“Ow!” I yanked the needle from the pad of my finger and stuck the bleeding appendage in my mouth.
My frustration with sewing had been mounting all day, but I refrained from tossing the nearly finished garment off the balcony.
I’d woken this morning alone and hadn’t seen anyone except the young soldier who delivered my meals. Wherever Ashley spent his waking hours, it wasn’t here.
But he’d been ever-present in my mind.
As I measured, cut, and stitched in the chair at his tidy desk, I ruminated the art of intimacy. Touching, kissing, undressing, drawing him into my body… I imagined licentious scenarios in every combination of positions I’d seen performed in cities, gutters, and taverns.
Of course, I had my own experiences with Priest and others to draw on, but I was rusty. And after Priest’s betrayal, I lacked the confidence I once had.
Was I still desirable? If I were, would Priest have strayed?
I powered through the negative thoughts and conceived a fantasy where Ashley devoted himself to the service of a lady pirate, where he wanted me beyond all else and became my professed lover. As my fingers worked the sewing needle, my mind erected illusions of us naked, entangled, licking, whispering, caressing, and rutting day and night.
Immersed in my carnal imagination for hours, I allowed myself to feel every reaction—fear, trepidation, doubt, denial, acceptance, hunger, pleasure—until I became…not jaded. I could never become hardened to a man’s touch, and when it happened with Ashley, I would experience all these feelings again. But I mentally prepared myself for it as best as I could.
I came to terms with the role I would play as Ashley’s prisoner-turned-lover.
Now I just needed my hands to follow my head.
Returning my attention to the garment on my lap, I finished the final touches.
Stays were the foundation of a woman’s total look. Whether I went on to knit the fashionable undress of a servant or the stifling gown of the gentry and middling sorts, I had to start with this essential piece.
The boned body was necessary to achieve an elongated torso, cinched waist, and encased bosom. Since I’d worn these contraptions most of my life to support my back and breasts, I’d learned how to make them from scraps.
For the boning, I used narrow strips of pasteboard—thanks to the thick paper I’d found in Ashley’s desk. If he’d needed those drawings, he should have been more explicit.
You will fashion a proper wardrobe for yourself before you leave these quarters.
Every time I repeated his command in my head, I grew more irritated. So much so, I raided his armoire, too.
The fine silk of his shirts provided a lovely exterior to cover the stays. And since he owned more gold-embroidered blue frocks than any man required, I tore apart some of those.
The brocaded fabric, with its soft textures, voluminous pleats, and vivid blue dye, would constitute a bodice and skirt that I would later sew together.
It was a lot of work for a single informal gown. But I refused to sit in this cabin for the next month and be petulant about it.
Pushing back the chair, I rose to my feet and wrapped the stays over the shirt I’d donned this morning. Priest’s shirt. Since it draped my smaller frame like a shift, the folds of white linen gathered marvelously beneath the bone body.
I left the laces of Priest’s shirt open on my chest and cinched the front closure of the stays. To achieve a proper fit, however, the undergarment required a second pair of hands. That would come later.
Returning to the needle and thread, I tackled the skirt.
As the lemon-yellow sun made its descent to the western horizon, I toiled away, my gaze flitting to the windows, my ears perked for the sounds of an approaching ship.
Hope was a dangerous investment. I couldn’t control Priest’s decisions or the outcome of my faith in him. I could only govern my own actions, right here, right now.
Woman’s work.
I sighed. Within three or so days, I would have a functional gown and thenceforth a ticket out of this cabin.
With my head down and another finger bleeding, I lost myself in the task. As dusk mantled the chamber in darkness, I lit the lanterns and pushed on.
Around two bells of the first dog watch, the exterior door opened. From my position behind the desk, I glimpsed the same young soldier setting the evening meal on the table in the dining cabin.
The hearty aroma of baked meat and vegetable lobscouse reached my nose, beckoning me to eat. And I would, after I finished this hem.
Bent over the fabric, I wove the thread in a steady rhythm, listening to the departing footfalls of the soldier. The door shut. Silence settled in. But something niggled.
I looked up and gasped as my gaze tumbled into the gulf of Ashley’s dark blue eyes. He stood a cabin away, watching me from the dining table, with his hat pinned beneath his elbow.
Honest to God, he had the smoothest brow and hardest expression of any aristocrat. And with such an innocent-looking face? Remarkable.
Perhaps it was the wide, pillowlike fullness of his pink lips. Or the large, round, ocean color of his eyes. Or that perfect, youthful skin that had not a freckle nor a blemish nor a whisker upon it.
His black hair, trimmed by a meticulous hand, fell in tousled, windblown lengths on the crown of his head. It faded perfectly into shorter, more tamed strands on the sides, defying the expectations of his exalted rank and stature.
Longer locks were a status symbol while thinning hair and baldness came with great humiliation. Most noblemen opted to spend a gross amount of coin on bombastic, powered perukes—yet another scheme to flaunt wealth.
But Ashley had been blessed with thick natural hair, the confidence to show it off, and the resources to keep it trimmed.
Today he wore a white cravat about his neck and a black waistcoat over the silk shirt. His usual blue frock stretched across his shoulders, matching the blue of the fabric I was hemming.
As his eyes widened with the realization of what I’d done, I held my breath, anxious to finally coax a reaction from his impassive mien.
Wait for it… Wait for it… Any second now he would turn crimson and explode.
He slowly set the hat aside. Then his buckled shoes started moving, carrying him toward me with even, resolute steps. With a sluggish exhale, I set the needle and unfinished skirt on the desk and folded my hands on my lap, my gaze never leaving his.
“Explain this.” He paused beside me and pressed a finger against the plundered fabric of my sewing project.
“Have you forgotten who I am?” I tilted my head, smiling sweetly. “I raid and thieve wealthy arseholes for personal gain.”
“Wretched pirate.” His hand twisted into a fist, and he yanked it behind him, his posture as straight as his face. “You were given more than enough fabric to complete the task.”
“I was given coarse, unflattering worsted.” I grabbed a handful of the itchy wool he wanted me to use and tossed it at him. “I don’t see a stitch of this nonsense scratching your precious behind.”
“You deliberately defied me.”
“I did what you asked. Do you know how difficult that is for me?”
“No.” He bit out the syllable, pulsing his chiseled nostrils. “Tell me.”
I drew my head back, surprised by the command, and recovered quickly. “When I was a child, my mother wanted me to be a harpist. She thought the skill would invite an agreeable betrothal.” I slumped in the chair as ancient guilt crept into my shoulders. “During my first harp lesson, I demolished the elegant instrument and used the strings as fishing line.”