Page 172 of The Pirate Queen

“Isn’t my fault that you’re clumsy and lost your footing in the byre. A lady such as yourself should take more care when gathering the eggs. A dangerous chore, I’m told.”

Richard’s free hand grips her right wrist and he pins her other hand down with his forearm. He lifts her knife hand several inches, then slams it against the ground. Her knife goes tumbling across the floor.

“You’re an arse.”

“As you’ve said. But I know you mean it as flattery. You must want that kiss something fierce.”

Grace does not mean to lick her lips. His words seem both a threat and a promise. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“And how could you stop me?”

“With my teeth.” She flashes them in warning.

“You are pinned. You have no weapon. And you have but a single advantage.”

“What?”

“This.” He slowly trails the tip of his nose along her jaw, over her lips. His body covers her almost entirely. And his eyes are trained on her face. They shift restlessly between her glare and her lips. “You are beautiful, Gráinne.”

Grace watches him breathlessly.

“Did you hear me?” he asks, and his voice is little more than a whisper.

“Tá.”

“I think you are perfect.”

She shakes her head, because arguing seems to be her only option at this point. “No.”

“You are.”

“If I was perfect, I wouldn’t have lost.”

“What exactly is it that you have lost?”

“The fight.”

His head drops an inch and she can feel the warmth of his breath across the bridge of her nose. “And haven’t you gained something else?”

“A dirty gown? A bloody nose? Tell me exactly what I have gained in this encounter?”

“Me.”

Carefully, slowly, Richard uses the cuff of his sleeve to wipe away the trail of damp blood below her nose.

Grace cannot help the grin that spreads across her face. “Some prize.”

Countless weeks and days and hours they have spent with knives pointed at each other. Endless words and conversations, bickering and laughter. But she cannot remember a single time during any training session when Richard Bourke has looked at her the way he does now.

She is at Rockfleet to decide between Walter and O’Flaherty. Richard has never been an option. He is not one now.

Her body goes still beneath him. There is no point in fighting. Richard will not release her until he is good and ready. She looks at the man above her. His dark hair and midnight eyes, the bones of his face that seem chiseled from stone. She tries not to glance at his lips and fails.

“Let me kiss you,” he says, moving one hand to brush a piece of hair from her damp forehead. “Please?”

The encounter with Walter in the hallway last year was entirely unpleasant. She wants to be rid of that memory. And she wants Richard to be the one who replaces it. So she nods.

Richard lowers his head and brushes his lips gently across hers.