Page 60 of The Pirate Queen

“Not if we open it first,” she tells them.

“Stupid woman!” someone shouts. “You intend to kill us!”

“I intend to end this. And quickly.”

Grace had thought battle would be different. That she would be afraid. That the O’Flahertys would fight her before they fought their enemy. But she sees now that it is only a matter of taking responsibility—and aim.

“Have they drawn the ram back for the next swing?” she asks the soldier at the narrow window near the door.

He shakes his head.

“Tell me when they do.”

The table and benches have been pushed against the wall, away from the door where the men had tried to pile them earlier, attempting to barricade themselves inside. They all stare at her now, puzzled or angry or curious.

“Lift the bar,” she tells the men who flank the door. “Be ready to pull it open.”

One gnaws his bottom lip with a mouth full of crooked teeth while the other spits insults at her.

“They’re drawing back!” the lookout warns.

“Open it! And fall on them the second they are through.”

The door is ten feet tall and six inches thick. Solid oak that has aged to a weight near stone. But it swings inward, even as the grunting, heaving men on the other side throw all their strength behind the battering ram. The iron tip catches the open edge of the door and sends it backward with a crash. But the invaders had not wagered on their obstacle being removed, and they stumble forward en masse, thrown off-balance by the sudden lack of resistance, and the ram hits the stone floor with a deafening thump. It slides forward, several of them howling beneath it. Quick work by her soldiers ensures that the eight men wielding the ram are dead before they can draw their swords.

For all her comfort with blood, Grace winces at the sight of those open throats, at the claret pools spreading across the stone floor. It is an effort not to step back as it creeps toward her feet. In the time it takes her to draw one deep breath and steel herself, the O’Flahertys lunge forward and down the castle steps, baying for blood. They force the attackers back onto the lawn, in sight of her archers. It will be harder, now, for them to tell friend from foe, but that is not anything she can concern herself with. Most of these men have been fighting since before she was born.

Grace remains where she is, standing in the middle of the Great Hall, flanked by the Murrays.

“What are you doing?” Finn demands.

“Waiting.”

Finn’s voice growls and catches in his throat like he’s choking on the two scant words he finally produces. “For who?”

“The Joyce.”

The battle spreads across the lawn as O’Flaherty soldiers clash against the Joyces. Metal on metal. Grunting. Screaming. Blood and rain and cursing. The frantic bedlam of fighting men lost to the lust of combat. Murray was eleven years old the first time he experienced the madness of battle. It scared him then because he didn’t know how to protect his brother, and it scares him now because he knows that his brother will put Gráinne before himself. Murray knows that he cannot save them both.

He watches Gráinne fold her hands behind her back casually, hiding the knives. She sets her feet. Lifts her chin. That, he thinks, is good at least. She doesn’t intend to let them do all the work.

Amidst the chaos, Seán Joyce weaves his way up the castle steps, hacking and pushing when needed but never slowing until he reaches the entrance. He steps over the battering ram and the bodies of his fallen men without a glance, his full attention on the torchlit chamber. His gaze catches on Gráinne briefly before continuing in his assessment of the Great Hall. Unlike his father, Joyce is of middling height—though no less shrewd. Dark brows sit above deep-set eyes. His mouth is a firm, thin line. His nose recently broken.

“Gráinne,” Murray warns. “Go back to the battlements. Let us deal with him.”

She ignores him.

Why the flaming feck does she always ignore him? Why have they found the one woman in Ireland incapable of doing as she’s told? He wants to think that he would hate her if she wasn’t the woman his brother loves. But that isn’t true. Murray loves Gráinne in a different way. He has pledged his life in her service, after all.

“This must be your first time inside my castle,” she tells The Joyce. “Take a good look, for it will be your last.”

Seán turns his gaze back to her. “Who are you?”

“Gráinne Ní Mháille. Wife of the man you killed. Mother of the rightful O’Flaherty. Bean an Tí of this tower. I did not give you permission to enter. And you are not welcome.”

He looks her up and down. “You? His wife?”

“Not anymore. Was you who relieved me of that burden, wasn’t it? Though I won’t be thanking you for the trouble it’s brought me. Now take your men and leave my island.”