Page 177 of The Pirate Queen

“He’s been running up and down the rigging with Gutty. Or lighting things on fire. I’d say he’s having a good bit more fun than he’s usually allowed. And I’ve assured him that his grandfather is coming for him. Eventually.”

When Gráinne stands, all thoughts of the boy are lost. God, she is nice to look at. Time has left its mark, as have the children she’s carried, but still—those legs and breasts and arse were made for him in general and for his hands specifically. Rivulets of water track down her body, sliding and running over her skin. Here a line between her ribs and there a steady drip from one nipple. She rubs her body dry with the linen towel, then starts to work on her hair.

Gráinne speaks his name, but his attention is on the lift of her breasts as she wraps the towel around her head.

“Richard.”

“Yes. What?”

Her eyes are filled with laughter. “Stop gawking and hand me my dress.”

“You have been gone for weeks,” he complains. “It isn’t fair that I can’t touch you.”

“Let’s get this meeting with Sidney done with. Then you may have your fill of touching me.”

“With hands or mouth?”

“An equal share of both, I hope.”

Lynch’s Castle is a three-story rectangular manor house at the intersection of Shop and Abbeygate streets in the heart of Galway. It is built of dark gray stone and adorned with gothic carvings in the manner of the old English estates it wants to emulate. Grace still hates it, despite its plethora of windows.

“Best keep your opinions on the place quiet until this is over,” Richard whispers in her ear as they are ushered through the front door by a dainty maid.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to. ’Tis plain as the nose on your face.”

“I was thirteen years old the first time I saw this house. My father let me and Donal and Ultan wander the city that morning. Hours later a Portuguese sailor attacked me on board Niamh.”

“And so you hate the house because of…the Portuguese?”

“I hate the house because it’s ugly.”

“As I said, best you keep that to yourself.”

They are taken to a second-floor parlor where Sir Henry Sidney, Lord Deputy of Ireland, and Sir Thomas LeStrange are seated by the fire. Both stand upon their arrival. Greetings and welcomes and offers of refreshment abound. Grace receives them all, then allows Richard to pull her chair out for her. Once she has a cup of mulled wine warming her palms, Grace surveys the room. Her attention is immediately drawn to a map spread across the low table between the chairs. It shows all of Galway Bay in detail.

“I had it drawn by a cartographer last year,” LeStrange tells her proudly, hands stretched across his impressive belly.

“Why have you put pins in the Aran Islands?” she asks.

“Because I intend to own them.”

Grace raises a brow. “I believe the O’Flahertys and the O’Briens might take issue with that. They’ve both laid claim to those islands for hundreds of years.”

He dismisses her objection with an arrogant wave. “And they will no doubt bicker over it until Her Majesty must intervene. In fact, I hope they do, for it will provide the opening that I need.”

“You must excuse my ambitious friend,” Sidney tells them with a strained smile. “He is less informed about Irish politics than he believes.”

The Lord Deputy is a large man with a barrel chest and long legs. Almost too long, in fact. They make him look as though the lower half of his body has been drawn by a child. The oddest part of his appearance, however, is the dark hair and red beard. The color changes abruptly at his temples, like some painter has drawn a line between the two.

LeStrange laughs at Sidney’s attempt to change the subject. “Politics are irrelevant if one’s pockets are deep enough.”

“I think you will find that those islands are not for sale,” Grace tells him, and if he were a smarter man, he would note the tone of her voice.

His smile is utterly genuine when he shrugs and says, “Yet.”

Grace ignores the subtle tug of Richard’s hand at her skirt. “I take it you’ve spent time in the Aran Islands?” she asks.