The Lost Countess That Counted Stars (Historical Regency Romance) Read online

  “Good,” Christopher snapped. “I will take her below.”

  He picked her carefully up in his arms, and carried her across the deck and down the steps. The guest cabin was next to his own, which he felt would assist him in keeping a watchful eye on her. It was also fairly roomy for a cabin on board the crowded ship, and as private as his own. Mayhew, as first mate, had a cabin across from hers, and he hoped his fear of women would keep him at arm’s length.

  Setting her gently on the wide and comfortable bunk, Christopher covered her decently with a blanket, then sat beside her. Clearly she was injured, but how badly? His gentlemanly protocols forbade him from touching a woman unmarried to him, yet there was no woman on board who could examine her.

  “It is up to me, I expect,” he muttered. “I dare not have any of those oafs look at her.”

  He had no physician on board, and most injuries that occurred were fixed by the most competent. Christopher thought that title fell to the aged Colin Pierce, a sailor who had traveled extensively, and sailed under him for the last three years. Pierce knew how to fix just about anything on the human body, but Christopher could not permit him to look at her.

  I will see what I can find, then ask his advice.

  Bracing himself for doing the dishonorable, he carefully felt around her skull, under her wealth of jet black hair. Lifting her neck, his fingers found crusted blood and a large knot on the left side of her head.

  “Aha,” he murmured. “That is something, anyway.”

  He doubted her back had been damaged, as it felt firm when he carried her, but that did not mean she did not have broken arms or legs. Feeling a right cad for touching her, he carefully ran his hands down her legs while they were under the blanket, and discovered no terrible swellings or breaks. The same for her arms, and he could not bring himself to touch her torso for possible broken ribs.

  “I expect you will tell me if you hurt somewhere when you wake up,” he told her.

  She lay silent, breathing evenly, her lashes sooty against her pale cheeks. Studying her high cheekbones, large eyes, and full lips, he thought she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. He wished her eyes were open so he might see their color, and wondered if they were of a dark, sultry shade.

  He grinned at the silliness of talking to her. “Do not die, My Lady,” he said. “I want to get to know you.”

  Leaving her for the time being, he left the cabin, and closed the door behind him. Back on the deck, he found Mayhew had ordered the Valkyrie under full sail and back on course. That was one, among many, things he liked about Mayhew as his first mate. The man knew what needed to be done, and saw it through.

  Mayhew approached and knuckled his brow. “Might I ask how the lady be, M’lord?”

  “Still unconscious, but has a huge lump on her head,” Christopher replied, his eyes scanning the rigging, the sails, the crew as they worked, even as his mind lay elsewhere. “I need Mr. Pierce, on the double.”

  As Mayhew left his side to call for Mr. Pierce, Christopher strode across the deck to the sailor at the wheel, and checked their heading. The hand knuckled his brow, keeping a firm hold on the ship’s wheel, and offered him a slight bow. “Cap’n.”

  “Good work,” Christopher said. “Maintain this course.”

  “Aye, Cap’n.”

  He turned around to observe Mayhew hustle Mr. Pierce toward him, seeing the scrawny, unshaven old man who had more experience at sea than any seaman Christopher had ever known. Both knuckled their brows.

  “Cap’n,” Pierce said, his brown eyes narrowed from a lifetime of squinting in the sun, salt, and spray, and his lips puckered around his almost toothless mouth. He was old, that was for certain, but still as strong and agile as he had been when he was young.

  “Mr. Pierce,” Christopher said, “what can be done for an unconscious person with a lump on her head?”

  “Nae much at the moment, Cap’n,” Pierce replied, his Irish accent almost brazen. “She be awake, then bedrest till she recovers.”

  “I see. How long might she remain unconscious?”

  Pierce shrugged. “I cannae say, Cap’n.”

  Nonplussed, Christopher nodded. “I may need your advice later, Mr. Pierce. Carry on.”

  Pierce knuckled his brow, then trotted back to his duties. Mayhew eyed him with concern. “What we be doing with a woman on board, M’lord?” he asked in a hoarse whisper. “You know they be bad luck.”

  “I am quite aware of the superstition regarding women, Mr. Mayhew,” Christopher replied. “Would you suggest I throw her overboard?”

  Mayhew’s eyes bugged from his head. “No, of course not, M’lord. I just cannot help but fear the old saying that women be bad luck.”

  “We have a minimum of three weeks till we dock, Mr. Mayhew,” Christopher told him firmly. “If they crew gets wind of your worries, then there will be no end of them fussing over it as well. You keep your mouth shut about it.”

  “Aye, M’lord.”

  With a sharp nod, Christopher walked on. He inspected the work, the way the ropes were tied, the set of the sails, the crew working industriously under his eye, all the while worrying about having a woman on board his ship. Not the silly superstition, of course, but of the crew’s morale in general. As she recovered, he certainly could not order her to remain in her cabin and out of sight.

  Having a female, and a very beautiful one, strolling about the decks might create all sorts of havoc among the men on board. He had little doubt they would not harm her, but not tying a knot correctly because a sailor’s eyes watched her and not his task? Heaven forfend. Christopher shook his head.

  Hours later, as the sun set, the wind died and he ordered the sails rigged for the night. Christopher lit a lamp, and went below decks. The crew, save the helmsman and the night watch, had also gone below for their evening meal and the dram of rum he allotted them every evening. At the door to the guest cabin, Christopher opened it, and let the light fall upon her frightened face.

  Chapter 2

  Her head aching as though struck by an axe and split in two, Merial gazed at the room around her with no comprehension of where she was or how she had gotten there. When her eyes first fluttered open, she stared at a wood-beamed roof, and felt the gentle rocking of the bed under her, heard the clear sound of the wind caught in canvas.

  I am on a ship. How do I know that? Have I been on a ship before?

  She did not know. She tried to remember ever being on a ship at sea, yet, details, memories of any voyages at sea, escaped her.

  Lifting her hand from the blanket that covered her from shoulders to feet, she rubbed the painful spot, felt the crusty lump on her head, and tried to remember what had happened. Nothing came to her. She remembered nothing from before she woke, and stared at the beams above her.

  Frowning slightly, Merial half sat up, and lifted the blanket covering her. Her gown of rich gold, yellow, and white hues gave her no idea, either. She did not remember donning it, buying it, or what she had worn the day before. Rubbing her brow, she tried to think through her problem.

  “Why can I not remember?”

  Fear and horror stole over her.

  I cannot remember anything. Who am I? What am I? What happened to me? How did I get here?

  The more she tried to remember, the more her head hurt. The more her head hurt, the more scared she grew. “What happened to me?”

  Not daring to get out of the bed, Merial lay back, frightened, frustrated, and worried about leaving the small room.

  Who and what is out there?

  She heard male voices, laughter, singing, the sound of their steps above her, and she dared not venture out. Who knew what they might do to her?

  Time passed slowly, and from the small round porthole above her, Merial knew night grew close.

  Will I starve down here? Does anyone know I am here?

  Surely someone knew, someone would come, for how else did she get here? Who covered her with the blanket? With her fears a
nd worries gnawing at her, she almost cried out as the door swung open.

  Staring into the lamplight, and the shape of a man beyond it, terror leaped down her throat. Frozen with panic, Merial knew, knew, that shadowy man had come to kill her. She had nothing to hand to fight with, could not escape, was as cornered in this room as a mouse in a trap while the cat stalked near.

  “You are awake.”

  The friendly, kind voice startled her nearly as much as his presence, and he lowered the light so it showed her his warm, smiling face, as well as his lack of sword or pistol or club. “How do you feel?” he asked, closing the door, yet not approaching her.

  “S-scared,” she stammered. “C-confused. Who are you?” Merial clutched the blanket to her as though that might protect her if he attacked.

  He hung the lantern on a hook, and bowed smoothly. “I am Lord Christopher Buckthorn, second son of the Duke of Heyerdahl, and Captain of this vessel, the Valkyrie.”

  Merial studied him in the light, observing his tidy coat, muslin shirt, the silk cravat, and his pale breeches, how big he was. Yet, he was also quite handsome with thick blond hair that curled around his neck, large ice blue eyes, and a smile that helped to calm her.

  “And you are?”

  Merial yanked her eyes from him, as she knew openly staring was exceedingly rude. “Merial Hanrahan,” she replied softly.

  “Miss Hanrahan,” he said, “welcome aboard. I fear you caught us well out to sea without a chaperone. How are you feeling?”

  His smile continued to soothe her frazzled nerves, but she held the blanket tightly around her for comfort. “Where are we?”

  “Eastbound to England with a cargo and mail from America,” he replied easily. “About three weeks from port, in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.”

  Merial gaped, astonished, finding it strange she knew what he spoke of, just as she knew her name, but unable to remember how she came to be aboard a ship. “The Atlantic? America? How did I get here?”

  Lord Buckthorn gestured toward a chair. “May I sit?”

  “O-of course.”

  “Thank you.”

  He sat down, straightening his coat, his smile gone. “We found you floating in a dinghy some hours ago. I pulled you out myself, and I promise I only touched you when necessary. None of my crew laid a hand on you.”

  Merial felt her face heat at the thought of this man bringing her up from the sea and placing her on this bed. “I suppose you did what was best,” she replied, her voice faltering.

  “I do know you hit your head, Miss Hanrahan,” he continued, “but touching you was necessary to assess your injuries. I am, and will remain, a gentleman.”

  “Oh.”

  Merial gazed down, abashed and shamed that this man touched her while she lay unconscious. Where might his hands have roamed while she could not defend herself, and had none to defend her? “I, er, I—”

  “Please be at ease, Miss Hanrahan,” Lord Buckthorn said hastily, his expression concerned, his hand half extended. “Are you well?”

  Something in the way he spoke endeared him to her, and Merial found herself smiling shyly. “As well as can be expected. I suppose I should thank you for looking after me, My Lord.”

  He looked relieved. “I must thank you for not being offended, Miss Hanrahan. I promise, I would not have done so were it not important. I am not familiar with the name Hanrahan, yet your gown, your manners, inform me you are gently born. Who is your family?”

  Merial’s throat closed up as swift fear seized her once again. She could not remember. She must have a family, she must have had a home, yet no memory of them surfaced. Struggling to find an answer, her head pained her again.

  “I am sorry,” she whispered, frantic, terrified. “I do not know. I cannot remember.”

  Lord Buckthorn frowned, and leaned forward. “You cannot remember your family?”

  “No.” The words choked her as she tried to explain. “I do not remember anything before waking up in this room.”

  “Dear God.”

  “I know my name, obviously, and I knew I was on a ship at sea,” she continued, her mouth dry. “Yet I cannot remember being on a ship before.”

  Lord Buckthorn sat back in his chair, staring blankly into space. “I vaguely recall hearing something of this,” he murmured. “A head injury erasing memories. Yet, in time, I believe, the memories do come back.”

  Hope rose as her terror sank a fraction. “Truly?”

  “Of course, I can make no guarantees,” he replied, then smiled. “Save these. You will be safe here, Miss Hanrahan, and cared for. None will harm you. I will see to it you have food and this cabin for your privacy, and when you are able, you may come up on deck.”

  Merial found a smile for him. “Thank you, My Lord. You are most kind.”

  “Now then,” he said, standing. “What may I bring you? I am yours to command. Might you be hungry? Thirsty? I alone will bring you what you need.”

  “I, I am a bit thirsty,” she admitted. “I do not feel hungry, however.”

  Lord Buckthorn smiled. “I will bring you fresh water, wine from my own stock, and perhaps a mug of soup or broth. Believe me when I say I hired the best ship’s cook in the kingdom.”

  Merial could not help but answer that sweet, boyish grin despite her fears. “That sounds lovely.”

  He gave her a small bow, then left the cabin, closing the door behind him. Pushing back the blanket, she sat up carefully. Her head throbbed in time with her heartbeat, and a wave of dizziness and nausea swept through. Seizing hold of the bunk’s edge with both hands, Merial swallowed hard, waiting for the sick feeling to pass.

  It did, albeit slowly, and she stood up. Only then did she discover that in addition to her painful head, her movements awoke a number of aches across her body. Still, she knew they were insignificant and no permanent damage had been done. Her balance swiftly returned to her as she walked around the room.

  Once more, Merial tried to remember what had happened to her, yet the attempt merely served to bring on the pain in her head. Breathing deeply helped dispel some of it, and she took a moment to gaze out the porthole. Moonlight shimmered off the rolling swells of the sea, the stars glittered in the deep inky sky over the horizon. The beautiful sight and its calming influence did little, however, to assuage her feelings of utter helplessness and desolation. Rather, it added to her loneliness and fears.

  I am alone on a strange ship, friendless, and lost.

  Before she turned away, she caught a rapid glimpse of a shooting star flashing across the heavens. “Perhaps that is a good omen,” she murmured.

  A knock at her door startled her. “Come in.”

  Lord Buckthorn swung it open, awkwardly holding a tray complete with a pitcher and decanter.

  “I brought you this,” he said, his eyes widening slightly at the sight of her standing. “Perhaps you should not be up yet.”

  Merial self-consciously brushed her hands down her wrinkled gown, having been trained from infancy that a woman should never be alone with a man not her husband. And here she was, with no possibility of a chaperone, and alone with a handsome man.

  My mother would have a fit if she knew.

  The random thought that came from nowhere startled Merial, yet she could not remember her mother, bring her face into her mind, nor recall her name.

  But I had a mother who taught me proper behavior. I know what is expected of me, but do not remember how I know this.

  “Miss Hanrahan?”

  Lord Buckthorn gazed at her, his brows furrowed in concern. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes.” Merial brushed her gown again, feeling its stiffness from having once been wet. “I was just trying to remember.”

  Lord Buckthorn set the tray on the table, then gestured. “I brought water, bread, broth, as well as wine. Please, will you not eat and drink? I know you must be terribly thirsty.”

  “Thank you, I will.”

  He held the chair for her as she sat down
, and she motioned toward the other chair. “Will you sit with me?” she asked, glancing up.

  “I would like that.”

  He sat in the other chair, and poured wine into two goblets as Merial reached for the water. She had no idea just how thirsty she was until the cool water touched her tongue, and she gulped it down with unseemly manners. With a smile, Lord Buckthorn poured more from a pitcher into her cup, and she swallowed that down as well.

  “Forgive my poor manners, My Lord,” she said, feeling her face heat.

  “No apologies necessary,” he replied easily, taking a drink from his wine cup. “The sun would dry you out and kill you while you floated out there.”