed had to be thrown overboard as he was not hungry enough to eat them.
Christopher made to offer Henry bacon, but the cat jumped off the table. Thinking him full, Christopher thought no more about it until the cat’s wailing started. He gazed at Merial in surprise, then bent to look at the cat pacing under the table.
“Henry? What is wrong?”
In answer, the black cat cried and paced, his tail lashing, often bumping into his ankles. Straightening, Christopher gazed at Merial in rising alarm. “Another storm?”
“I do not know,” she answered before diving under the table and seizing a hold of Henry.
After she placed him on the table, the cat stared westward, past their wake, his tail slashing from side to side in clear agitation. Though she tried to bait him with fish, Henry ignored it, and continued to stare over the sea, meowing softly. Merial stroked the fur down his back in an effort to calm him, but he did not stop his crying.
Drawn by the noise, Mayhew climbed to the poop deck. “M’lord?”
“We may have another storm chasing us, Mr. Mayhew,” Christopher told him crisply. “I want a watch set on the west. Something is coming from that direction.”
“Aye, M’lord.”
Christopher caught Merial’s worried eyes. “Are storms this time of year common?” she asked.
“We will have storms all year,” he admitted. “But one right after the other like this is odd. I am not saying impossible, just unusual.”
“If he is not predicting a storm,” she asked, her eyes on the cat, “what else could it be?”
“I have no idea.”
Deep inside, Christopher feared he did indeed know.
Chapter 13
The brisk wind continued through the day, the sun bright and the sea calm. The Valkyrie made good time, with dolphins rising, playing and plunging in their wake. Two sailors endlessly scanned the horizon to the west, even as Henry quieted his meows, but refused to go below. He hunted no rats, and when one ambled insolently across the deck in front of him, he made no move to catch and kill it.
“Something is terribly wrong,” Christopher murmured to Merial after seeing that. “But I do not smell bad weather or rain.”
“Do you always sense the storms coming?” she asked.
“Most often, yes,” he replied, his gaze flicking between the horizon and Henry. “But I freely admit, not always.”
Late afternoon drifted toward dusk, the sun sinking into the western sea, a great fiery red orb that sent its red, orange, and purple rays streaming into the skies. Christopher, seeing no clouds on any horizon, put his glass to his eye. Scanning the sinking sunlight, he caught sight of a dot
in front of the sun.
A dot with sails.
“Heaven have mercy,” he muttered, lowering the glass, staring at the spot. Without the spyglass, he saw nothing. Raising it again, he saw it. Yes, it was a ship back there, sailing straight along their wake like a hound on a trail.
“Christopher?”
He glanced at Merial, then wordlessly handed her the glass. Turning, he leaned against the poop deck railing, and shouted, “Cram on all sail. We need every bit of canvas we have. Move!”
The Lost Countess That Counted Stars (Historical Regency Romance) Page 12