Page 189 of The Pirate Queen

“Because I want the rest of my money.”

“Has he come?” Ultan asks.

“Stomped up those stairs last night in a rage.”

“I’d imagine Black Tom gets many visitors. How do you know this is the one I’m after?” he asks.

“This one came straight from a boat.”

“These”—he waves a hand—“are the Hanging Docks. Most of the men within a mile come from a boat. How do you know he’s the right one?”

“Because I went up the stairs after him and listened at the door. This one said he’d just docked and wanted to lodge with Butler. But Butler said it wasn’t possible, not unless he wanted his throat cut by ‘that O’Malley woman.’ Told him to find his own lodgings. There was some shouting then. Something about the Queen. Then Butler said, ‘Be careful, Bingham,’ and that’s how I knew it was your man.”

Ultan reaches into his pocket. Pulls out a small coin purse. He tosses it to the girl, and she plucks it out of the air. She is quick and agile, and Ultan thinks that she will do well for herself in the end. If she can keep away from those grabby hands.

“You must tell me,” he says, “if Bingham comes back.”

Maiden, 1546

“Betrothal”

Grace is sixteen years old

She sits so straight her back hurts. The privy chamber is dim and warm this afternoon, a glow from the hearth dancing across her face. There are two glasses and a decanter on the table between her and Finola Bourke. Grace has been summoned to account for her behavior, but she would rather throw open the great arched window and dive out headfirst. She wants to scratch her itchy nose. She wants to touch her lips, still warm and swollen from kissing Richard.

“So you and my son, then?” Finola Bourke asks.

“Is that what your brother told you?”

Finola shakes her head. Sighs. “Donal,” she reminds Grace, “has a name. And if you’d bother to use it once in a while, he likely wouldn’t stay in such a bad temper.”

“His temper is not my fault.”

“It may be yours to manage in the end, so if I were you, I’d start learning how.” Finola pours them each a glass of something that looks like wine.

“I am not going to marry your brother,” Grace announces. “Or Walter.”

Finola flicks a wrist at this. “Next I’m sure you’ll tell me that you don’t intend to marry anyone, that you’re choosing travel and adventure instead. I’ve heard it all before, Gráinne. But that is not a life available to you.” Her smile is cruel when she adds, “Oh, don’t look at me like that. Do you think I didn’t feel the same way at fifteen, when I was given to a man twice my age?”

It is pouring outside and heavy rain pelts the leaded-glass window beside them. It sounds like chickens pecking at a pile of rocks, and for several long moments it is the only sound in the stuffy room.

“Please—” Finola motions to the cup in front of Grace. “Don’t be shy.”

She takes a nervous sip. “Port?”

“I prefer it to wine. I find it…complex. A bit like you. I confess, I had not noticed the growing affection between you and my son these last three years.”

That is because we kept it well hidden, Grace thinks. Until today.

O’Flaherty found them kissing in an alcove not an hour ago. It was their only mistake since being caught by the steward the year before.

Grace has spent every afternoon with Finola Bourke in this very room during her lessons. Sewing. Mathematics. Finances. Chess. She has learned much under Finola’s tutelage. But never under such scrutiny. For a moment, she considers denying the accusation. Decides silence is her best defense.

“My brother was quite put out by that kiss. And surprised. He had no idea that you and Richard are…well…what exactly is your relationship with my son?”

“I have two friends in this world, Finola. My brother and Richard.”

Finola takes a sip of her port and rolls it slowly around her mouth before swallowing. “You are not in trouble, Gráinne. I only mean to understand this situation so that I might best assist the both of you.”