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