Page 125 of The Pirate Queen

“I do not doubt your hospitality,” Eóin says. “Only my wife’s willingness to leave her on the morrow.”

Finola Bourke sits to the left of The MacWilliam. She lifts her glass in salute. “I will care for Gráinne myself. It will be a nice change, as I’ve no daughter of my own. I grow bored with all these men.”

“Discussing terms, are we?” The O’Flaherty asks from Finola’s other side.

“We had not quite gotten there, but I suppose now is as good a time as any,” David Bourke says. “Before I’m too deep in my cups and give up the advantage in this arrangement.”

Eóin laughs. “You are many things, but a generous drunk is not one of them. I fully expect to be a poorer man when I leave here.”

“Indeed you will, with two children to foster,” The MacWilliam tells him.

“You have prepared the contracts?” Eóin asks.

David Bourke nods. “Indeed.”

It has taken months, but the outlines of their fosterage contract have been decided. As is custom among noble Irish families, Gráinne and Donal will reside at Rockfleet Castle for three years to complete their education and societal training. During that time they will begin their Latin studies, as well as mathematics and literature. Gráinne will be taught household management, weaving and spinning, basic medical care, and the various social duties that come with running a large estate; whereas Donal will focus on swordplay, horsemanship, hunting, fishing, falconry, and finances. Both children are to be taught chess, dice, and cards. All this will cost Eóin, and that has been the main point of arbitration. Yes, he has brought two children, and therefore expects to pay a hefty sum. But he has also brought a potential bride for Walter Bourke, and he feels that this fact should earn him an advantage in these negotiations.

“We will of course provide all food, shelter, and clothing,” Finola adds, “and we shall assume all educational responsibilities.”

Eóin nods. “You have already received my fee for the first year?”

“They are fat and pretty, as expected,” The MacWilliam acknowledges.

Eóin had delivered thirty head of cattle to The MacWilliam last week. Twelve for Donal and eighteen for Gráinne. He is learning too late that daughters cost more than sons.

“Are you glad you’ve only lost twelve cattle, O’Flaherty?” Eóin asks.

David Bourke laughs. “It cost him fifteen to bring his boy here. O’Flaherty is not such a shrewd negotiator as you.”

Perhaps he wants to embarrass O’Flaherty. Or maybe it is just a reminder that David Bourke is a player in this game as well. But the comment does not land well and Eóin sees the anger rise in his rival’s face. His cheeks grow blotchy.

“My cattle are the healthier, no doubt,” O’Flaherty says.

Once the issue of livestock has been settled, they move on to the other rights and obligations laid out in the contract. It’s all there in ink, but The MacWilliam wants to see their eyes as he reads from the papers.

“It isn’t as though we’re paying a dowry,” O’Flaherty grumbles as he signs his name.

“No,” The MacWilliam says. “That contract will be between myself and O’Malley.”

Richard Bourke has seen pretty girls before. The village is filled with them. Sure, the world is filled with them. Or so it seems to him each time he sets foot out the door. But he has never met one so utterly impervious to his charm. And this one is off-limits—intended for his older brother. In any case, this redhead—this Gráinne—does not want to be here. That much is clear. And she certainly does not want to be stuck at this end of the table, picking at her mutton, pretending to laugh at the young O’Flaherty’s jokes or be impressed by Walter’s exploits.

She is a mystery.

And Richard is intrigued.

“How did you get that scar?” he asks as soon as he finds a lull in the conversation.

Her gaze snaps to his and he has her attention for the first time this evening. He taps the side of his own neck right below his chin. “That one.”

The Great Hall is littered with candles, but despite the warm glow, it is still dark. Darker still are her eyes. He wants to know the color but cannot discern it here. They tighten at the corners, and she lifts one hand to her throat, thumb brushing the jagged red line.

“I was held at knifepoint,” she says.

O’Flaherty laughs, as if she has cracked some joke, and Richard would like to break his crooked front teeth.

“Let me see.” O’Flaherty reaches out and turns her chin with his thumb and forefinger.

Like he has the right.