Page 152 of The Pirate Queen

She shifts to move out of his grip, but his fingers tighten. His eyes take a lazy stroll up and down her body, then focus on her hair. He lifts one hand and pulls a loose curl from behind her ear. He wraps it around one finger.

She pulls her head away, trying to move out of his grip.

He yanks harder. “That isn’t polite.”

“Let me go,” she tells him.

His other hand leaves her shoulder and slides down her back, lower, until he reaches her bottom. Then he grabs and pulls her against his body. They are so close that she must crane her neck backward to see his face. Walter is taller than Richard by several inches.

He squeezes her bottom. Hard. Kneads it with his fingers.

“I’ll do as I please,” he says.

Grace puts her hand against his chest and tries to push away, but his grip tightens in both places. He laughs, then leans down, his lips parted.

“Walter.” Richard’s voice is filled with fury. “Stop.”

“Jealous, little brother?” Walter laughs. It’s an ugly sound.

“Enough,” Richard says.

Walter loosens his grip, but just before he releases her, he plants a mean, hard kiss directly on her lips. She is so startled that her entire body stiffens and tears well in her eyes unbidden. Grace has never been kissed before. When he licks her lips, she yanks herself out of his grasp.

Then Walter steps away, laughing harder. He smacks her bottom as he walks off.

When she looks at Richard, he seems stricken, his eyes wide.

Grace does the only thing she can think of: she wipes Walter’s kiss away with the sleeve of her dress, then runs upstairs to her garret room.

Later that night, when Nora comes to help her ready for bed, she brings a note from Richard:

Meet me in the byre tomorrow morning.

I’ll teach you how to throw a knife.

“There are two ways to throw,” Richard tells Gráinne. “Like this.” He grips the handle of the knife in his right hand like a hammer. “Or like this.” He pinches the blade in his left hand between two fingers. “Doesn’t matter which method you choose, as long as you master it.”

Then he throws, first one, then the other, and they both lodge near center in the wooden stump against the byre wall. The target is an old rotted stump with a circle painted on the side, and the bark is long chipped away from target practice. He dragged it over from the garrison last night while the guards were at dinner.

“The hammer grip is better if you need the blade to rotate,” he tells her. “But the pinched is best for distances. Now you try.”

Richard’s blades are bigger than she’s used to. Heavier. He expects her throws to go wild, to slam against the rock wall with a clang. But they both hit the target, though only one of them with the pointy end. The other hits with the butt, then thumps to the dirt floor.

“Of course you’d be good at this,” he mutters.

“It’s about time I’m good at something,” Gráinne tells him.

“You’re good at knife fighting,” he says.

“Not against you. And certainly not at the beginning.” She goes to pick up his daggers, then returns to his side and throws again.

The blade thrown with her left hand sticks, and the other falls.

He has her throw again, and again, and again, changing the grip between throwing hands. Thrice she hits the target with a right throw using the pinch grip.

“Which do you like better?” he asks, testing his theory.

Gráinne lifts the blade pinched between thumb and forefinger. “This one.”