Kissing Comfort Page 14

  “I was holding the tin of lozenges when Newt and Tucker found me, so they named me Comfort Elizabeth Kennedy. Elizabeth was a name they attached later. That was Newt’s idea. Tucker is credited with having thought of the other.”

  “All right,” he said, nodding slowly. “That explains one thing.”

  “You have other questions, I imagine.”

  “I do, but you tell me what you want me to know.” When Comfort stood, reneging on her promise not to move from the bench, he didn’t stop her. He let her wander and pretend interest in her surroundings while she considered what she wanted to say, and more importantly it seemed, got over her reluctance to say it. She was quiet as she passed from one area of his stateroom to another. There were no walls defining the interior, but she recognized the flow and function of the space. Bode had an area for study, for conversation, for eating, and for cooking. The part of his home that was closed off to her by doors, she assumed was for storage, sleeping, dressing, and bathing. He could have lived in a mansion on Nob Hill with dozens of rooms, some of them larger than the one he occupied now, but he’d chosen this. She glanced at the hatch, remembered what she’d said on arrival, and realized she’d been right. Bode wanted to be alone. She wasn’t as sure that he liked it.

  “Newt and Tuck aren’t really my uncles,” she said. She picked up one of the ebony knights from the chess set on the dining room table and rolled it lightly between her palms. “They explained to me early on that I could tell people whatever I liked about how I came to be with them, but if I didn’t want to say anything, they were prepared to let on that I was their niece. Newton drew up a family tree that we all learned to explain our connections.”

  “The devil is in the details.”

  “Precisely. My mother was Tucker’s sister. Newt was my father’s older half brother. That was to explain the difference in our last names.” She glimpsed Bode’s mouth twitch. Hers did as well. She felt lighter in the moment and set the chess piece down. She’d never thought of their story as any kind of burden, yet saying just one small part of it aloud made her feel as if she’d shed a weight.

  “I’ve never told anyone. No, not even Bram. And I feel confident that Newt and Tucker have been silent as well. In some way, I suppose we’ve come to believe what we invented. Certainly, we’ve lived as if it were so. The truth is that I don’t know who my parents were. I have the tense right, though. What I do know about them is that they’re dead. I was part of a wagon train heading west that was attacked and robbed in the Sierra Nevada foothills. I was the only survivor. Newt thinks I crawled off on my own sometime during the raid. We can’t be sure, because I don’t remember any of what happened before Tuck found me wedged between some rocks.”

  Comfort smiled a trifle crookedly. “Actually it was Newt’s mare Dulcie snuffling around that made Tuck investigate.”

  “Newt reminds you and Tuck of that, I take it.”

  “He hasn’t for a long while,” she said. “But in the beginning, yes. Frequently.” She walked over to the table where Bode sat and studied the drawing under his arm. She said nothing about it, picking up the thread of her story instead. “We think I was five. I told them I was. It was about the only thing I would, or could, tell them, and they chose to accept it as fact. There was some discussion about whether they should take me with them. Apparently there was a trading post a ways back. If they’d been willing to retrace their steps, they could have left me there. They didn’t really argue about it, not that I remember. It was mostly Tuck who decided and Newt who went along.”

  Bode had tried not to ask any questions, allowing Comfort to set the pace, but he was afraid she wouldn’t mention the thing that had brought them to this point. “How does the tin figure in this?”

  “I was clutching it, and I wouldn’t give it up. I had no interest in anything they brought me from the wagons. Dolls. Combs. Books. Newt said that if I recognized any of it, they couldn’t tell.”

  Bode nodded, understanding. After every battle, there were soldiers who couldn’t have recognized their own mothers. They barely knew that the hand at the end of their arm was their own. “I saw it sometimes,” he said. “During the war.”

  “I wasn’t like that, Mr. DeLong. I was hiding. I didn’t see the shooting. I didn’t see bodies. Newt and Tuck buried everyone before they found me.”

  “You don’t know what you saw. You don’t remember.”

  Comfort returned to the bench at the window and sat. “No,” she said. “I don’t. That’s at the very crux of the matter, isn’t it?”

  “He dropped a tin,” said Bode. “A red-and-white tin.”

  She closed her eyes and rubbed them with her thumb and forefinger. “I can’t see it.” Unwelcome tears suddenly pressed against her lids. She didn’t have a handkerchief.

  “Here.” Bode pushed one corner of a handkerchief into the center of her fist.

  The ache in her throat prevented her from speaking. She simply nodded and accepted the gift.

  Bode returned to the stool. “Perhaps you’d like to finish your drink?”

  Dabbing at her eyes, she shook her head.

  “All right, then I want to ask you about a week ago Monday night.”

  “Monday?”

  “Yes. Bram broke his leg earlier in the day.”

  “Well, I certainly remember that.”

  He went on as if she hadn’t spoken. “And you fell asleep in the parlor waiting for me to return from speaking to my mother. I chose to let you sleep because it was clear you were exhausted. I didn’t wake you because you were dreaming. I woke you because you were terrified.”

  “I’m sure you’ve had nightmares. Everyone does.”

  “Not like that. At least not since I was a child.”

  She shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t recall it anyway.”

  Disappointed, Bode shook his head. “This is the first time since you’ve arrived that I don’t believe you.”

  “I can’t help that.”

  “You could tell the truth.”

  “You told me I could tell you what I wanted you to know.”

  “I didn’t ask you to tell me what the dream was about.”

  Comfort twisted the handkerchief. “Very well. Then, yes, I remember some of it. Not everything.”

  “Do you have it often?”

  “No.” She hesitated and then admitted, “I had it again last night. I didn’t wake during it, but I know it happened while I slept. This morning I woke thirsty.”

  “Thirsty?”

  “Yes. I always need something to drink when I wake after I’ve had that particular dream. You gave me sherry.”

  “You only sipped it.”

  “That required a great deal of restraint, I assure you. Before then, my throat couldn’t have been dryer if I’d swallowed a handful of sand.”

  “You could have asked for water. Tea. Whatever you liked.”

  “No, I couldn’t. I wouldn’t have been able to resist drinking my fill, and that would have put your eyebrows at the level of your hairline. It was better that you didn’t see.”

  Bode didn’t smile, but nevertheless, his blue-violet eyes softened. “Have you ever tried Dr. Eli Kennedy’s Comfort Lozenges?”

  It surprised her that she actually shivered. “No. It never occurred to me.”

  “Apparently not. Was the tin empty when they found you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then perhaps you tried them once before and didn’t like them.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why do you think you fainted last night?” he asked.

  Comfort untwisted the handkerchief, smoothed it out on her lap, and began to fold it neatly in quarters. “I thought it was the warmth and the press of people and the fact that I stooped and stood so quickly when the gentleman dropped his glove.” She stopped, hearing what she said, and sighed inaudibly. “Dropped the tin, I mean. After what I’ve told you, I expect you put the same construction on what happened as my uncles. You t
hink it was because I saw the tin, don’t you?”

  “Haven’t you seen others like it before?”

  “Yes. Exactly. That’s what I told Newton and Tucker. I don’t faint when I walk into Donahue’s Apothecary and see those exact tins displayed behind his counter.”

  “I’m sure you don’t. That would have attracted some notice before now.” He picked up the pencil on the table again and started to tap it lightly. “But your hand had a fine tremor in it when you held it.”

  “It did?”

  He nodded. “I saw it. That’s why you dropped it.” He could see that she’d been unaware of it. Her expression was genuinely nonplussed. “Besides the tin you were holding when they found you, have you ever held another like it?”

  “No.”

  “Ever purchased the same lozenges?”

  “No. There are other kinds.”

  “But Dr. Kennedy’s are still popular and have a reputation for effectiveness. I would have recognized the tin if I’d given it more than a cursory glance.”

  “Well, I’ve never used them,” she said stiffly.

  “And before last night, apparently never held one that wasn’t your own.”

  Exasperated with his reasoning, she said, “Then you do think it prompted me to faint.”

  “No. It prompted you to let it drop as if it were a hot coal, but that’s not when you fainted.”

  “No, it’s not, is it? You caught it and gave it back to the gentleman.”

  “That’s right.”

  She frowned. “I’m not clear on what happened next. He took it, didn’t he?”

  “He did. He thanked me on behalf of himself and everyone who was sitting near him.”

  Suddenly agitated beyond her ability to remain in her seat, Comfort jumped up. She put out a hand to stop Bode from continuing. “You don’t have to say any more.” There was an odd ringing sensation in her ears. Her skin began to crawl. “Actually, I’d prefer if you—”

  The stool under Bode thudded to the floor as he leaped to his feet. He was quick, but not quick enough. Comfort’s knees folded under her before he crossed half the distance, and she was lying crumpled on her side when he reached her.

  Bode bent, scooped her up, and placed her on the bench, knocking the tumbler of whiskey out of the way. He took the shawl from around her shoulders, folded it, and put it under her head. She was already coming around, blinking rapidly against the bright sunlight streaming through the windows. He stood and drew the curtains. The skylight kept the room from being dark.

  He removed Comfort’s hat and laid the back of his hand lightly over her forehead. Her skin was cool but not clammy. “Perhaps we should think about other things that could have contributed to your fainting spell.”

  “What things?” she asked dully. She tapped his wrist to encourage him to remove his hand. When he did, she placed her forearm across her eyes. “I believe I mentioned the crowd, the heat, the stooping and standing. None of those apply here.”

  “You did jump to your feet.”

  “I don’t think that was it.”

  “All right. What if it is me?”

  “It’s not.”

  He didn’t think it was, but he was gratified to hear her say it with so much conviction. What he had to say next was more difficult. “Are you carrying Bram’s child?”

  Comfort tore her arm away from her eyes so quickly that Bode had no chance to duck out of the way. She hit him in the head with the back of her hand. “Oh, God. I’m sorry. Did I miss your eye at least? Please tell me I missed your eye.”

  He’d managed to grab her wrist before she drew it back, and now he held on, surrounding the loose fist she made with his fingers. “You missed both of them,” he said.

  The clasp of his fingers was firm and warm. Comfort didn’t try to remove her hand from it. She had the odd sensation of complete calm. Given the question he’d just put before her, it was an unreasonable response.

  “I’m not carrying your brother’s child,” she said. “Or anyone else’s.”

  “I guessed that when you tried to blind me.”

  She started to object and then realized Bode was teasing her. That seemed an equally unreasonable response. “You’re different than I expected.”

  “Since I imagine most of what you know about me came from Bram, I hope that means I’ve exceeded your expectations.”

  She smiled faintly and nodded.

  “Good.”

  He held her gaze, and Comfort didn’t look away; she didn’t want to. His eyes no longer reflected the violet-blue spark of light glancing off steel. What she saw were deep, warm pools that invited her to stir their perfect stillness.

  Without quite knowing why, she accepted their invitation. She raised her head. Her lips parted. She waited.

  She understood what she hadn’t in the moment before he touched her mouth with his.

  Bode’s eyes had been the calm before the storm.

  Chapter Six

  It began with a spark. Only that. The first inkling of what a kiss might be. The spark skittered lightly across her lips, delicate as dandelion fluff. It teased and tickled, this dance of a sprite over the curve of her mouth. She was smiling at the exact moment the spark became a flame.

  Heat licked her lips. Fingers of fire slipped under her skin. She was boneless suddenly, melting like candle wax before the flame, and it was his mouth that shaped her, his hands that gave her form.

  One of his palms cradled the back of her head. The other lay flat against her abdomen. Each one of his fingertips was a point of heat. There was no weight, no pressure. It was as if his touch had no substance, and the proof that it existed at all was the raised flesh that it left in its wake.

  Her fingers folded around the front of his jacket. She didn’t hold it as much as clutch it. It was something substantial, something quite real in the face of everything else that seemed otherworldly.

  This kiss, his kiss, was far and away exceeding her expectations.

  His tongue flicked her upper lip and touched the underside. She slid her tongue forward, touched his. She’d been tentative, but his response made her bold, and she sucked on his tongue, deepening the kiss, opening her mouth and his to the current of liquid fire.

  She heard a sound, one she didn’t recognize as coming from herself until she felt the vibration deep at the back of her throat. She realized she was purring as contentedly as her cat. Or almost as contentedly, she thought, because what she wanted was something more than being scratched between her ears.

  Restless, she arched her back. Her heels dug into the upholstered bench. He pressed her back with the flat of his hand before she could turn on her side. She loosened her fingers where they gripped his jacket so they could climb his chest. She slipped them around his neck, lacing them together. She held his head, held it there, afraid he would end the kiss too soon.

  His mouth hummed against hers. Her lips trembled. Her tongue quivered. She tasted a hint of coffee in the kiss. Like his tea, he took it without cream or sugar. She didn’t shy from the faint bitterness. It had the opposite effect. She wondered if they could make it sweet.

  They did.

  He drew in a sharp breath. She moaned. The sounds mingled. Overhead, a gull tapped at the skylight, its tattoo identical to the one that her heart beat against her chest. She felt the thrum of the pulse in his neck. It had the same cadence. The very same.

  His hand moved from her abdomen to just below her breast. The heat was almost intolerable, yet she couldn’t move away. She stroked his neck and wound dark copper threads of hair around her fingertips. She wished she had not plaited her hair. She wished she had combs and pins and ribbons for him to remove. He would take them out one at a time, as slowly as he liked. She wouldn’t shake her head; she’d let him sift her hair between his fingers and tug so gently that her scalp would tingle.

  It tingled anyway. And then so did the rest of her. It was like the first shiver in the face of a fever; the one that slipped along every musc
le. She seemed to contract all at once, folding in on herself so that her skin was no longer a comfortable fit.

  She did not expect him to swear, but somehow it was appropriate, more reverent than blasphemous, and when he broke off the kiss and laid his forehead against hers, she knew she was right.

  Bode was still on his knees. Raising his head, he sat back slowly, slipping one hand out from under Comfort’s head, and the other, the one that rested near her breast, he let fall to the edge of the bench. She had to surrender her hold on his neck, and her fingers trailed over his shoulders as he moved away. Her eyes remained closed a moment longer, and when they opened, their focus was the ceiling.

  “Comfort?”

  She held up one finger, cautioning him to be quiet.

  He didn’t mind. He stayed where he was and watched her breathing ease. There was a like response in him, a settling in his chest that made him aware of his slowing pulse.

  Comfort turned her head to the side and studied his face. None of his features had shifted from their symmetrical plane. There was no eyebrow arched with inquiry, no lift to one corner of his mouth. His jaw was relaxed so no muscle could jump in his cheek. He looked neither happy nor unhappy, nor any other emotion she could name. She thought she must be staring into a face of extraordinary tranquility, the face of a man at ease with himself, a man without regrets or misgivings.

  She smiled then, because she knew he wasn’t sorry.

  Sitting up, she inched her way down the bench until she could put her legs over the side. She smoothed her dress over her lap. She could still feel the warmth of his hand where it had come so close to cupping her breast. Her skin smoldered with the lingering heat until it ignited in a flush that spread from her chest to her face. She pressed her palms to her cheeks and was grateful when Bode didn’t comment.

  Bode swept up the fallen tumbler of whiskey in his hand and stood. “Careful that you don’t drag your skirt through what spilled. Give me a moment.” His mouth twitched. “I’ll swab the deck.”

  Comfort relaxed. It really would be all right. They would have a conversation that embraced what was usual, even mundane, and they would go on from there. There would be no regrets and no recriminations. Likewise, there would be no discussion.