Page 126 of The Pirate Queen

Like he has claimed her already, and touching her is a privilege he’s allowed.

Richard Bourke is sixteen years old. Something of a man. Old enough to fight with his father and brother when called upon, but he has never wanted to hurt anyone. Not until this moment. He would like to snap that thumb and forefinger off O’Flaherty’s hand.

Walter could put O’Flaherty in his place as well, if he’d bother. Instead, he just sits there, waiting to see what Gráinne will do.

Smoothly, carefully, so as not to offend, she pulls away from the touch until her spine is pressed against her chair. “You don’t believe me?” Gráinne asks.

“No.” O’Flaherty shakes his head. “Why would anyone want to harm such a pretty girl?”

“You think me a liar, then?”

“I think it is a charming story.”

“Is that what women do where you are from? Tell stories to make themselves look weak?” she asks.

“I think all women are trained to find advantage where they can, to charm the men around them.”

“I see only boys.” She laughs, but Richard hears no humor in its low lilt.

“That would be where I take issue,” Walter says, leaning closer. “Unlike these fools, I am no boy.”

“And do you believe me?” she asks.

“I do not know you at all, therefore I cannot say whether you speak the truth.”

Walter is twenty now, years past his own fosterage and newly returned to Rockfleet after months training with their father’s soldiers. Richard knows he doesn’t want to be here either. Not tonight, not at all.

“And what advantage do you suppose I will find by telling lies?” Gráinne asks.

“Attention, of course. You have neatly succeeded in commanding ours,” Walter says with a polite smile that does not reach his eyes.

“Finola has taught you manners, I see. I will congratulate your mother on her fine work.”

“That woman is not my mother,” he snaps.

“But she is mine,” Richard says, and though he isn’t so big as his brother, a warning note resonates in his voice. “You will find us something of an odd and unwilling family, Gráinne. My mother is O’Flaherty’s older sister, which—unfortunately—makes him my uncle, though we are only a year apart in age.”

“But please,” the young O’Flaherty says, “my nephew and I are eager to know how you really got that scar.”

Gráinne looks to her brother. He says something with his eyes that Richard cannot understand. She shrugs in response, the barest rise of her shoulders.

“My sister is no liar,” Donal O’Malley says. “Was my own mam who put the blade to her throat. I witnessed it myself.”

“A cock-and-bull story,” O’Flaherty snorts.

“That would be twice in five minutes you’ve called an O’Malley a liar,” Donal says, his voice so even and steady you would think him unperturbed but for the glint in his eyes. “A third time and you’ll be the next to meet a blade.”

Gráinne has gone still now, measuring the tension, and Richard thinks she might be ready to push away from the table should O’Flaherty and Donal go at each other. Her confidence clearly lies with her brother.

“But why?” Walter asks, breaking the tension. “Why would your mother do such a thing?”

He asks the question of Donal, but it is Gráinne who answers. “I suppose she believes that I am a threat.”

Again that laughter from O’Flaherty, dismissing her. “To a lamb perhaps. Or maybe a hatchling.”

Richard Bourke looks directly at her and says, “I could have told you that the first moment I saw you.”

Donal isn’t fond of the elder Bourke or that idiot O’Flaherty, but the latter is wearing on his nerves. He is pondering how to rescue his sister from their company when The MacWilliam stands to offer a final toast. Then the table and benches are pushed to the wall amidst calls for music and dancing.