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.