Page 124 of The Pirate Queen

“That could have been The MacWilliam’s doing.”

“To what end?” she asks.

“He still needs to show his strength. Both to a rival and to his wife.” He smiles at her. “Some women forget that they are not in charge.”

Maeve turns to her dinner and eats for a while, considering how best to navigate the situation. Then, after a moment, asks, “And The O’Flaherty? How many sons do I need to worry about on his side?”

“There’s only Donal. Though I cannot say if he has any apart from his wife. If so, he did not think them worthy to bring here.” Eóin lifts his eyes from the half-empty plate and meets hers. “Why?”

“ ’Tis important to understand the family Gráinne might marry into.”

Eóin plucks a turnip off his plate with two fingers and pops it into his mouth. “She will not marry an O’Flaherty. I’ll see to that myself.”

“You may have to,” she says. “Because your daughter has been the subject of his attention for half the night.”

Maeve has never admitted this to Eóin, but the tears she cried the morning Gráinne was born were tears of relief. She had dreaded the idea of bearing a son. Dreaded watching them both go to war and neither of them come home. In truth, the only thing she ever wanted was a daughter. Sometimes, when she looks at Gráinne, she feels as if she is looking in a mirror. And then her daughter speaks and Maeve realizes Gráinne is something else. Something more.

Maeve notes that both The MacWilliam and The O’Flaherty keep a weather eye on their sons, watching Gráinne’s reactions to the conversation. Her daughter has been put on display—and she is thrilled to see it. Not because she is ready for Eóin to marry the girl off—she will never be ready for that. Maeve is pleased because this dinner proves that having a daughter is the real power. Men grasp for sons and often lose them as quickly as they can raise them. But daughters give a man his legacy. She knows that Eóin wanted more children—they tried often enough to grow their family—but despite that failure, they are at no disadvantage here. On this evening, at this table, they possess the one thing of real value. Let these other clans fight over this daughter of theirs.

“Maeve?”

She looks up into the inquisitive face of Finola Bourke. “Remind me where your family hails from?”

It is difficult to suppress her smile. Finola has been sitting next to her father all evening, talking in muted whispers. Trading information, no doubt. Maeve has noticed their curious glances when they assume her attention is elsewhere.

“Liscannor,” she says.

“Ah. County Clare. And how close is that to Castlebar? I’ve a cousin who lives there.”

Maeve pretends to make the calculation while The O’Flaherty pretends not to listen. “It would be far, nearly one hundred miles, wouldn’t it?”

Now that she knows the relationship between them, she can see the traces of O’Flaherty blood in Finola. There is a compactness to her body, a lithe sort of tension. The features that look sharp on the father are softer on the daughter, thanks to bigger eyes and fuller lips. But she exudes that same clever quality that makes you want to keep track of them at all times.

“And are your people still in Liscannor?” Finola asks.

“People, no. All I have to claim in that area is the land my mother left to me.”

“You’ve no brothers, I take it?” Finola asks. The light in her eyes has shifted now, to one of deep interest.

“No, only myself. As it was only my mother before me. Three generations those lands have passed from one daughter to the next.”

Finola smiles sweetly. “Then Gráinne is all the more fortunate.”

Eóin marvels at his daughter’s posture. Spine like a mast. Head held high. Shoulders back. He has never seen her look more like her mother than she does tonight. He thinks perhaps he missed the moment when she shifted from girl to woman, and it feels like a loss to him. Gráinne sits at the other end of the table, dressed like a lady holding court. He wonders if Maeve has kept this transformation from him on purpose—prolonged the idea that she is too young to leave them.

“You did well with her,” he tells his wife.

“At least she’s learned to comb her hair.” Maeve smiles, then lowers her gaze to his shoulders. “Unlike her father.”

“It’s not me who needs to make the impression.”

“Oh, I think she’s made it already.” His wife is quiet for a moment and he sees a rare wave of doubt wash across her face. “Though, perhaps…”

“No,” he assures her. “This is the right thing. We cannot keep her to ourselves forever.”

Perhaps The MacWilliam has overheard them, or maybe he guesses the root of their conversation based on their bent heads and the frown that tightens Maeve’s mouth.

“Do not worry, Dubhdara. She’ll be well in our care. And the time will pass quickly.”