Kissing Comfort (41 page)

He was still absorbing what she'd said and didn't respond immediately. He'd been taken to task before, but not for a long time, and never by anyone trying to compliment him.
I want you to allow me to be impressed
. God, he thought, but he needed her.

“I suspected,” he said at last, “but they weren't clear. I imagine they didn't want word to get out. I know their reputation for secrecy. I guessed that you'd told them more about the ship than I did.”

“Was I wrong to do that? They were very interested.”

“I didn't ask you not to say anything. I don't know what I would have shown them. I wasn't ready, but I also didn't want to turn down the opportunity to talk to them. The ship's changed a great deal since you saw it.”

“You mentioned that when you came to my office.”

“It's not a paddle steamer any longer,” he said. “That's how much it's changed.”

“What is it?”

“It still has an iron hull, and the steam propulsion plants, but I eliminated the paddle wheels in favor of a three-bladed brass propeller. I'm fiddling with the shape and pitch of the blades. A propeller, especially if I can refine the design of the blades just right, will work more efficiently than paddles. It will make a ship easier to handle in rough seas, and it's less exposed in collisions.”

“Will the ship have sails?”

“For now, yes. No master would be willing to take out a merchant ship without sails to rely on. The crew, too, is fearful the mechanics of the steam plant will fail them. When nature denies them a good wind or calm seas, they might curse the heavens, but they accept it. When a flywheel fails to turn or a boiler ruptures, they want to find the inventor and flay him alive.”

“Then, yes, it should definitely have sails.”

“Don't want to see me flayed?” When she shook her head, he showed her his crooked grin. “Thank you for that.”

“Will you be looking for financing?”

“Yes.”

“Then you'll still talk to Newt and Tucker?”

“Perhaps. There are complications. I didn't marry you to get access to Jones Prescott money.”

Comfort didn't miss the thread of tension in his voice when he said the last, and she wondered at it. “I never thought you did. Not once. I can't say the same about the other men who wanted to marry me. Jackson McCain, for instance. He remarked on the value of almost everything he touched. Teddy Dobbins? He proposed something more like a merger than a marriage.”

“And the others?”

“I just didn't like them very much.” She raised her knee and rested it on his thigh. She rubbed her foot against his leg. “Did you ever propose to anyone else?”

“No.”

“Bram told me once that you would never marry. He said you were already wedded to Black Crowne, that you're driven to make money.”

“Did he? That's an interesting perspective, coming from him.”

Comfort was uncertain what that meant, but Bode didn't seem to be inclined to explain. “I think he misunderstood what he saw. You're passionate about what you do. That design, for instance, for the propeller. It's as much a work of art as a feat of engineering.”

Bode stroked her arm. “Thank you,” he said. He turned his head and touched his lips to her brow. “But there's truth in what Bram said as well. Not about being wedded to Black Crowne, but about making money. The business doesn't survive without it.”

“I know. I've worked alongside Newt and Tuck almost all of my life. I have more respect for what it takes to make money than Bram does.” She waited to see if Bode would say something, but he remained oddly quiet. “Why did you move out, Bode? I thought about it again this evening when I heard Mr. Henry's story.”

“Mm. Tolerance is not one of Alexandra's virtues.” He stared at the ceiling and felt his chest swell with his indrawn breath. He let it out slowly. “I think you know that, though. I remember telling you that Suey Tsin could have waited for you in Alexandra's kitchen while you visited. You knew better.”

“Your mother's not reluctant to express her opinion,” she said carefully. “On the matter of the Chinese, she's hardly alone.”

“Yes, well, I find that Alexandra's opinions occupy too many chairs at the dinner table and too many rooms of the house. Living under her roof is tantamount to living under her thumb. There's no peace.” He found her hand again and held it. “No comfort.”

Bode caught her glance when she lifted her head, and without a word passing between them, he let her know he meant it in every sense. When she returned her head to his shoulder, the pressure in his chest eased.

“Bode?”

“Hmm?” She had been quiet so long he thought she'd begun to drift off.

“I need to know if you still think Newt or Tuck had something to do with my abduction.”

Bode frowned. “I thought we agreed to consider every possibility.”

“I just thought by now that you'd have ruled each of them out.”

“By now? We only discussed it this afternoon.”

“It's neither one of them, Bode.”

“It probably isn't.”

There was nothing reassuring about his answer, but she was certain she didn't want him to placate her with telling her what she wanted to hear. She turned away abruptly and sat up. She felt Bode's fingers graze the small of her back. She rose from the bed anyway.

Their marriage document was lying on the floor where Bode had flung it earlier. She picked it up and laid it on the table on her way to the washroom. She spent a few minutes there composing herself and attending to her needs. When she emerged, Bode was sitting on the edge of the bed waiting to change places with her.

While he was in the washroom, she extinguished the lamp at the bench where she'd been reading and turned back the one on the shelf above the bed. She pulled back the quilt and sheet and crawled into bed, and when he joined her, she didn't edge toward him.

“You're angry.” He didn't try to touch her.

“I'm out of sorts.”

The distinction seemed important to her, but it was lost on him. Short of telling her that he was no longer entertaining any suspicions about either Tuck or Newt, he didn't know if there was anything he could do. He lightly punched the pillow under his head until it conformed to the shape he wanted. He rested his head on it and stared at the shoulder and rigid back that she presented to him.

“I'm sorry,” he said, because it seemed as if he should. It wasn't a lie, and it wasn't meant to placate her. He was sorry that he couldn't tell her what she wanted to hear, sorry that he hadn't kept the inner workings of his mind to himself. Just like the plans for his propeller ship, they weren't ready to be shared with others.

“I'll be fine, Bode. I merely need time.”

“Do you need it over there?”

A trace of a smile touched her lips. He made it sound as if she were on the other side of the room when the reality was that less than a foot separated them. She understood that they were each feeling their way. If she wanted his honesty, then perhaps she needed to be less prickly when she got it. Still, her reaction shouldn't dictate what he decided to share with her. They'd never be able to sustain a marriage with so many eggshells lying at their feet.

Comfort didn't turn over, but she did inch backward. That small overture brought him closer, and they closed the gap. He made a cradle for her bottom and supported the backs of her thighs with his. His arm slipped around her waist, and she laid hers over it. She felt his breath stir her hair. His lips lightly touched her head. Her shoulder lost its inflexible curve, and she yielded her back to him. Her heart settled into its natural rhythm, and she closed her eyes.

Comfort.

In moments, they were both asleep.

 

 

 

 

Comfort stirred. It seemed that she would break the surface to wakefulness, but she only skimmed it. She dove deep again.

 

 

 

 

“Comfort. Wake up.” Bode placed one hand on her shoulder, cautiously at first, then with more pressure. “Comfort!” He thought she might sit up abruptly or try to shake him off. What he didn't anticipate was that she would scream.

He reacted without thinking and put his hand over her mouth. She bit him. He yanked his hand back and pressed the web of flesh between his thumb and forefinger against his lips, nursing it. He tasted blood.

Comfort screamed again, and this time he didn't try to interfere. The sound of it raised the hair at the back of his neck. It wasn't a cry a fear, but one of pain. It tore at him to listen to it. Without warning, she turned on her side and drew her knees up to her chest and bent her head toward them. She clasped her legs tightly. Her eyes weren't merely closed; they were squeezed shut. She didn't scream again, but her wounded whimper was harder to bear.

Someone pounded on the stateroom door, distracting Bode. He was almost grateful for the interruption. Because he didn't want to yell and startle Comfort into screaming again, he levered himself over her to reach the edge of the bed and rolled out. The quilt was lying on the floor where she'd kicked. He scooped it up and covered her before he went to the door.

He opened it a few inches. Tapper Stewart stood in the passageway, rocking heel to toe and looking as if he wished he were anywhere else. The space between his heavy black eyebrows had vanished with the intensity of his frown.

“Just finished my watch, Mr. DeLong. Thought I heard the lady.” He raised himself up a little higher on the balls of his feet and tried to get a look over Bode's shoulder. “Is she all right?”

“A bad dream,” Bode told him. “She's fine now.”

“Anything I can get for her? Some tea? It's no problem.”

Bode started to say that Comfort didn't want anything, but then he remembered that she would wake thirsty. “Tea would be very good, Tapper. The pot, please. Not only a cup. Thank you.” He stepped aside just enough for Tapper to glimpse the outline of Comfort's huddled body under the quilt.

“Won't be but a few minutes,” Tapper said. His fiercely drawn features finally relaxed. He bobbed his head once, and then he was off.

Bode closed the door and returned to the bed. He adjusted the wick on the oil lamp and allowed the dim pool of light surrounding Comfort to widen and brighten. He immediately saw her eyes were open.

“You're awake?” He had to ask because her stare was so vacant that he wasn't sure.

She blinked, nodded.

“Tapper's bringing tea. I can get you a glass of water or some sherry.”

“Water,” she said. It hurt to talk.

Bode nodded, disappeared into the washroom, and returned in short order with a glass. “Will you sit up?”

Comfort didn't try to answer. She simply raised her head and held out her hand. When Bode put the glass against her palm, she seized it and drew it quickly to her lips. She barely swallowed, emptying the glass in a single pour.