Page 137 of The Pirate Queen

“Do not remind me—”

“And lost everything in the bargain. I’ll not make that same mistake again.”

“You know this is no mistake. Otherwise, you would not have sailed across the bay, alone, on Winter Solstice to ask my hand in marriage,” he says wryly.

She glares at him, then changes the subject so suddenly that Richard is the one to step away this time.

“Have you heard the story they call Hen’s Castle?” she asks.

“Yes. You defended Castlekirk on Lough Corrib. Melted down the lead flashing and poured it on the Joyce forces, from what I hear. Is that part true?”

“Tá,” she says. “But do you know what else happened that day?”

He shakes his head.

“Seán Joyce proposed marriage.”

“That cun—”

“As did Rory O’Flaherty, later that evening, when I returned to Bunowen with my men.”

He takes the cup from her hand. Downs the rest of her wine. “I’ll kill them both.”

“No need. My refusal was clear enough on both counts. What was also made clear was that if I ever married again, it would be on my terms,” she says.

Richard had not known that Donal O’Flaherty was dead when he arrived at Clare for The O’Malley’s funeral. He didn’t learn that fact until later that afternoon. But by then Gráinne had already walked away. She was finally free of the oaths her father bound her to, yet more distant than she’d ever been. And she is still afraid. An entire war is playing out across the geography of her face. Even now, she doubts him. So Richard lifts a hand and smooths the line between her furrowed brows. He cups her cheek. Brushes her bottom lip with his thumb.

Then he leans down and kisses her before she can pull away.

“What are your terms?” Richard asks, moving his lips slowly over hers.

At first Grace stands there, arms hanging limply at her sides; then, when he brushes the seam of her lips with his tongue, she lifts her hands and places them on his shoulders. He walks her backward toward the wall, and she holds on tighter, eyes closed, trusting that he will guide them. And all the while he kisses her.

Kisses her like he may never get the chance again.

This is nothing like that first meeting of lips in the byre when they were young. This is the kiss of a man who knows what to do with his mouth. And tongue. And hands. Gentle at first, then more passionate when she leans into him. There is a soft humming in his throat and she smiles at the sound. He takes the opportunity to brush his tongue against hers, tasting, savoring.

Then her back is against the whitewashed stone and he is pressed against her, shoulders to hips. Without shame. Richard Bourke is pleased to see her, indeed.

Grace kisses him deeper. With all the longing and hope she’s been forced to smother for twenty years. He senses the shift in her and he softens into it, into her, melding their tongues, allowing his hands to drift upward from her waist, along her ribs, those big hands warming her skin through the soft linen of her dress. His thumbs rise along the side of her breasts, tentative.

“Richard?” she interrupts, turning her face away.

“Yes?” Denied her lips, he turns his attention to her throat, brushing wet kisses along her skin.

“You will want to hear my terms first.”

“I could give a feck about your terms, Gráinne. My answer is yes.”

He slides a hand upward, over her breast, and his fingers dip below the neckline of her gown. Warm hands, rough skin. It is enough to make her shiver. And she can tell that he likes that too. The fingers of his left hand slide deeper into her bodice, in search of more sensitive skin.

But she cannot lose her focus. Nor will she take anything from Richard that he isn’t prepared to give. Grace knows what it feels like to be trapped, and she’ll not do that to him.

“I want a brehon marriage,” she says. “Not a Catholic one.”

There. His lips still. That hand withdraws from her dress and is pressed flat against her heart. Grace is certain he can feel the erratic thumping beneath her ribs.

“You want a trial marriage?” he asks.