In The Arms Of My Pirate

Savage Satin

January 10th, 1815

Bahamas

Octavia stood on the porch of the simple, but elegant house built in the beach of the Caribbean Island.

She ran her fingers across the satin skirt on her dress, made in the latest style and imported all the way from England.

In her other hand, she clutched a crumpled letter addressed to her. She recognized the handwriting, even though the smooth lines were interrupted by wiggles, as if the author suffered from hand tremors.

After nearly a year of wondering and worrying, she finally held a letter from her father.

"As beautiful as always, my dear," said her older companion. "And yet..."

Octavia turned to look at him, rolling a clump of the pink satin between her fingers. "And yet?"

His grey eyes considered her thoughtfully.

The older gentleman had arrived on the island several days before, in search of a knowledgeable doctor to treat his cough. Octavia and the man had shared the makeshift hospital as they both continued to receive care from Captain Hillington's best physician.

They had yet to be properly introduced, and so it was against social customs for them to even be speaking to each other.

"You seem uncomfortable, my dear," he said, his lined face deepening with a compassionate frown.

From his accent, she knew he was an American.

She looked away from him and out at the peaceful ocean, the waves glowing in the light of the setting sun.

"Satin is far too heavy for this climate," she murmured.

"And yet that wedding dress of yours on the dressmaker's dummy is nothing but heavy satin," the older man said with a knowing tilt of his head.

Octavia sucked in a deep breath of air at the reminder of her wedding.

Now that the wounds on her back had healed, Captain Hillington insisted that they wed before they returned to England.

"But I doubt that is what weighs the heaviest in your mind," the elderly American continued. "A handsome young man on death's row is hard to forget."

She turned sharply, the freshly healed scars on her back tightening.

"How do you know about Charles?" She asked warily.

"The servants talk," he said with a shrug, twisting the head of his simple cane between his fingers. He broke off in a fit of coughing, a linen handkerchief pressed to his lips.

"They're going to hang him in an hour," she whispered.

***

Charles had given up on pacing in his small, boggy cell. Now, he just stood with his back against the bars, staring up at the tiny, barred window high on the wall across from him.

"Come to bring me my last meal?" He asked the darkness.

William drew a shocked breath from behind him. "How did you know I was coming?"

"The rats stop squeaking when someone comes," Charles said, still looking at the clouds, which were painted blood-red by the setting sun. "I take it from your solemn voice that my execution is still on schedule?"

William swore and struck the bars of the cell between them. "That idiot of a Commodore is desperate to place the blame on someone else. I have bribed, cajoled, and begged, asking him to spare you for the sake of my wife if nothing else. He had even agreed last night..."