Page 100 of The Pirate Queen

“He tried. But he didn’t succeed.”

“You stopped him?”

Donal nods. “She screamed. I…I don’t know what happened. I don’t know how I killed the other one.”

Eóin turns back to the bed. “Is she…?”

“Breathing. Tá. She’ll wake up soon, I think.”

A shudder of relief runs through his father’s body. “I will kill them all,” he says.

“I have a better idea,” Donal tells him. “I think they have provided us an opportunity.”

“How so?”

“You were negotiating for a percentage of their cargo?”

“Yes.”

“How much had you gotten them to?”

“Ten percent.”

“Well, now you can demand twenty.”

In all his life, Donal cannot remember a time when his father looked at him like this. With a shrewdness in his eyes. A respect.

“You would use what happened to your sister as a negotiating tool?”

“ ’Tis not our fault that two sailors from the Esperança could not control themselves. You were in the middle of a parley. Our men did not attack. Demand twenty percent of the cargo.” Donal points to the bound sailor. “And I get to take his life as the remaining payment.”

“No,” Eóin tells him. “That right belongs to your sister.”

First, Grace feels the pain. Forks of lightning in her skull. Then she feels the warm, calloused hand wrapped around hers. Her body moves without instruction, instinct coiling, springing to the side. She means to get off the bed, away from him, but her hand is held firmly.

“Gráinne.” Her father’s voice.

“Da?”

She tries to sit up, but the throbbing in her head pins her to the heavy straw mattress.

“You are fine. It’s over.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing happened. Donal stopped him. He didn’t…”

His voice fades into an anguished growl.

It takes a minute, and several long breaths, until she can keep her eyes open without throbbing, until she can rise onto her elbows. Grace sits up slowly. Squeezes her eyes shut. Then opens them again and sees clearly once more. No spots. No darkness at the edge of her vision. She looks around and sees Cook’s knife. Picks it up. There is blood on the tip.

“I did try,” she says.

Her father pulls her tight against his chest. She can feel him shake, thinks that he might be sobbing quietly into her hair.

“Is he dead?” she asks.

“He will be soon. Can you stand?”