The Lost Countess That Counted Stars (Historical Regency Romance)

by Patricia Haverton

  “I swear I will never eat oysters or mollusks again,” muttered one.

  They hefted the barrel and started out with it. “Scrub it clean,” she called after them. “And if you have any appetite left, breakfast will be ready shortly.”

  Merial grinned to herself as she heard one of them say to the other, “How can I eat after smelling this?”

  “I think I am going to be sick.”

  After lighting the stove, Merial fried bacon and potatoes with slabs of fish on the side, added lemon, pepper, and a tiny brush of curry seasonings. Uncertain as to how much to fix, she discovered to her delight she had cooked more than enough for the dozen or so men lining up with their plates. She served them, answering their grins with her smiles.

  “Is it any good?” she asked as a few picked up their forks and stared to eat even as they headed toward the upper decks.

  “Delicious, M’lady,” one called back. “You can replace old Gauthier anytime.”

  “After you eat, someone take Barker’s place in the crow’s nest so he can come for breakfast, too. And someone take a plate to Johns in his cabin.”

  When the last sailor that came for the meal had taken his plate away, Merial prepared her own and took it topside. Like they did, though it went against all manners drilled into her, she forked food into her mouth as she walked. “Oh, my,” she murmured, sitting near Christopher. “Not bad if I do say so.”

  Christopher swallowed hard and averted his eyes as Henry bumped against her legs, meowing. Merial chuckled and gave him bits of fish and bacon, then watched Christopher studiously avoid looking at her.

  “I found the barrel of bad food,” she commented. “I had two crewmen toss it overboard.”

  “I saw them,” he replied. “How could Gauthier have made such a terrible mistake in feeding us bad stuff?”

  “I suppose you might ask him,” she answered, giving the cat more fish. “He must have gone back to his bunk, for I did not see him.”

  “That old Frenchie,” Christopher griped, wiping sweat from his brow. “I should give him ten lashes for this.”

  Merial dropped her fork with a ringing clang. “No,” she gasped. “It was a mistake. We all make them.”

  “But this one put the ship in danger,” he snapped. “I have only a handful to run it. If we had a dire emergency, and the crew are hurling their guts into the sea, we could all die.”

  Staring down at her now empty plate, Merial knew he was right. But Maurice was her friend, and she knew he would never have prepared bad food if he had known. “Please, Christopher,” she pleaded without looking up. “Have mercy.”

  “Because you like him? You like everyone you meet, Merial. Should I not punish anyone you like, discipline on board will vanish in an instant.”

  Heartily wishing she had helped prepare dinner the night before, for she surely would have smelled the nasty odor and stopped Maurice from using the shellfish, Merial nodded. “Do what you must.”

  Standing, she took her plate below with Christopher yelling her name from behind her. Yet, he did not follow behind. In the galley, accompanied by no one save Henry, she cleaned up the plates, pans, and utensils, scrubbed the galley until it sparkled, then wondered if she should check on Maurice.

  Just as she steeled herself to go in search of him, he stumbled, groaning, into the galley and sat heavily on a stool. He gazed at her blearily. “What did I do?” he asked, his voice soft.

  Merial gaped. “How did you know?”

  “I be a chef too long to no recognize food poisoning, cherie.”

  “The shellfish was bad. How could you not smell it?”

  He tapped the side of his nose. “My nose be stuffed lately. It happens. I could no smell a rotting carcass if it were shoved in my face.”

  Unbelievably, Merial started to laugh. “Your nose was stuffed up? More than half the crew is sick, and the Captain furious, because of your stuffiness.”

  “He wish to beat me,” Maurice said, folding his arms on the table and resting his head on them, “I no fight him.”

  “Once he hears what went wrong, he may relent, Maurice.”

  He lifted his head and gazed around. “You cook?”

  “I did,” she replied proudly. “I did a good job, too.”

  He rested his head down again. “Then maybe M’lord kill me. Put me from misery.”

  “Now, now, stop feeling sorry for yourself. I cooked for half a dozen. I cannot cook for nearly thirty.”

  After urging him to return to his bunk, Merial went topside to find Christopher, only to discover him vomiting over the side. She went to him, feeling sympathy, as he sat back down, breathing hard. “Can I get you water?” she asked.

  He shook his head, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “It will not stay down, though I may rinse my mouth of this vile taste.”

  Merial fetched him a dipper of water from the nearby barrel, and watched as he rinsed his mouth, and spat the water over the side. Sitting back down, he took her hand. “Thank you.”

  She gazed down at their clasped hands. “I spoke to Maurice,” she said slowly. “He could not smell the bad shellfish. His nose was stuffed, clogged.”

  At his prolonged silence, she glanced up to find him staring at her in astonishment. “His nose—was stuffed?” he asked finally. “All this because he had no sense of smell?”

  “Yes.”

  Christopher leaned his head against the bulwark and began to laugh. “Holy Mother of God,” he said thickly as he laughed. “My crew ill to the point they are incapacitated because my cook had no sense of smell. How can I flog him for that?”

  “I had hoped you would not,” Merial replied with a grin. “Although he hopes you will kill him and put him out of his misery.”

  “I will not kill him,” Christopher said with his head tilted back, his eyes closed, “for if I have to suffer, then so shall he.”

  “Then while you suffer,” she commented, standing, “I will do my share of keeping a watch for pirates, or floating logs, or whatever can harm the ship.”

  He lifted his head and squinted at her. “Just stay where I can see you.”

  Thus Merial stood near him with a spyglass, scanning the horizon and saw nothing of note. The Valkyrie continued on under the skills of a small handful of crewmen as the rest retched and groaned, and Mr. Mayhew emerged from below with Johns hobbling on crutches. Both knuckled their brows as Merial eyed Johns with no little surprise.

  “I need extra eyes in the bow, M’lord,” Mr. Mayhew said. “I can set Johns here up where his leg be supported.”

  “Then by all means,” Christopher replied with a wave of his arm.

  “I be going crazy down below, Cap’n,” Johns told him while offering Merial a smile. “I not be sick, either.”

  “Thank God for that. We need you, Johns. Hop to it.”

  Merial chuckled as Johns grinned without many teeth at the quip, then made his awkward, slow way to the bow.

  “I hope everyone is cured by tomorrow,” Christopher said on a sigh. “I do not think I have had an entire crew sick at once before.”

  “The experience will serve to make you a better captain,” she said, returning to her spyglass.

  Time passed as Merial wandered from port to starboard to the stern as Christopher dozed with his head against the bulwark. Henry followed her everywhere, rubbing against her legs as she squinted through the spyglass until she felt a headache coming on from peering through the cylinder. “I do not know how the crew does it,” she murmured to the cat, rubbing her brow. “All day and all night long, staring through this with one eye shut.”

  The sun beat down on her hatless head, and Merial suspected she would soon be as tanned as the sailors. “I will shock the ton, no doubt,” she told Henry, “upon my return with tanned skin.”

  The cat yawned, and flopped on his side, his tail twitching, to soak up that same sun. “Lazy fop,” she muttered, then peered through the spyglass again.

  “It be your fault, missy.” />
  With a tiny shriek, Merial spun around to find Daunger and Benson stepping lightly toward her on the balls of their feet. Their faces still appeared pale, their eyes red, and even as far away as they were, Merial scented the vomit on their clothes.

  “Ye be a witch,” Daunger said, his lips pulled back from his teeth. “Ye cursed us.”

  “I did no such thing.”

  Trying not to show her sudden spurt of fear, Merial glanced around. The two men had her cornered, and she had nowhere to go. No crewman was close by, none could save her except herself. Her right hand crept toward her left, as she planned to pull the dagger from its sheath should they make a move toward her.

  Chapter 16

  Christopher edged his way around the mast, listening to Daunger and Benson accuse Merial of witchcraft. The kept their voices low, and they attracted little attention as their tall bodies effectively hid Merial from view. A casual glance would show nothing, and Merial stood no chance against their strength. Pick her up and toss her into the sea—at the speed the Valkyrie lanced through the water, she would drown before the ship could come about to rescue her.

  If anyone noticed at all.

  Blessing and thanking God for waking him in time, Christopher had seen them corner her. He crept in close, needing the evidence for himself that they intended harm and not offer a potential apology, he had also seen Barker climbing down the rat lines. Whistling low to catch the man’s attention, he beckoned him, then motioned for silence.

  Barker’s quizzical glance took in the two sailors and Merial, and his face darkened with suppressed rage. Barker was one of those who fully expected to witness Merial walk on water and considered her a saint. Thus, Christopher could trust him to not join the pair in throwing her overboard.

  Merial, facing him, appeared tense but not overly afraid as her right hand crept toward her knife hidden in her sleeve. She had not seen him, and her hazel eyes stared at her attackers.

  “You think you can kill me?” she demanded. “Just try it.”

  She yanked her dagger from her sleeve.

  “You can scratch us,” Daunger taunted. “But you cannot do more than that.”

  Both stepped forward just as Christopher’s hands settled on Daunger’s shoulder’s and Barker tackled Benson to the ground. Throwing the man to the deck, Christopher planted his boot in the man’s throat, and casually pulled his pistol from under his jacket. Under his foot, Daunger choked and thrashed, his boots slamming into the deck.

  “I warned you not to bother the lady,” he said softly, cocking the hammer back and pointing the muzzle into Daunger’s terrified face. “You ignored my direct order. I do not tolerate insubordination, Daunger. Prepare to pay the penalty.”

  To his right, Barker, strong despite his slender frame, pinned Benson down, and slammed his fist into the other’s face, snarling vile imprecations. Christopher heard his threats to send Benson to Davy Jones Locker for daring to lay a hand on Her Ladyship, and might have grinned had he not been so furious.

  The commotion of the fight between Barker and Benson, as well as Daunger’s terrified struggles, brought both sick and healthy crew on the run. Christopher knew from the corner of his eyes that they ringed him in a half circle, and that Mayhew had stepped to the front, ready to receive his orders.

  “Christopher.” He glanced up at Merial’s whisper, seeing her tight, anxious expression. “May I see you a moment?”

  Other crewmen helped subdue Benson, and lift him to his feet, keeping a firm grip on him. Beneath his boot, Daunger sweated, nearly strangling, and unable to speak save for his pleading gaze on Christopher’s.

  “Seize him.”

  Christopher removed his boot from Daunger’s neck as hard grips yanked him to his feet, and held him even as he tried to fight them off. He turned to Merial, planting his back between her and the crew. “What is it?” he asked, knowing his tone was too blunt, too crisp, and he saw her wince.

  “Please do not kill them.”

  He set his jaw, cursing himself for not having foreseen this. “On this ship I am the absolute ruler,” he told her, trying to keep his voice low. “They will hang, and their corpses thrown to the sharks.”

  “I beg you, no. I cannot have their blood on my hands.”

  “You have naught to do with it, Merial,” he grated, keeping his voice pitched low.

  “Flog them instead.”

  Now he almost gaped. He stared at her firm expression, her steady hazel eyes, and put the hammer of his pistol back. “What?”

  “Flog them,” Merial repeated. “Punish them, but do not kill them. Show them mercy. I beg you.”

  “No. They tried to kill you, if you have not forgotten.”

  “Permit them to live with the pain of what they have done,” she said, her voice a whisper, her eyes still steady on his. “What they did was wrong, but killing them may curse this voyage.”

  Christopher had not thought of that. While he tried not to be superstitious, he did firmly believe that blood begot blood. Death brought death. Though he knew attempted murder should result in death, he also realized what his hanging those men might do to the rest of the crew, and their morale.

  He nodded slowly, and put his pistol back under his coat. “So be it.” He turned back to the crew. “Chain both men to the mast, and fetch the cat o’ nine tails.”

  Both Daunger and Benson struggled, weeping with terror, but the grips on them were relentless, unforgiving. Christopher observed the fierce expressions of his men, and realized that none of them, no matter how sick they felt, blamed Merial at all for their condition.

  “They love her,” murmured a voice in his ear.

  He turned to find Gauthier at his shoulder. “You are fortunate to not be joining them,” Christopher grumbled sourly, facing the men again. “You and your idiocy nearly got her killed.”

  “Then chain me beside them, M’lord,” Gauthier told him. “For if she were hurt because of me, I could never forgive myself.”

  “No sense of smell, Gauthier?” Christopher snarled under his breath. “What a mad excuse.”

  “I make none, M’lord,” Gauthier replied, watching as the weeping, praying, pleading men were chained to the mast.

  Christopher blew out a sharp gust of breath, his stomach roiling in protest, threatening to heave yet again.

  “If it were not this,” he snapped under his breath, “it would be something else. Those two were looking for an excuse to blame her for any calamity, great or small.”

  “I do agree, M’lord,” Gauthier murmured, “for they do not know her as we do.”

  “Our men feared her at first, but they would never stoop to killing.”

  Mayhew approached with the big whip with the jagged steel knotted into the long lines of leather, and the shirts were stripped from the backs of Daunger and Benson. Merial stood to one side, and Christopher almost ordered her below.

  No. She must watch this. As must they all. This is her vengeance as much as it is an example for the others, and a punishment for those who would have killed her as easily as they sneezed.

  “Witness my justice,” he roared. “These men sought to kill Her Ladyship. I heard it with my own ears, as did Mr. Barker. Barker?”

  Barker stepped forward, knuckling his brow. “I did, Cap’n. They were gonna throw M’lady overboard. I heard them speak it.”

  “Your Ladyship?”

  Merial’s expression did not change. “Yes, My Lord. They did blame me for the illness on board, called me a witch. They were going to throw me over the gunwale.”

  “These men accused Her Ladyship of witchcraft,” Christopher went on. “They sought to blame her for the bad shellfish. Mr. Gauthier, what caused the illness?”

  “My error, M’lord. I could not smell the bad food, and thus cooked, and served it to the crew. I apologize for the mishap, M’lord.”

  “Does any man standing here believe these two should not be punished?” Christopher yelled.

  The rising voices cal
led no, Cap’n, then grew louder as the men began to yell, whip them, whip them, whip them in a wild chant that soon became a frenzy. Hands clapped to the chant as boots stomped the deck in time to the voices. No few called kill them amid the others yelling for the two to be whipped.

  Lifting his own voice above theirs, Christopher yelled, “Silence!”

  The crewmen ceased their loud chanting, and stared at him with eyes as wild as their chants had been. He glared around at them, furious that he had been forced to this, and just as furious at their lust for blood.