Page 117 of The Sea Witch
“We’ve both bathed,” Ben noted.
“Tomorrow afternoon, we reach Lambert’s island,” she explained. “I suppose you’d call it an enclave for pirates. He’s a man who values prosperity, or at leastlookingprosperous. To take a seat at his table, you’ve got to look like you’re thriving.”
“Wait...” Ben held up a hand. “Orgies?”
“Itcanturn into one.”
“So, you’ve...”
A corner of her mouth turned up wryly. “It’s a careful line I walk, as a witch and a female pirate. Having others watch me fuck wouldn’t do my reputation any favors.”
Ben exhaled and the knot in his gut unraveled. They weren’t virgins, either of them. Yet at the mental image of her eagerly participating in a public bacchanal, his jaw turned to iron.
“Lambert might be having a party, he might not, but he always likes a festive mood,” she continued. “With you beside me at the pirate refuge, the right rigging is needed.”
Forcing his jaw to unclench, Ben picked through the assortment of coats, waistcoats, shirts, neckcloths, and breeches. They all were of excellent quality, and came in every hue and fabric. Amongst the coats, there was a vivid emerald green with golden braid, a deep aquatic blue trimmed in peach ribbon, and a rich claret adorned with black soutache, like calligraphy written upon the silk.
Something she had said snared his attention. “A pirate refuge. Then I’m to pose as...”
She slanted a look at him. “Lambert’s quite particular about who he lets feast with him. Only the Brethren of the Coast.”
“This choice is dizzying.” He examined the array of coats on her berth. They were far more elaborate and ornate than anything he’d ever worn.
“One of them must call to you,” she answered carefully. “When you played pirate, how’d you see yourself?”
His heart kicked within his ribs, and he rubbed at his chest.
“This one.” He stroked his fingers along the cuff of the claret coat, with its dark braid scrolling in mysterious patterns.
“Bold, sensuous,” she said with approval. “Daring, with substance.”
She searched through the waistcoats and grabbed one that was black with silver embroidery, which she handed to him.
“A good pairing,” he said. “Unexpected.”
“But they work well together, despite the odds.” She stroked a finger down the lapel of the coat. “Give them a try.”
He took one of the clean shirts and pulled it on. Then he donned the waistcoat, followed by the coat.
“I take it they fit well,” he said dryly, seeing the smile bloom across her lips.
She opened a trunk and pulled out a large flat object wrapped in a silk blanket. Unwrapping the blanket, she revealed a mirror of decent size, framed in carved and gilded wood. She held it up for him.
He started at his reflection, the first time he’d seen himself in a long, long while. His beard was thick and dark, his hair loose, and in these small details, he was no longer a warrant officer in the Royal Navy. No longer neat, trim, tidy, but wilder, closer to the living pulse of the sea than ever before. His eyes held knowledge of things that the other Benjamin Priestley did not possess.
“They suit you.”
Her admiring words broke his stunned reverie.
He stepped back to see more of the ensemble. It was all he could do to keep from turning and preening at the reflection of a dangerous, daring man looking back at him. But then... fuck it.
He turned. He preened.
“You look a fearsome, dashing pirate,” she added, eyes bright.
“I do.” He loved the way the fuller skirt of the coat flared when he moved. It was dramatic and dashing, as she’d said. And the coat itself clung to his shoulders, just as the waistcoat hugged his torso. The embroidery glinted and gleamed like a blade. Everything fit exquisitely. It was as if all the garments had been made specifically for him.
He stopped in the middle of his posing. “I cannot fathom why a ship entirely crewed by women has an assortment of men’s clothing at the ready, clothing that’s too big for any of them to wear. You must have taken them from captured ships.”
