The Lost Countess That Counted Stars (Historical Regency Romance)

by Patricia Haverton

  Merial leaned over the table, feeling mischievous. “I think it is important because it makes you like me more.”

  “Well, there is that.”

  As Christopher made his rounds, Merial went below to assuage her guilt for not helping with breakfast by assisting Maurice with the cleanup. She found him in a foul mood, swearing oaths in French, and grumbling about idiotic ship captains making false accusations.

  “Ignore him, Maurice,” Merial said, drying dishes. “I will wager his stomach still hurts.”

  “I no care,” he snapped. “He can have a belly full of ache for all of me. Accuse Maurice Gauthier of poison. Bah!”

  Merial giggled into her towel, then helped Maurice clean the galley till it shone. “I will help with lunch, Maurice,” she said, leaving. “I promise.”

  Before seeking Christopher out, Merial went below and picked up the coffer in her cabin. She had forgotten how heavy it was, and shook it, half expecting the sound of coin or jewels rattling inside. Only dull thuds met her attempts to decipher what may be in it.

  Taking it to the upper decks, Merial sat in the shade of a sail, and inspected the locking mechanism. It appeared the lock would only open when the right letters of the alphabet were pushed. But what were the right letters? She frowned, staring at it.

  “I had almost forgotten about that.”

  Merial glanced up to find Christopher standing over her. “I did, as well. What could be the right word or words to open it?”

  He sat beside her. “I have no idea. It was important enough that whoever put you in the dinghy also made certain that went in with you. Try your name.”

  With a shrug, Merial pushed the letters that spelled her name. Nothing. “Have any other ideas?”

  For the next hour or so, she and Christopher tried anything they could think of to open the coffer, but no words they thought of worked.

  “I can take an axe to the thing,” Christopher offered with a grin.

  “And potentially damage what may be inside? No thank you.”

  Christopher rubbed his chin. “Try your father’s title. Dorsten.”

  With a shrug, Merial tried it. Nothing.

  “No, not with an O. Use an E.”

  She spelled Dorsten with an E, and still the box refused to yield its contents. “Any other bright ideas, genius?”

  “I am working on it. Try Valkyrie.”

  Merial rolled her eyes and spelled out the name of his ship, and still the box would not open. Christopher sighed. “It was worth a try, anyway.”

  “Right.” She failed to keep the sarcasm from her tone. Christopher gazed at her, injured.

  “This box is somehow connected to you,” he said. “I feel it in my bones. Have you ever gone by another name, an affectionate nickname, perhaps?”

  Merial scowled. “And I am to remember that?”

  “Oh, right.”

  Christopher actually blushed while offering her a sheepish grin. “Try beautiful.”

  “You are hopeless.”

  Nonetheless, Merial spelled out the word, and still the box refused to open. “I am beginning to like your idea about the axe,” she said, pushing the box from her in frustration.

  “I am enjoying the puzzle.”

  At that moment, an odd sound struck them. It was a thudding noise, yet soft, as though someone had dropped a soft bag onto the deck. Merial gazed at Christopher in confusion, while his brows furrowed as he stared at her. Then the gasps of shock, the curses of horror, resounded across the deck.

  “What the—” Christopher began, standing.

  Merial rose with him, the box forgotten, as she saw several crewmen cross themselves, their jaws slack, as they stared at what appeared to be a burst pillow on the deck. Feathers were strewn everywhere, caught in the coiled ropes, swept into the bulwark.

  Striding closer, she heard Christopher swear under his breath, and from the corner of her eye saw him genuflect even as his crew had. It was a very large, and very dead, bird. She saw the beak, the legs, the black eye that peered at her as though judging her soul.

  “What?” she asked, baffled.

  “An albatross,” Christopher answered, his voice hoarse. “A dead albatross.”

  “A bad omen,” someone yelled, and Merial did not recognize the voice.

  “We are cursed,” cried another. “Cursed to sail into hell.”

  At her side, Christopher spun on his crew. “Who killed it?” he snarled. “Which of you killed the bird?”

  Denials wafted over the deck and through the rigging, broken sighs and sobs of despair answered his demands. Merial could not believe her eyes as Christopher strode from crewman to crewman, demanding the guilty party admit to slaying the albatross.

  “The killing of an albatross is the worst kind of omen,” Mr. Mayhew said in her ear, his voice shaking. “Surely we will sail into Davy Jones Locker for this.”

  “No one killed it,” Merial protested. “It just—died, and landed on the deck.”

  Mr. Mayhew shuddered, his flesh pale as he crossed himself three times. “We are cursed,” he muttered. “Oh, what have we done?”

  You saved a woman who brought you nothing save bad luck.

  Merial tried not to believe that it was her presence on board that brought them these terrible occurrences. Yet, despite the bad events they had been through, they were still alive, still sailing toward England. So what was true? Did she bring them good fortune, or was the worst yet to come?

  That even Christopher was shaken by the dead albatross told her more than she wanted to know about the superstitions surrounding it. That it fell from the sky to land, dead, on the deck of the Valkyrie seemed almost impossible. Yet, there it was. Dead. An albatross, whose killing was obviously the harbinger of terrible fortune.

  Cautiously, as though it might come to life and attack her, beating its wings and striking at her with its huge beak, Merial stepped closer. She saw no wounds on its corpse, no evidence of how it died. “It cannot have just died in midair to land right here, of all places.”

  Or could it?

  Not easily given to hysteria, or strange superstitions, Merial shivered in fear at the idea of the bird simply flying overhead, dying, and falling on the deck, just like that. That was odd to the extreme.

  Impossible.

  With the wide open sea, she suspected birds did indeed die in midair for whatever reason. Old age, bad heart, the last stages of a disease.

  But to land on the deck of the Valkyrie at that moment?

  Merial shivered again, as though blasted by an icy winter wind. Every other superstition that had occurred while she was on board might be explained away by logic.

  But not this.

  “Witch.”

  Merial glanced up from the dead bird to see Daunger staring at her from behind the mast, his lips slicked back from his teeth. “Witch,” he repeated, then vanished. Rubbing the gooseflesh from her arms, Merial gazed once more at the corpse, the loose feathers, the black eye that gazed into her.

  “What do we do with it?”

  No one was near enough to answer her question. Once friendly eyes stared at her now, with fear, with terror, with suspicion. Johns peered at her from the stairs leading below, his crutches under him, his fingers making the sign against evil. Then he vanished.

  Alone, as even Mr. Mayhew deserted her, Merial glanced around at the faces who watched with eyes that judged. A movement caught her eye. She looked down, seeing Henry approach the dead bird, then draw back as though sensing something dangerous. “Henry, not you, too,” she murmured, near despair.

  The cat circled the albatross, sniffing cautiously, and Merial had no doubt the crew watched him, too. If the ship’s cat was afraid of it, of course it had to be cursed. Right? She recalled her own prediction that it would take only one bad event to turn the crew against her. Now it had happened.

  Where was Christopher?

  She saw him striding toward her, his face pale, his brows lowered.

  Do not
tell me you believe this is my fault? Please do not do that, Christopher, I beg you.

  “Go below,” he ordered as he approached. “Do not argue. Just do it. Into my cabin.”

  Stunned, not knowing what to do, Merial stared as he picked up the box and shoved it into her arms. “Go, Merial. Please.”

  She obeyed, walking on stiff legs she barely felt, and strode to the steps that led to the lower quarters. Henry, the traitor, trotted along behind her with his tail high. She closed him in with her—traitor or not, she needed someone with her.

  Tossing the box aside, Merial ran her hands through her hair, afraid and frustrated. “How could this possibly have happened?” she asked the air, pacing back and forth, unable to keep still. “A bird drops dead on the deck and everyone believes the world is coming to an end.”

  Henry jumped on top of Christopher’s desk, and played with his quill pen again, and Merial took a moment to envy him his innocence. “This is ridiculous,” she snapped. “It is just a damn bird.”

  “It is not just a bird.”

  Spinning around, Merial saw Christopher in the doorway, his expression still tight, still worried, pale with his brows furrowed. “Then explain it to me, Christopher.”

  He closed the door behind him. “The slaying of an albatross has been a bad omen for centuries,” he said, pacing as much as she had, his head down. “Far longer than women on board a ship.” His lips quirked as he flicked a glance at her. “To kill one, well, that is the gravest of crimes, for it would bring terrible luck to the ship, the crew.”

  “I did not kill that thing.” Merial did not bother to keep her voice down, or the heat from it.

  “Of course not,” he replied. “But it just dropped from nowhere. Of course, the crew look at it as a very bad omen, and now believe they are cursed. Unfortunately, they also believe that you brought that curse.”

  A wild, uncontrolled bray of laughter roared from her. “I do not believe this,” she cried. “You tell me they love me, and I can do no wrong in their eyes. Now they believe I killed a bird with a spell, and cursed them. For the love of God—”

  “Please calm down,” he snapped. “Yelling at me will not solve anything.”

  “I saw your face, Christopher,” she grated, her fury now rampant and free. “You believe it, too. Tell me I am wrong.”

  At his silence, as he continued to pace, Merial felt her rage drain away, disbelief and hurt taking its place. “You believe it, too.” She stared at him, awed by her certain knowledge. “You really do. You think I have cursed this ship.”

  “Do not be ridiculous.”

  He never stopped pacing, nor did he look at her when he spoke. “I trusted you,” she whispered, unable to stop looking at him. “I trusted you to be the one sane man amid this entire ship filled with superstitious lunatics. You have betrayed me.”

  “Stop it,” he growled. “I have not betrayed you.”

  “Indeed you have. You look at me with fear in your eyes. Do you plan to be rid of me, Christopher? Do you plan to feed me to the sharks?”

  At that, he stopped his pacing, and spun toward her, his mouth open in shock. “No. Of course not.”

  Merial pulled the dagger he had given her from its sheath. “I do not believe you. Come near me, and I will kill you.”

  Chapter 19

  Christopher stared at her, her small fierce face, her black hair loose about her shoulders, the anger and hate, yes, hate, he saw in her hazel eyes. “Merial,” he whispered, aghast at her accusation. “No. You are wrong. I could never, ever, lay a hand on you with the intent to harm you.”

  “Right,” she growled. “You believe I brought evil to your precious ship. It no longer matters that I have done good here. One bird threw all that away, simply because you believe in that silly superstition.”

  He realized that words would never, ever, convince her that he could never hurt her, or order others to do so. No words would assure her that he would protect her with his life were it ever needed. He could not tell her that he was falling in love with her faster than the Valkyrie sliced through the sea. Christopher dropped to his knees.

  “If you truly believe I would order you killed,” he said softly, “then thrust that blade into my heart. I will not try to stop you, nor will I defend myself. Do it. Have mercy, and slay me cleanly.”

  Closing his eyes, he listened. He heard Henry washing his face, his small body crunching paper as he turned to clean his tail. Above him, his crew went about their work, their voices no longer happy, but now subdued. The whisper of the water on the hull tried to lull him into quiescence, yet his tension would not permit him to relax.

  Was that a soft step?

  He did not open his eyes at the miniscule sound, yet he knew that Merial stepped slowly, carefully, toward him. Did she plan to sink that blade into his heart? If she chose to, he knew the crew would execute her immediately. Did she care at all about that? She feared they planned to kill her regardless, so perhaps she thought to gain her revenge by slaying him first.

  He opened his eyes at the sob that choked her voice. Merial knelt in front of him, the knife nowhere in sight. Tears rolled down her cheeks, her hazel eyes swimming and not just with tears. Pain, grief, fear—they were all there. Her arms crept about his neck like frightened kittens as his own slid around her waist.

  Openly sobbing now, Merial clutched him as one drowning, weeping against his neck. Christopher held her tightly to his chest, feeling the sting of his own tears in his closed eyes. “Merial,” he whispered. “Oh, my sweet Merial. We will work this out, we will fix it together. I promise.”

  “They are going to kill me,” she sobbed, her body trembling in his arms. “I know they will.”

  “Hush,” he murmured, stroking his hand down her hair, her back. “I will not let them. They are scared, but it will pass. They loved you once, they will love you again.”

  “No, no.” She shook as though under a raging fever. “They will find a way to kill me. You will not even find my body.”

  “No.”

  Retreating a fraction, Christopher took her arms from his neck, but held her hands in his as he gazed into her damp eyes. “Stop it, Merial,” he said firmly. “You have protectors.”

  “Not anymore.”

  “You do. Gauthier would fight like a wolf to keep you safe. So would Mayhew. I know of several more who would give their lives to protect you. This will pass. I know it will. Trust in me, Merial.”

  “And you?” She smiled through her tears. “Will you protect me, as well?”

  Christopher cupped her cheek. “I would die a thousand deaths if it meant keeping you alive and safe.”

  Merial broke into a choking laugh, wiping her fingers across her cheeks. “I thought a man could die only once.”

  “Well, I may have exaggerated a small bit there.” Christopher smiled at her. “I am guessing you are not going to gut me?”

  She sniffed, disdain coloring her tone. “Not at the moment. But I will keep my knife, as I may decide to do so later.”

  “Jolly good.” Christopher got to his feet and pulled Merial up with him. “I do not suppose I can convince you to remain here, in my cabin? I will sleep in yours.”

  “You supposed right.” Merial lifted her chin. “I will not skulk out of their sight as though I were guilty of any wrong doing.”

  “I suspected as much.” Christopher sighed. “Can I convince you to at least skulk for the remainder of the afternoon?”

  “No. I must help Maurice in the galley. If the crew sees me going about my usual business, they will most likely permit the dead albatross to remain dead.”

  “Keeping it dead is not the problem,” he muttered. “Very well. We will maintain the status quo, and pretend nothing happened. When the crew sees our calm, it will serve to reassure them.”

  “Daunger called me a witch again,” she said, her eyes on his. “But please made no ado about it. Let it pass, and see what happens.”

  Christopher felt his anger rise
at her comment, yet he controlled it with an effort. “All right,” he said, his voice tight, “this time. Promise me you will be careful.”

  Smiling, Merial lifted her left arm. “I still have my steel friend here.”

  “Do not hesitate to use it,” he told her. “If either, or both, confront you, threaten you with harm, then go for their vitals, their throat. Do not hesitate, Merial. They may prove dangerous despite their punishment.”

  “I will.”

  Christopher eyed her sidelong. “Do you regret not letting me hang them?”