Bode stepped behind Comfort and circled her loosely with his arms. He nudged the crown of her hair with his lips. His breath stirred silky, ebony strands. “What are you thinking?”
“Nothing, really. Wondering if it shows, I suppose.”
“If it shows,” he repeated slowly.
“Didn't you wonder after your first time?”
“Oh,” he said. “Oh, that.”
She looked at him in the mirror. “What did you think I meant?”
“Well . . . you came in here to see if you were . . .” The vaguely sheepish expression he saw reflected back was unfamiliar. Perhaps he should be the one wondering if he'd been changed. Something was different. Something showed.
“Were you as young as Bram?” she asked.
He'd never been as young Bram, but he knew what she meant. “I couldn't say,” he told her. “I don't know how old Bram was the first time he was with a woman, and right now I'm trying to recover from the notion that you do.”
She set her arms over his and leaned back into him. “He liked to shock me, or liked to think he could. It was a game for him, not only with me, but with everyone.”
“But mostly with you.”
“Yes. I think that's true.” Her smile held a hint of amusement as she watched Bode mull that over. “It didn't matter what he said to me. I thought it was because he believed I'd remain his friend, but I'm coming to understand that he knew all along that I was in love with him. He took advantage, I suppose you'd say.”
“I would say.” Bode felt as if she'd taken him to the very edge of a precipice. He wasn't certain if he would jump or wait for her to push him. Talk of Bram could put him in that quandary.
“He was twelve, by the way.”
As easily as that, she'd pulled him away from the verge. “Twelve.” He raised his eyebrows a fraction. “Even adding a couple of years to that, supposing that he wanted to truly shock you, I will tell you honestly that I wasn't as precocious as my little brother.”
“But you won't tell me how old you were.”
“No. Some things about one's first encounter should remain a secret.”
“But this was my first time.”
“Then it is a good thing I was there.”
Laughing, she turned in his arms, stood on tiptoes, and placed her hands on his cheeks. She pressed a warm, hard kiss to his mouth that set him back on his heels.
Bode steadied himself, then her. He bent his head and touched her forehead with his own. “A very good thing.”
“Mm.” Comfort tugged on Bode's sleeve. “I still have to attend to . . . attend to certain . . .”
“Ablutions,” he said. “Yes, I'm aware. I'll wait.”
She gave him a little push and pointed to the door. He backed up and leaned against it. “Bode.”
“All right. I'm leaving. But that's only because I know what you can do with those dainty bare feet.” He turned the handle behind him and gave her the privacy she wanted.
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 everâ” 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.”
“Escortingânot tossingâyou 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 notâ”
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.