Kissing Comfort Page 26

  Moonlight had given way to dawn by the time they were both in bed again. Bode sat with his back against the headboard, the quilt drawn over his lap. Comfort eschewed the blanket in favor of sitting cross-legged with her shift stretched tautly over her knees. She’d found a brush in the washroom cabinet and was applying it to her hair in long, even strokes.

  Bode watched her. The rise and fall of her arm, the twist of her delicate wrist, the wave and ripple of her silky hair, all of it fascinated him. Still.

  The first time he’d seen her, she had been twirling a heavy tendril of hair around her finger. She’d lifted it above the nape of her neck and stabbed it so viciously into her chignon with a pearl-studded comb that he’d actually winced. Moments later, she was going through the motions again, twisting, lifting, stabbing. When her hand went to her nape again, he realized she was tugging at her hair, making it fall so she could occupy herself in this small way.

  She was bored. It was hard to imagine that she could be bored at her own coming-out. He was bored, but it wasn’t his party. He hadn’t wanted to go. Alexandra had insisted. He looked too fine in his uniform to keep it in his wardrobe until he was called up. She was proud of him, proud of his decision to serve when he easily could have avoided it. And unlike his father, he had chosen what she deemed was the side of the angels. The Crownes had been abolitionists long before it was a popular cause, and California had been admitted as a free state, so she believed that serving the Union was a mandate from God, not a choice.

  That was how he had come to be at Comfort Kennedy’s coming-out. He was Alexandra’s showpiece, her public apology for her husband taking leave of his senses and deciding to support the Confederates’ fight.

  He knew Mr. Jones and Mr. Prescott by reputation, if not on sight, but he’d never met their niece. The seven years’ difference in their ages yawned as wide as the bay, and he wasn’t interested in giggly, simpering girls.

  At the point of their introduction, he learned that she was neither of those things. She had grave, dark eyes and solemn features. She smiled politely, if not comfortably, and gave him her gloved hand. He bent over it, not touching it to his lips, and moved on through the receiving line. When he glanced back, she was stabbing the comb into her hair again. He wondered what his mother would make of it when she arrived.

  Alexandra and his brother were late. He recalled now that Bram had chosen the point of their departure to decide that his jacket was too ill fitting to wear for an entire evening. Bode knew better. Bram didn’t want to arrive beside him in uniform. He was afraid his own light would shine less brightly, and try as he might, he couldn’t convince Alexandra to allow him to enlist.

  One son in the Union ranks was an apologia; two sons were a vulgar excess of contrition.

  So he stood at the rear of the salon, drinking very good brandy while an orchestra played and young ladies danced. Comfort Kennedy was taken onto the floor many times, first by her uncles and then by a steady procession of gentlemen, some as young as she, others considerably long in the tooth. His eyes followed her taking each turn around the floor. She laughed perhaps a trifle too gaily and smiled too brightly. He thought she was miserable; at least as miserable as he.

  And between dances he noticed her trying to vanish to the far end of the room, where she could stand beside her uncles and pretend she was genuinely happy they’d planned this event for her.

  Twirling. Lifting. Stabbing.

  Sometimes he would catch her staring at him. It was always when he was engaged in conversation, and he could never sustain her glance. There was no end to the guests who wanted to know his opinion of the war and what a Californian might do when the fight was in the East. Young girls, the giggly, simpering kind, came up to him, too. They circled him and made comments about his uniform, how handsome he looked, and how brave he must be. He supposed Alexandra would have been proud. He wasn’t. He didn’t ask any of them to dance.

  He wanted to ask her. No one else. She held his attention with her fathomless dark eyes and her small, reserved smile. She had a slender neck and the poise to hold her head at an angle that showed it to its best advantage. He doubted she had practiced it; that tilt of her head was naturally hers.

  Her gown was pale pink silk. It shone with the opalescence of mother-of-pearl every time she passed under the light of the chandeliers. He carefully drank his brandy and considered her from far away. Her skin would have the same opalescence, he decided. The difficulty would be getting her out of that dress, and for now that could only be accomplished in his mind.

  It was as good a use of his time as any, and he passed the next half hour in contemplation of the dress, her skin, and how to separate one from the other, stopping only when Bram entered the salon and went straightaway to her side.

  He saw her laugh, saw her throw back her head and laugh, and although he couldn’t hear her, he imagined the sound of it was as rich as cream and as smooth as the brandy he was drinking. He was certain he’d never have her. It was the only time he’d actually envied his brother.

  “You lost your combs,” he said, returning to the present.

  “It’s all right. I can never keep them in my hair anyway.”

  “Pencils work better?”

  She smiled. “Sometimes. I forgot that you’ve seen them in my hair.” The brush strokes slowed. “Why am I here, Bode? Why am I not at home?”

  “For your safety. What happened . . .” He shook his head and raised his palms. “It’s not clear yet why it happened.”

  She accepted that. For now. “What ship is this?”

  “Demeter Queen.”

  “This is the master’s cabin?”

  “The stateroom. Sometimes Mr. Douglas uses it, but if there’s a passenger who wants to pay for the best quarters, this is where he stays.”

  “Mm. Are we paying?”

  “I’m going to send a bill to your uncles.”

  Comfort stopped brushing and rolled the smooth wooden handle between her palms. “They’re really all right?”

  Bode described their scrapes and stitches as best he remembered and told her they returned to their home once they knew she was safe.

  She looked pointedly at Bode’s knuckles. All of them were rough looking; a few were swollen. While he’d cleaned up, she could still make out the angry red lines running perpendicular to the creases. “You have quite a few scrapes and bruises yourself. How did you get those?”

  “There was a scuffle.”

  “I remember a brawl.”

  “That was downstairs. The scuffle was outside your door.”

  She stared at him. “There were two men outside my door, Bode. Both of them as big as Jonah’s whale.”

  “Not quite. And they were slow.”

  “I couldn’t get away from them.”

  “I know. But I heard you acquitted yourself favorably.”

  “How do you know that? You weren’t in that saloon.”

  “There were almost a hundred men packed in there, so how can you be sure?”

  “I just would have known.” She shrugged. “I always have.”

  Her answer surprised him. Was it true? “You’re right,” he said after a moment. “I wasn’t there. Not when they brought you up from the cellar, and not when they hoisted you onto the bar. I know my limits; so do the men who work for me. I couldn’t have been in that room.”

  “I’m glad you weren’t. I wouldn’t have wanted you to see me.” She hesitated. “I think that begs the question, who did?”

  “Are you certain you want to know?”

  “No, but I think I need to hear it anyway.”

  “Very well.” He pushed a hand through his hair and told her. “Every man I could spare from this ship and a few from the other Crowne merchant in the harbor, the Astarte Queen. They numbered forty-seven. There were four clerks and seven of the men who work mostly at the warehouse. That’s . . .” He paused, adding it up.

  “Fifty-eight,” she said before he could. “More than half the
men were yours.”

  “It was the only way we could hope to win.”

  “The brawl.”

  He shook his head. “No, the men could have won the brawl with a third of that number. We had to win the lottery.”

  Comfort put a hand to her mouth and spoke from behind it. “That man. John Farwell. He’s your clerk.”

  “Hm. You remember.”

  “I do.” Her hand fell back to her lap. “I wish I didn’t, but I do. Oh, Lord. He saw me in that awful thing that Chinese dragon made me wear.”

  “He swears he closed his eyes.”

  Comfort closed hers. “He sat beside me on the bed and made it . . . he made it bounce.” Her eyes flew open. “He made noises. Grunts and moans and . . .” She snatched a pillow from the head of the bed and buried her face it.

  Bode reached for her, alarmed when her shoulders began to shake. “Comfort? It’s all right. John won’t ever—” He stopped, his mouth flattened, and he leaned back. “I’m sure it was amusing,” he said dryly.

  Comfort lowered the pillow. Her eyes were luminous with unshed tears, and her cheeks were rosy. She hiccupped once, surprising herself, and then sobered. “It wasn’t amusing,” she said earnestly. “Not then. None of it was. It was awful. But now, I’m fine. More than fine, and Mr. Farwell, well, he was heroic.” In spite of her best intentions, another bubble of laughter surfaced. She hiccupped again. “I think he meant to throw us both out the window, though. I’m not sure why.”

  “Escorting—not tossing—you out the window was the original plan. Several of us had been waiting there to help you. We needed the distraction of the brawl to get the ladder close enough to the building without being noticed. When we saw the Chinese woman slip outside and light her opium pipe, the plan changed. My men dealt with your dragon, and I went upstairs to find you.”

  “Have I thanked you? I don’t think I have.”

  “It’s not—”

  She put out her hand. “Thank you,” she said solemnly. And because he seemed to have no idea how to answer her, Comfort leaned forward on her knees and kissed him. Bode always knew how to answer that, and by the time he was done, she was more than a little out of breath.

  She hiccupped and then blinked owlishly. A trifle embarrassed, she pressed her fingers against her lips. Her shoulders and head jerked with the violence of the next one. This time she merely rolled her eyes.

  Bode swung out of bed. “Hold your breath while I get you something to drink.”

  Neither of those remedies had ever worked for her, but she was willing to try them again. She took a large gulp of air and clamped her lips around it while Bode padded off to the washroom behind her. She never heard him turn back, so when large hands suddenly seized her shoulders and a deeply rough voice growled her name close to her ear, she nearly came out of her skin.

  She also had the presence of mind to use the brush to clobber her assailant on the head.

  “Ow!” Bode let go and jumped back before she managed a second swing. He rubbed his head. “Why did you do that?”

  She turned around on the bed to face him and reared up on her knees. She shook the brush at him. “Because you scared me. Why did you do that?”

  “Because I wanted to scare you.” Bode took her dismayed expression to mean that she clearly did not understand his intent. His slight smile mocked her. “Your hiccups. Remember? I believe they’re gone.”

  Comfort took inventory. “Mm. So they are. You’re very clever.”

  “I’m wounded.” He snatched the brush out of her hand, tossed it over his shoulder, and bore her back on the bed.

  Comfort didn’t protest; she didn’t want to. He spread kisses across her face while she finger-searched his scalp for a bump. Not finding one didn’t change her mind about accepting the consequences. She very much enjoyed Bode’s sense of justice.

  He got her out of her shift this time. She helped him out of his shirt. For warmth they mostly stayed under the sheet, but sometimes their own heat was all they could bear. Hesitancy was absent from their exchanges. He knew when she wanted her breasts touched and when it was too much. He made certain it was only almost too much. She understood that there was a sensitive spot at the base of his spine that made him shiver if she touched it exactly right. She made sure she did.

  He could get her to move closer by running his hand along her thigh from knee to hip, but not when he caressed her in the other direction. The soft underside of her elbows was like velvet. He could kiss her there. She was too ticklish to let his fingertips brush that sweet curve.

  She could make him go absolutely still by walking her fingers down the arrow of crisp hair below his navel to his groin, but not when she slid them through the mat of hair on his chest. He grew restless then, but in a very good way.

  Her throat had a special fascination for him. He liked to press his mouth against the hollow. She liked it, too. She would arch her long, slender neck and let him feast. He sipped her skin, bruising her just a little with the suck of his mouth. She’d see the marks later when she looked in the mirror. It would be something that would show.

  His eyes intrigued her. She liked to watch them while her hands moved over him. When did the balance of color favor violet over blue, and when did the pupils become so large and bottomless that she imagined she could see her reflection in them? She saw one thing when she used her knuckle to trace the line of his jaw from just behind his ear to his chin. She saw another when she cupped the sac under his cock.

  “A light touch,” she whispered. “Responsive. Easy to manipulate.”

  Bode might have choked on his laughter if his earnest groan hadn’t pushed it out of the way. “Maneuver,” he said when he could manage it. “Maneuver, not manipulate.”

  She kneaded his balls. “Are you certain?”

  He wasn’t. He was clearly under a siren’s spell, and the siren knew it. She was smiling at him, full of her new power, full of herself. That gave him the impetus he needed. He startled her by grasping her wrist, hauling her hand up to his chest, and turning her onto her back. He pinned her with his hands and then his body. She squirmed, but that was better than when she was still, and he told her so.

  Comfort stopped trying to avoid his kiss and welcomed it instead. It was long and deep and warm, and when it ended, he was inside her, moving steadily, evenly, drawing out each thrust as though he were drawing in a slow breath. He gave her time; he gave them both time.

  She thought she knew what to expect: the sense of climbing, the desire to grasp for something just outside her reach. It was like that again, but different, too. She understood she wasn’t alone, that he was taking her there, and that he would be in the same place at the end, spent but satisfied.

  And when their breathing quieted and what they heard was the rush of water against the ship’s hull, they were lulled into sleep without speaking a word between them.

  Comfort’s nose twitched. She warily opened one eye in time to see Bode pulling back a steaming mug of coffee. She thought he intended to pass it to her, but he merely raised it to his own lips.

  “Cruel man.” The words were muffled by the pillow she dragged over her face. “Go away.”

  “There’s some for you,” he said. “Biscuits and honey, too. But you have to get up. It’s almost noon, and Mr. Douglas would like to see you. You can’t avoid him or the rest of the men indefinitely.”

  She raised the pillow a few inches. “I’d like to know why not.”

  He took the pillow away from her and tossed it to the foot of the bed. “Because you owe them your life.”

  Comfort flushed. She knew that, and she was ashamed that he’d had to say it aloud. “I’m sorry.” She pushed herself up with one hand and clutched the sheet to her chest with the other. “You’re right. Of course I want to thank them. I’m just not sure how one does that exactly.”

  “One says, ‘Thank you.’ ”

  “Naturally you’d think it was that simple.”

  Bode sat on the edge o
f the bed. “It’s only difficult if you decide it is.” He offered his mug to her. “Decide that it’s not.”

  Comfort took the stoneware mug, sipped, and handed it back. “I’ll get up.”

  He nodded and stood. “There’s a chest full of your belongings over there.” He pointed to the leather-bound trunk sitting beside a cherrywood armoire. “You can decide what you want to put in the wardrobe later. Your uncles had Suey Tsin pack it for you.”

  “I don’t understand. How did they know I would need it?”

  “I told them you would.”

  “But when? They weren’t around last night.”

  “I told them before.”

  “Before?”

  “Before you were rescued.”

  She tried to take that in. “You were that certain you would be able to do it?”

  Bode shrugged and gave her a small, modestly self-assured smile as he raised the mug to his lips. “It’s only difficult if you decide it is.” Anticipating that she might lunge for the pillow and throw it at him, he retreated to the table. Comfort muttered something under her breath that he didn’t catch and thought he probably shouldn’t anyway. She didn’t have much difficulty saying things clearly when she meant him to hear.

  He sat down on the bench that was fixed to the wall behind the table. Angling into one corner, he brought up a leg, knee bent, and stretched the other out. He held the mug in both hands and watched Comfort manage the sheet a bit too deftly for his tastes. He had hardly any good view of the curve at the small of her back before she disappeared into the washroom. Since she hadn’t taken anything from the trunk with her, he was hopeful that a second opportunity would present itself.

  When she emerged some ten minutes later looking fresh, brushed, and rested, she was wearing the sheet tucked and knotted just above her breasts with one tail draped over her shoulder. It had as many folds as Aphrodite’s gown and looked as if it might be as inviolate.

  “I’m hungry,” she said, approaching the table. “I’ll change afterward.”

  Did she think he required an explanation? Complaining wasn’t among any of the first hundred things he thought of when he saw her. He nudged a chair out for her with the toe of his shoe. “I sliced a biscuit for you. I didn’t know if you’d want honey, or if you did, how much.” He pointed to the plate in front of him where his own biscuit dripped with so much golden honey that it looked trapped like a leaf in amber.