The detective inclined his head to indicate that he understood. “Then I imagine you are experiencing a trying time, and I’m very sorry for it. I find it is often best for our clients to simply state the problem and allow me to ask questions that will provide the detail I need. If that is satisfactory to you, then we should begin.”

Alexandra nodded. She approved of this straightforward approach. Making the decision to meet with someone from the agency had been difficult in its own right. She had no liking for involving outsiders in the affairs of her family, and she required some guidance as to how to proceed.

She purposely chose her husband’s library for the meeting. While this room was the site of countless infidelities, Alexandra still believed the spirit of Branford’s intellect and scholarship favorably influenced all business conducted here. Until he made the unfortunate, and she would add, wildly romantic, gesture to support a cause as ill conceived as the secession of the Southern states, she had trusted his judgment as it related to Black Crowne.

The Pinkerton man sat opposite her in a Queen Anne chair that was easily the least comfortable chair in the room. It seemed to her that he had chosen it purposefully, underscoring that this was a business meeting, not a social call. She appreciated that he was direct and self-assured, yet also respectful. Had he demonstrated the least inclination for toadying up to her, she would have had Hitchens escort him out.

The fact that he was of an age with her supported her confidence that he was experienced. He did not smile continuously as men sometimes did when they were trying to please her. His expression was more carefully guarded than that, but when he tilted his head and offered a slim, encouraging smile from behind his neatly trimmed mustache, she noticed there was a small gap between his front teeth. For reasons she couldn’t begin to understand, that put her at her ease.

“All right,” Alexandra said. “I shall start by telling you that there is little distinction in my mind between matters of business and matters of family. They are inexorably linked. Whether your view is the same, I don’t know, but I require strict confidentiality regardless.”

“Of course.”

“My immediate concern is for my older son, Beauregard. He is the head of Black Crowne and has been since my husband’s death. While he often consults me and values my opinion, I have entrusted him with the day-to-day management of the operations. Until recently, I have not been displeased.”

“I hope you will forgive me, Mrs. DeLong, but perhaps engaging your lawyer would better suit than hiring a detective agency.” He cleared his throat. “Pinkerton men don’t settle disputes; we often enforce the settlement.”

Alexandra found the slight rasp in his voice pleasant, but she noticed that he raised one hand to his collar as if his throat were bothering him. She offered him refreshment earlier and he refused. She offered again.

His hand dropped back to his lap. “No, thank you. Go on.”

“I haven’t asked for your help with a dispute. Rather, I want your help finding my son.” She folded her hands together. Her knuckles whitened. “For all intents and purposes, he’s disappeared.”

“Disappeared,” he repeated calmly. “Has he done this before?”

Alexandra supposed that from his vantage point it was a reasonable question, but she could barely contain her annoyance. “He has not,” she said firmly. “This is out of character.”

“When did you last speak to him or have some sort of correspondence?”

“He was here eight days ago. I spoke to him briefly, and he spent some time with his younger brother.” She explained Bram’s bedridden condition. “I did not see him leave.”

“I hope you will allow me to speak to . . . Bram, is it?”

“Abraham. Yes, of course you may. He says Bode gave him no indication that he meant to travel or would be unreachable, but Bram might reveal something different to you. It is entirely possible that he is lying, although whether his intent is to protect me, his brother, or himself, I cannot possibly know.”

“What inquiries have you already made?” the detective asked. “Friends? Relatives? Business associates?”

Alexandra told him about her encounter with John Farwell. “When I didn’t hear from Bode the following day, I sent a second message. Several days later, I sent a third. Mr. Farwell insists that my son has received the notes. He will not say more than that. He is not at all helpful. Bram seems to think that Mr. Farwell’s behavior can be laid at Bode’s door, but I am not happy with that explanation. Mr. Farwell must be made to give over information about my son or be held accountable for his disappearance.”

“Do you suspect this Farwell of foul play?”

“Until my son is standing unharmed in front of me, I am not ruling it out. I am hiring you, of course, to do exactly that. Find my son. I will give you a list of business associates. Bode rarely speaks of friends, so neither can I. Bram might have information. We have no relatives here in California. My late husband and I have family in Boston. Bode and his cousins occasionally correspond.”

“Your son is unmarried?”

“Yes. This is not about a woman.” The detective did not given any indication that he was skeptical, but Alexandra felt compelled to explain, “If we were discussing my younger son, I would tell you that it is certainly a possibility you should consider. I have complete confidence in my answer as it pertains to Bode. He is ruthlessly devoted to Black Crowne. That is something all his competitors will tell you.”

“Very well.” He asked one question after another regarding Bode’s living arrangements, his activities outside of work, and the management of Black Crowne in his absence—if indeed he was truly absent. “I must tell you, Mrs. DeLong, that I haven’t heard anything that convinces me your son has disappeared, and I say that to ease your mind, not to distress you further. I will pursue every one of the leads you have given me, but you must prepare yourself for the possibility that Mr. Beauregard DeLong’s absence is because he’s deliberately ignoring you.”

Although Alexandra’s nostrils tightened with her sharply indrawn breath, she maintained her composure. “Do not concern yourself that I will kill the messenger. If it turns out that all my fears can be explained because Bode has suddenly decided he must have secrets from me, I will deal with him. And no, it will not be pleasant for either of us.”

Alexandra raised an inquiring eyebrow. “Is there anything else?”

“No. Not right now.” He cleared his throat again. “I would like speak to Mr. Abraham DeLong if that’s convenient.”

“It’s convenient for me. I cannot say that Bram will find it so. He is unapologetically disagreeable. Bed confinement does not suit his temperament in the least.”

“I understand.” He stood as Alexandra came to her feet.

“I’ll have Hitchens escort you.” She tapped her temple suddenly. “Ask my son about Samuel Travers. He was Bode’s valet before he was Bram’s man.”

“Perhaps I should talk to Mr. Travers.”

“I’d like nothing better, but none of us know what’s become of him either.”

When Bode stepped on deck beside her, she pressed her elbow into his side and kept it there while he introduced her to Mr. Benjamin Kerr, the master of the Artemis.

They were welcomed aboard as if there were nothing at all unusual about their arrival. Mr. Kerr did not ask for any explanation beyond what had been communicated to him by the Demeter’s semaphore flags, but Bode offered a brief one before they were shown to their quarters. Because the stateroom was occupied by a passenger who had paid very well for that accommodation, Bode and Comfort accepted quarters that were considerably less spacious than what they’d enjoyed on the Demeter.

Comfort looked around the room in a single glance. The bed fixed to the wall was narrow. There was no separate room for bathing, only a commode that held a basin on top and a chamber pot below. There was no wardrobe or table. No window bench because there was no window. The sailor who escorted them to their cabin lighted the lantern that hung by the door before he helped the two men that followed carry in Comfort’s trunk and Bode’s large valises.

Comfort thanked them. She thought they did a remarkably good job of avoiding looking Bode in the eye on their way out. “It will be like living in a teacup,” she told Bode. “Really, I don’t mind.”

He raised an eyebrow at her. “I mind for you.” He took in their new quarters much as she had, in a single glance. Her teacup analogy was accurate.

Comfort faced him and took his hands in hers. She gave them a small shake. “Consider this, Bode. If this cabin is the best Mr. Kerr can show us, it means that all of the adequately appointed rooms are occupied by people who paid. Put another way, we are victims of your successful commerce.” She saw that he was unconvinced and was likely regretting that he had turned down the master’s offer to vacate his own quarters in favor of them. “It isn’t forever,” she reminded him. “We’ll be home within the week. I’ve lived in a tent before. This is much better.” Standing on tiptoe, she kissed him on the cheek before she let him go. “You know it, too. You must. You marched with Sherman.”

“You’re right.” It was only on Comfort’s behalf that he took issue with their quarters, but she managed to make him believe she found them tolerable. “There is a lounge for the passengers, and you are welcome to use it as freely as you like. I’ll take you there now, if you wish. I need to speak to Mr. Kerr.”

Comfort knew Bode was less interested in a conversation with the shipmaster than he was in inspecting the damage to the Artemis Queen. It had taken them longer to cross paths with the Artemis than either Bode or Mr. Douglas had anticipated, and Bode wanted to know the reason why.

“I’d like to visit the lounge,” she said. “You’ll come for me when you’re done, won’t you?”

“Certainly.” He gave her his arm. “We’ll spend time on deck afterward. There’s no reason for us to hurry back here.” Her arch look momentarily arrested him. “On the other hand,” he said, returning her look, “perhaps there is.”

He settled back against the headboard, picked up the folded copy of the San Francisco Call from the bedside table, and dropped it in his lap. He was not surprised to see that it was Hitchens at the door; however, the man standing just to one side of the butler surprised the hell out of him.

Hitchens announced the visitor, asked Bram if there was anything he needed, and then took his leave.

Bram flung the newspaper onto the floor. “What are you doing here?”

James R. Crocker smiled thinly. He approached the bed and looked over the weights and pulleys attached to Bram’s splinted leg. “What happens if I knock this out of the way?”

“I can’t stop you, so if you came here with that in mind, then have at it.”

Crocker eyed Bram’s raised leg for a long, contemplative moment before he turned his attention to Bram. “It’s tempting,” he said, pulling the nearby chair even closer to the bed. He sat. His knees bumped the mattress. “I’m still not convinced it’s broken. Regardless, it’s been a good strategy. Whether by intention or happenstance, you’ve made yourself difficult to reach.”

“What do you want?”

Crocker lifted an eyebrow. “You’re not in a position to make a single demand. Consider your tone, and consider whether or not you want the use of your other leg.” He cleared his throat and absently touched his collar. “Your mother’s hired Pinkerton to find your brother. Please tell me you appreciate the irony.”

“I’m beginning to.”

“At first I thought it would be a simple matter to put someone on the household staff here, but every person I sent to inquire about a position was turned away. The only outside visitors to get past the front door were your brother, your fiancée, and your doctor. This is not a welcoming home, Bram.”

“What do you mean about the visitors? Are you saying I’ve had others?”

“You didn’t know?” Crocker’s smile was derisive. “You aren’t master here at all, are you? Alexandra controls everything.”

“Mrs. DeLong,” Bram said. “Call her Mrs. DeLong.”

Crocker chuckled. The sound was vaguely hoarse. He reached into his jacket and withdrew a red-and-white tin of lozenges. He opened it and, out of habit, offered one to Bram. When Bram waved the tin aside, Crocker merely shrugged. He flicked a lozenge into his mouth and cheeked it. “So here I am,” he said, putting the tin away. “Granted access at last because your brother’s disappeared. Or so your mother thinks.”

“He’s avoiding her.”

“She doesn’t like that idea. I can tell.”

Bram pressed one hand to his forehead. He was regretting the last dose of laudanum. He couldn’t think clearly. In spite of the danger that James R. Crocker presented to him, Bram wanted nothing so much as to close his eyes and go to sleep. “Bode’s working on something. A new ship design, I think. He hasn’t said much about it to me and apparently has said even less to Mother. He doesn’t want to be disturbed.” He pushed his hand through his hair. “How is it that you were assigned to this? The agency could have sent anyone. Why you?”

He shrugged. “Good fortune favors the prepared. I happened to be there when your mother’s inquiry arrived, and since I’ve already met your brother, I was the obvious choice.”

“You met Bode? When?”

“Twice, actually. The first time was at the opera house. I attended the opening night performance of Rigoletto because I’d heard you’d be there. I also heard you’d invested in the production. You understand I had reason to hope that it would be a successful venture for you.”

Bram merely stared at him from slumberous, heavy-lidded eyes.

“My companion pointed out your family’s box,” Crocker said. “You weren’t there. I learned from someone else that the person occupying it was your brother. We had an . . . an encounter, I think you’d say . . . during the break. Quite by accident.” He patted his jacket over the place where the tin of lozenges was pocketed. “I dropped my tin, and your brother returned it. An uneventful moment by anyone’s measure, except that the young lady on his arm fainted dead away. I discovered afterward that she was your fiancée.” He smiled thinly, revealing the gap in his front teeth and no humor. “It turned out to be . . . providential.”

Bram stirred uncomfortably. He looked away.

“Nothing to say?” asked Crocker. “Perhaps later. The second time I met your brother was intentional. I went to Black Crowne and asked after him under the pretense of doing business. The introduction was made on the Demeter Queen. He recognized me immediately from the opera house. I believe I was flattered. After all, he had his hands full that night.” He chuckled quietly at his own joke. “Full of your fiancée.”

“I understood,” Bram said without inflection. “Very amusing.”

Crocker made a small whistling sound as he sucked hard on the lozenge. After a moment he tucked it back against his cheek. “I wouldn’t have pursued a meeting with your brother if I could have learned anything substantial about Miss Kennedy. I thought I knew her routine, and then she suddenly veered from it, staying at home for an entire week by my reckoning. You were helpful there, of course, as you should have been.”

Crocker watched Bram’s eyes dart away again. “You don’t like to remember that, do you? But I find that threat of pain or death prompts people to act in ways that might otherwise be abhorrent to them. You have nothing to regret. It could have been your mother, Bram. It could have been you. I think everyone but your fiancée and her uncles would agree you made the only choice you could have.”

Bram clenched his teeth hard enough to make his jaw ache.

“It isn’t your fault that the money didn’t follow. I may have overstepped, and I take responsibility for that. Naturally, you are responsible for everything else. It’s your debt, Bram. I think I’ve proven I’ll do whatever it takes to collect it. That’s what people expect when they hire me. Your associates in Sacramento sent me here because they know my reputation for results. They don’t care how I do it; they want what they’re owed. You’ll want to consider how you’re going to make this right. I require nothing at all from you about your mother’s comings and goings. Thanks to your brother, I can reach her anytime I like.”

Crocker’s last statement sharpened Bram’s dulling senses. “Do you know where Bode is?”

Crocker pointed to himself. “Do I know?” He chuckled. “It’s a compliment that you think I might.”

Bram rephrased his question. “Did you have something to do with Bode’s disappearance?”

“According to you, he hasn’t disappeared.” He saw Bram’s fists clench. The ineffectual threat made him smile. “And between you and me, I don’t have much incentive to find him.”

“What about Miss Kennedy?”

Crocker didn’t answer immediately. He made a show of checking his pocket watch. “Twenty minutes,” he said. “I made a wager with myself before I stepped in here. I didn’t think you’d ask about her welfare quite so soon, but I’m wondering if you don’t feel quite as guilty as I would in your place.”

It was almost laughable to hear James R. Crocker speak of guilt. The man had no conscience. “There was nothing in the papers following the first report of the attack. My mother received a note from Miss Kennedy’s uncles indicating that she was recovering and resting at home. She wanted no visitors.” The note had also said that as far as they were concerned, the engagement was ended and that Comfort wished to have nothing further to do with the DeLong family. Bram didn’t share any part of that. It was still to his advantage to allow Crocker to believe he and Comfort were engaged.

Crocker nodded slowly. “That’s what I’ve heard also. No one’s seen her, but that isn’t unexpected. She had a harrowing experience.”

“You made certain of that.”

“I did? Didn’t I say that you were responsible, Bram?”

“I have the note you delivered the night she was abducted. Your threats were very clear.”

“I didn’t deliver anything like that.”

“You tried to see me that night. You left a message for me when Hitchens wouldn’t let you in.”

“I’ve never been to your front door before. Ask Hitchens. Don’t you think he would have said something to your mother when I arrived to meet with her?”

“I told him not to say anything about that night. To anyone. Ever.”

“Then ask him privately. I wasn’t here.”

Bram frowned. “So it was someone you sent instead. It doesn’t matter. You made it plain what you were going to do with her.”

“Mm. If that’s so, you made it plain you weren’t going to do anything about it. I didn’t receive anything from you, did I?”

“I don’t have the money. I told you before that you would have to wait for it until Comfort and I were married.”

“Those terms were accepted on the condition of a prompt exchange of vows. You can’t truly have believed anyone would wait a year. I received the message you sent about setting a date. You can’t pay what you owe now; why would anyone suppose you could manage the interest at the end of a year? You really don’t understand the men you’re dealing with.”

“She’s good for it,” Bram said defensively. “Her uncles are good for it.”

Crocker removed another lozenge from the tin and dropped it in his mouth. “Everyone knows they have money. Whether you’d be allowed access to it is something else entirely. Everyone was intrigued by the idea of Miss Kennedy as collateral on your debt, but I wonder now if that wasn’t a mistake. When you could have raised money to prevent her abduction, you didn’t. Instead of applying to your brother for help, you surrendered her instead, essentially counting on her family to pay what you owed.”

“They must have paid at least part of it.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because she’s home. You wouldn’t have let her go if they hadn’t paid something toward her release.”

Crocker regarded Bram with more suspicion. “Is it opium?” he asked. “Is that what you’re using? Or cocaine?” He gently sniffed the air. “No trace of smoke. I’ll wager it’s laudanum you’ve been spooning down your throat. That would account for it.”

“Account for what?”

“The fact that your thinking is as cloudy as an opium den. In your right mind, you’d know I wouldn’t accept a partial payment. We’re long past that point. It was all or nothing. You have no idea how much could have been raised that night. As I said, I overstepped, but I think it gives you a taste of things to come.”

“But you let her go.”

He fell silent as he debated what, or if, he should tell Bram. He decided that Bram’s reaction would not be so blunted by laudanum that he couldn’t learn something from it. “No. Not exactly. The Rangers failed to control their house. She got away.”

Bram blinked owlishly, then he threw back his head and laughed. By the time he reined himself in, there were tears at the corners of his eyes. “Of course she did. My God, but she’s one of a kind.”

Crocker grunted.

Bram wiped his eyes with one corner of the sheet. He sobered with difficulty, swallowing more laughter as it stirred in his chest. In Bram’s experience, there was only so much Crocker would tolerate, and the limit had been reached.

Crocker waited for the full implication of Comfort’s escape to hit Bram. He saw the moment clearly. Bram’s jaw sagged. Crocker nodded. “Did you think I wasn’t serious when I said your mother would be next? You really should stop taking the laudanum. Your judgment is never impressive, Bram, but it barely exists now.”

“How do you suppose threatening to harm my mother will get you your money? There is no money. Now that I’m bedridden, I can’t even take my small stake and turn it around at the tables.”

Crocker didn’t bother to point out that it was exactly that thinking that got Bram into trouble in the first place. “Your brother will pay for your mother.”

“He won’t.” Bram hesitated. He’d held out as long as he reasonably could. Bode and his mother couldn’t blame him for telling the truth. Wasn’t that what Bode was always asking him to do? “He can’t, and not because he’s a cold-blooded bastard. How many ways can I say there’s no money? What we have is debt. The house. The ships. The bank owns us. It has since my father mortgaged everything and bet it on the Confederacy to win the war. You think my judgment is less than impressive? Ask Bode about my father’s. My brother has had his sights on repairing the family fortune since the end of the war. He can’t see anything outside of that. He doesn’t take a salary beyond what is required to keep him alive. He gives my mother and me an allowance. It is generous by any standard except for the one we were used to. He stopped advancing money better than a year ago. He’s never wavered. When he thinks Mother is going to pressure him for funds, he stays away. She’d never tell you about that, but there’s a better than even chance that’s why he’s ignoring her now.”

Crocker was thoughtful as he scratched his beard just under his chin. He wondered if he could believe Bram. “This isn’t common knowledge.”

“God, no. It would ruin us. And if you let it get about, you’ll never see your money. Black Crowne will collapse. The creditors will take everything first.”

“How do I know that you’re telling me the truth?”

Bram shrugged. “You’re the detective, but I’d advise caution in the event you decide to ask questions. You might raise suspicion, and in this city that would become fact before nightfall. The creditors would start sniffing around, and you’d still have nothing.”

“Who holds the lien against this house?” When Bram said nothing, Crocker sighed. He stood slowly, as though reluctant, and put a hand on Bram’s broken leg just above the knee. “You think I can’t make you feel pain past the laudanum? I’m warning you, I can. Tell me who holds the lien.”

Bram watched Crocker insinuate his hand between the bandages. The man’s fingertips were warm against his skin. There was the slightest downward pressure as Crocker straightened his elbow and began to push. “Croft Federal,” Bram said. He felt the pressure ease immediately.

“Who would be the best person to speak to?”

Bram closed his eyes this time. He didn’t try to hold out. “Mr. David Bancroft,” he whispered. “You can talk to David Bancroft.”

Crocker nodded, satisfied. “One last thing. Your mother said I should ask you about Samuel Travers. Who the hell is he?”

“I thought you were going to the lounge after breakfast,” he said when she looked up.

Comfort dropped one of the ropes so she could use a hand to shade her eyes from the sun. “I was there for a little while. I couldn’t think of a thing to say when the women began discussing whether shaped undergarments were more flattering than shifts. It was all very serious and utterly boring. I would rather have been playing cards with the gentlemen. I’m very good at card games.”

Bode thought of Newt and Tuck and Comfort’s early education at their hands. “I’ll bet you are.” He pointed to the length of rope she was still holding. “Are you trying to make a bend?”

“Mm. Trying. I’ve been shown twice how to make a hunter’s bend, and I still can’t do it.”

“So many times? And you still can’t do it? That’s hard to believe.” He motioned her to make room for him, and when she did, he sat beside her and held out his hand for the ropes. He demonstrated how to twist them together, and then he let her try, guiding her hands when she hesitated. She joined the two ropes on her next attempt. “Very good. Now this one.” He showed her a double carrick bend that was only a little more elaborate than what she’d been trying. “We’ll make a sailor out of you yet,” he said, handing over the finished bend so she could study it for herself.

“I’m coming to it rather late,” she said a trifle wistfully. “We’ll wake up tomorrow morning in the bay.”

“Do you want me to delay our arrival? I’m sure there’s something on board that I can sabotage.”

“After you worked so hard to repair the boiler? I don’t think so. Anyway, I’m anxious to see Newt and Tuck, and I’ve been thinking about what you told me about Mr. Crocker. I want to meet him.”

Except to give her a sideways glance, Bode didn’t react. “When did you decide that?”

“This morning. I had a lot of time to consider it once the conversation turned to undergarments.” She tried to work the ropes in her hands, but her fingers weren’t as steady as they’d been moments before. “I want to know why I fainted, Bode.”

“I don’t think Mr. Crocker’s going to be able to explain that.”

“I don’t either, but it would be interesting to find out if I can control it.”

“Interesting,” he said. “Yes, you’d think that.”

“If it were you, you’d want to know.”

He couldn’t deny it. “We’ll see.”

Her eyebrows lifted slightly, and her fingers stilled. “I wasn’t asking permission.”

Bode said nothing.

“Bode?”

“I heard you. I’m trying to decide what I think about it.”

“I want you to go with me,” she said. “I’m hoping you will.”

He clearly heard what she didn’t say. She would arrange a meeting with Mr. Crocker with or without him. “Newt once offered me twenty dollars to be your keeper, and I refused.”

“You should have taken the money and kept the ring.”

He was tempted to kiss the sass right out of her smile. Later, he thought. He would wait until they were alone. They would both enjoy that. “All right,” he said. “But I want to arrange the meeting.”

“Of course.”

“Of course,” he repeated. “You don’t care about that at all, do you?”

“Not a bit.” She wove one rope through the loop she’d made in the other and pulled tight. Grinning widely, she raised the double carrick to show him. “Hah! Now, point out someone I can hang from a yardarm.”

This time he gave in to temptation. He took the carrick bend out of her hand as though to examine it, and as quickly as either one of them could have said, “Bear away before the wind,” he used one of the ropes to make a bowline around her wrist.

Comfort stared from him, to her wrist, and back to the darkening centers of his blue-violet eyes. She felt a delicious shiver travel down her spine. “You’re going to tie me to a yardarm?”

Bode couldn’t hear any concern in her voice. In fact, she sounded a bit hopeful. He stood, drawing her to her feet by means of the bowline. She didn’t resist. Stepping close enough to keep anyone from seeing that she was bound to him, Bode bent his head and whispered in her ear, “Let’s start with a bedpost and see how that goes.”

“She’s here. I saw her comin’ in and came straightaway, just like you asked. They’ll be opening up the gangway by the time you get there.”

Farwell found a quarter, tossed it to the boy, and told him to leave. He went in the back, where the other clerks were doing inventory, and alerted them that he was leaving to meet the ship. He didn’t ask any of them to come along.

Comfort saw John Farwell first. She stepped closer to Bode. This was her first encounter with the man since the concert saloon, and she was not quite as prepared to face him as she’d hoped to be.

Bode sensed her unease first and then found the source of it. “Think of something else,” he said. “If it helps, think of all the ways we found to use that rope.”

Comfort immediately stopped thinking about Mr. Farwell bouncing on the bed beside her and remembered Bode removing the lantern from the hook just inside their cabin and fastening her wrists there instead. She hadn’t objected except to inquire about the bedpost. His answer was practical: during the walk back to their quarters, he’d realized their berth didn’t have one. She would have smiled because, really, he was so excellent at revising a plan, but then he took a step back and studied her, grazing every part of her with his eyes as thoroughly as if he’d used his hands, and what might have been a smile was only the narrow parting of her mouth around a sharply indrawn breath.

She was wet by the time he blew out the lantern and plunged their tiny cabin into complete darkness. She was too excited to be afraid of anything except that he wouldn’t touch her soon enough. The waiting was an agony. When she softly cried out, it was because he’d finally begun to lift her underskirt.

He pressed her back against the wall; his breath was hot on her neck. He worried her earlobe with his teeth and touched his tongue to the shell pink whorl. He used his body to keep her pinned while he fumbled with her drawers and the front of his trousers and, frustrated with the difficulty of keeping her flat to the wall, tugged at the fastenings to her bustle. When he finally yanked it out from under her skirt, she heard him grunt softly in triumph.

The next time he made a sound like that, it was because he was deep inside her, and her legs were clamped hard against his hips, and she was clenching him intimately with muscles that were sleek and slippery. It didn’t matter that her wrists were bound. She had him in ways that mattered more.

Bode touched Comfort’s elbow and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Perhaps you should think of something else,” he suggested quietly. “You’re looking unnaturally flushed.”

Comfort raised a hand to her cheek. She could feel heat against her fingertips. “It’s because of you,” she said, her glance accusing.

He showed her his secretive, selfish smile, the one that made her breath hitch. “I know. And it makes me very, very happy.”

There wasn’t time for her to reply or even tread lightly on his toes. The passengers were moving toward the gangway, and Bode steered her in that direction.

John Farwell culled them from the crowd as quickly as a miner plucking gold nuggets from a sifting pan. There was no opportunity for awkwardness on Comfort’s part, because Mr. Farwell had a list in his head of all the things that must be accomplished without delay. He began by asking about their individual arrangements, barely blinked when Bode announced their marriage, and launched into a somewhat confusing recitation of what had transpired in their absence.

Comfort was grateful when Bode held up his hand and silenced the clerk. “All in good time, John. You need to take care of Mr. Kerr and the Artemis Queen first. I’ve already made arrangements for the delivery of our belongings. I want to hear everything, but not all of it before I’ve reached the office.”

“Yes, sir. There are just a couple of things you should—” He cut himself off because Bode shot him a warning glance over the top of Comfort’s head. “Yes, sir. I’ll talk to Mr. Kerr right now.” Reversing his direction, he headed back to the ship.

“Thank you,” Comfort said softly. “He was making my head swim.”

“I know. He means well. He had a lot of responsibility these last weeks, more than he’s taken on before. If he did well . . .” Bode fell silent, thinking.

“Yes?”

“If he did well, I might be able to spend more time doing what I want and not what I have to.”

“Designing, you mean?”

“That’s part of it. Testing. Construction. Sailing. All of that.”

“Then I hope Mr. Farwell has done exceedingly well.”

The Black Crowne Office came into sight as they turned the corner. Bode deliberately slowed. He usually felt a quickening in his steps as he approached. The sign above the entrance was nearly as long as the building was wide, and the affectation of the fancy English script rarely failed to amuse him. This time, though, he barely noticed the sign. His attention was focused higher than that. He was staring at the windows on the second floor, the ones that looked out on the street from his home.

He stopped walking altogether and took Comfort by the arm. He turned to her. “I should have said something before. Maybe I would have if I’d even thought of it, but I didn’t, so here we are. I don’t know how to make it right on short notice. A hotel, perhaps. Or your uncles’ home. It would only be temporary until I can find a more suitable place.”

Comfort tried to recall if she’d ever seen Bode ill at ease. He spoke as rapidly as John Farwell and, from her perspective, made about as much sense. “Please,” she said. “You’re making my head swim.”

“We don’t have to live here if you don’t want to.”

She blinked, surprised. “Why wouldn’t I want to? You’re my husband, and this is your home.” She raised one hand to the back of her neck and fiddled with several loose strands of hair. “Unless you don’t want me there. It’s your private stateroom. I understand that you might not—” She stopped because his face was no longer shadowed by concern. He was grinning at her and looking about as irrepressible as a ten-year-old boy with a ball and a stick. Shaking her head, she let him lead on.

Bode bid good morning to the clerks working in the storeroom as he ushered Comfort to the stairs. He gestured to her to go first and enjoyed the view from behind.

Comfort pushed at the hatch when she reached the top, but it didn’t budge. “I think it must be stuck,” she told him.

Bode climbed higher and carefully maneuvered himself beside her on the narrow stairs. The hatch didn’t move for him either. “I don’t understand. Something must have fallen over on it.” He pushed again, harder this time, and felt the door give a little. “Can you go down a few steps? I don’t want to knock you out of the way while I’m pushing.”

Comfort didn’t move immediately. They were balanced precariously on the same step twenty feet above the floor of the storage room, as close to each other as was possible without embracing, and Comfort was struck by the fact that she was safe. Perfectly safe.

“I love you,” she said.

He slowly lowered his arm from over his head while he stared at her. “Does your timing strike you at all as peculiar?”

She made a small, helpless gesture with her shoulders. “I didn’t know how to be sure. After Bram . . .” A vertical crease appeared between her eyebrows. “I needed to know that what I feel for you is true.”

“You’re certain of it?”

“I am.”

“And you understand it would be reckless to kiss you just now.”

She nodded.

Bode didn’t think she looked disappointed, but it was what he felt. He’d given some thought to what he would do when she finally said those words, and in every one of the scenes that unfolded in his mind, he’d kissed her so thoroughly that they had no breath between them.

“Hold on,” he said, lowering his head. Recklessness was exactly what was required. He held on to the rope railing with one hand, put the other at her back, and covered her mouth with his. Astonishment made laughter bubble to her lips. The vibration tickled him. He found himself smiling, then chuckling, and in the end it wasn’t the kiss that made them breathless, but something as memorable, and perhaps even better.

When he lifted his head, he stared down into eyes that were bright and lively with mischief and the promise of more to come. He was tempted to be reckless again, but the harsh scraping noise over their heads diverted his attention and hers.

They both stared at the hatch as the door began to open. Bode moved instinctively to shield Comfort. He nudged her gently, encouraging her to take a step down. When she did, he took a step up.

Samuel Travers bent over the opening and stared down at Bode. “I guess John didn’t get around to telling you about the secret knock. Good thing I recognized your voice.” He glanced past Bode to Comfort. “And yours, too, Miss Kennedy. Always did think you had a pretty voice. There’s music in it.”

Comfort recovered before Bode. “You’re very kind, Mr. Travers. Thank you. May we come up now?”

Bode said, “Secret knock?”

Sam let the door fall back and waved Bode up. He stayed close to lend a hand to Comfort.

“What secret knock?” Bode asked again as he and Sam lifted Comfort through the hatch.

“Three sharp raps, then two, then one.”

“Good to know. But why do we need a secret knock?” He heard Comfort laugh softly as he plowed his fingers through his hair. He probably looked every bit as confused as he felt. She, on the other hand, was already moving away, staking her claim on territory that had always been his. Before he could stop her, she was bending over his drawing table to study the pitch and curve of his three-blade brass propeller. He put out a hand to stave off Sam’s explanation and asked a more salient question. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Samuel’s eyes made a significant roll in Comfort’s direction. “Language.”

Comfort glanced up. “It’s all right, Mr. Travers. I’ve been at sea for better than two weeks. I can make hitches and bends and swear like a sailor.”

“You see?” Bode said. “What are you doing here?”

Sam closed the door. He didn’t bother shoving the bookcase back on top. Now that Bode was here, the precaution was unnecessary. “Your brother sent me the same night you left, although I didn’t know then that you’d gone anywhere. I only knew you weren’t here. He gave me a key to get in the office and a message to deliver to you. He was clear that if I didn’t bring you back with me, I shouldn’t come back at all. I’ve been here ever since.”

“You’ve been living here.” It wasn’t really a question. Bode just needed to say it again to put it solidly in his mind.

“That’s what I meant when I said I’ve been here ever since.”

Bode made a noise at the back of his throat. “How did you convince John to let you stay?”

Sam pointed to the brace on his leg. “It didn’t take much convincing. He’s a good man. Wasn’t going to throw me out. I was already nicely settled in before he found me. What with you being gone, he didn’t have any reason to come up here. My thumping around gave me away.” He shrugged. “I would have had to show my face sooner or later. You didn’t have much in the way of food.”

“I wasn’t expecting visitors.”

Sam grunted softly. “You didn’t have enough to feed the mice, but I’ve taken care of that. I made a list of things I needed and your clerks brought them. And don’t worry that I put it on your bill. I paid for it all myself.”

“Jesus, Sam, I don’t care about that.”

“Well, you should. I know you don’t have two nickels to call your own, and it just makes sense that I should—” He stopped because Bode’s head had snapped around to look at Comfort. She was no longer studying the drawings. She’d pushed herself up from the table and was staring at him.

“You heard what he said?” Bode asked her.

She nodded faintly, the rest of her very still. “Is it true?”

“Yes.”

“All right.” She paused, turning her thoughts and feelings inward, taking measure of herself. After a moment, she said, “No. Nothing’s changed. I don’t think you married me for my money, and I don’t care if you don’t have two nickels.”

Samuel Travers slapped his good leg and thumped his bad one. “I’ll be damned. You’re married. That’s where you’ve been. John Farwell wouldn’t give you up for anything. Not to me, not to your mother, not to anyone else who came around looking for you, and all this time you’ve been on your honeymoon. I suppose that’s about the best news these old ears have heard in a long, long time. A honeymoon. Aren’t you the deep one? Well, congratulations.” He limped to the drawing table and thrust out his hand to Comfort. “Hope you’ll accept my best wishes, Miss Ken—er, Mrs. DeLong.”

Comfort took his hand and laughed when he pumped it enthusiastically. “Your best wishes are very welcome.”

“I hope you’ll excuse my forwardness, ma’am, but I need to say—” Bode’s soft groan interrupted him. He glanced over his shoulder.

“Maybe you should hope that I’ll excuse you,” Bode said.

Ignoring him, Samuel Travers turned back to Comfort. “I need to say that I never warmed to the idea of you marrying Bram. Bode here is the right man. Always has been. I didn’t know if he’d ever get around to convincing you. I figure he’s been thinking about it these, oh, maybe eight, nine years now. It’s something you should appreciate, how steady he’s been in his affections. Watching you and Bram together all this time, well, that takes its own kind of toll on a person’s soul, and I don’t suppose it was any different for Bode, but he’s patient and constant, and he knows how to persevere.”

He smiled broadly. “And hasn’t he done just that? It makes a body proud, I can tell you.”

“And you certainly have.” Bode’s mouth twisted wryly. He spoke to Sam, but his eyes were on Comfort’s. “Told her, I mean. Told her everything.”

Samuel was unapologetic. “Seems like there’s been some secret keeping. Best to air it all before the honeymoon’s passed.”

“You know that from experience, do you?”

Comfort gently chided Bode. “Leave him be. You’ll get to be on the other side of this when we sit with my uncles. They’re bound to say something I’ll wish they hadn’t. You’ll enjoy that.”

He conceded the point. “Give my wife back her hand, Sam, and have a seat. Is there anything to drink?”

Sam released Comfort’s hand and stepped toward the table. “I didn’t drink all your spirits if that’s what you’re asking.”

“It’s not even noon. I wasn’t asking for whiskey. Is there tea?”

“Lemonade in the icebox.”

“That’s sounds good. Comfort? Would you like a glass of lemonade?”

“I would. No, you sit with Mr. Travers. I’ll get it.”

“Icebox is in the pantry,” Travers told her. “That’s the first door on your left.”

She thanked him and went about finding glasses while Bode sat at the table. She heard Sam congratulate Bode, his wishes perhaps even more heartfelt than the ones he extended to her. Smiling to herself, she set out three glasses.

“So what did my brother need me for that was so important?” asked Bode.

“I don’t know. He never told me.”

“But you said he had a message.”

“Sure. But it didn’t explain why he wanted you at his bedside.”

“Do you have it?”

Samuel Travers tapped his temple. “Right here. Haven’t forgotten a word. I’m supposed to say that Bram’s not only lying in bed and that he needs you.”

Except for the slow downturn of his mouth, Bode was still. “Tell me again,” he said finally.

“Bram said, ‘Tell Bode I’m not only lying in bed. Tell him I need him.’ Do you know what that first part means? He was particular that I get it right.”

Bode nodded. “I had some questions for Bram and I didn’t trust his answers. I told him I hoped he wasn’t lying to me. He made a joke of it. Said he was lying in bed. What he was telling you, what he wanted me to know, was that, yes, I was right. He’s been lying all along.”