He laughs. “Onboard a ship? Among men trapped for months at sea? It was even more lucrative than privateering. One thing you must understand about pirate—or privateer—life, crécerelle, is that when money flows, it flows like water, and men let it slip through their hands just as easily. For a sketch done at sea, which might take me an hour’s time, they would pay what they could expect to for an entire day in a brothel.”
He adds a few strokes. “While openly lewd sketches were my most lucrative, they are not my favorite to draw. They leave too little to the imagination. They are also not to my personal taste. I prefer something more like this.”
He turns the sketchpad around, and I blink. It’s me, undoubtedly me, captured exactly as I am right now, lounging by a fire. Lounging by a fire in my corset and drawers, hair over my shoulder as I lean on my arm. There is nothing suggestive in the pose, and somehow that makes it all the more sensual, and I find myself blushing fiercely.
He tears the page from the pad and holds it over the fire. “Oui?”
“No,” I say, moving to snatch it from his hand.
“You may destroy it if you like,” he says.
I shake my head.
“Then, with your permission, may I continue to work on it another time? That is simply a quick sketch. A concept. I would not ever show it to others, and in case it is ever discovered, I can blur your face to be unrecognizable.”
“I am not concerned with anyone recognizing me.” Especially considering I won’t be born for another thirty years.
“Well, I still would not show it. This is a private portrait, sketched in a private moment. I must admit, that bodice you wear is very fetching. It is not a design I have seen before.”
I almost say it’s French. That’s the usual explanation for any unusual item of fashion.
“It is a new style,” I say.
“Very fetching, as are the men’s trousers.”
“I need something to cover my drawers, as you have pointed out their obvious deficiency.”
“I would not call it a deficiency.”
I laugh and lean down onto my arm. “Still, it would be rather shocking if I stripped down to them. I could not stretch on the floor like this. Or move my legs like this. Or certainly not sit up and cross them like this.” I lean forward, hair falling over my shoulders. “Why is your gaze going there, Nico? There is nothing to see but a well-stitched seam.”
“Did I mention I have an excellent imagination?”
“Good. Then I shall not need to do anything as scandalous as remove my trousers. You can simply use your imagination.”
“I could, and I am, but an artist must always admit that imagination is no substitute for real life. I could be imagining the scene entirely wrong, and that would be a shame. Also, while I was loath to mention it sooner, those trousers are still damp, as I’m sure the drawers are beneath it.”
My brows shoot up. “My, my, you do give yourself airs, sir. Imagining my drawers growing damp when you have not laid a finger on me.”
He chokes on a laugh. Then his eyes dance in the firelight. “If you think such a thing is not possible, I am tempted to take that as a challenge.”
“Oh, I am certain you are.” I toy with the button on my trousers. “You are correct about the dampening, though it is purely seawater. I presume you are suggesting I remove these to dry my undergarments.”
“It is merely a suggestion. For your own comfort.”
I unfasten the trousers and ease them over my hips. Then, demurely keeping my legs as together as possible, I slide off the trousers and inch closer to the fire.
“Better?” I say.
“They will not dry with your knees quite so tightly bound.”
“You are full of such practical advice.”
I slide my knees apart, one lifting over the other as he tries to get a better view from where he sits. When he goes to move, I warn him back with a raised finger. Then I look around the cave.
“It is too bad we lack a table,” I say. “I could replicate that pose you mentioned. See whether I have it correct in my mind. I do like to be correct.”
“Give me five minutes, crécerelle, and I shall build you a table.”