Page 64 of The Pirate Queen

Her men shift closer on all sides. They do not draw their weapons, but she feels their intent, feels their hands settle on hilts. They will not move without her command, but neither will they allow these intruders any closer.

“We will see about that,” she says, then whispers, “Pig?”

He moves closer. Grunts.

“See to the wounded. Don’t let them fall behind or get separated.”

“Tá.” He shifts away again, muttering orders to the others.

Without another word, Grace marches along the dock, then onto the grassy slope that leads around the hill toward the tower house. The soldiers gathered in the shadows wait until their entire group has passed.

“You three take the boat!” that same man calls, and this might be the thing that finally makes her cry.

It is a ship. Nothing more. Wood and resin, rope and sail. It doesn’t live or breathe. She certainly has no attachment to it, not like Niamh. Niamh might as well be part of her body. A limb. Her own beating heart. But still. They would commandeer the Scian Catha? And at her own doorstep? Fecking bastards.

“What do we do?” Murray asks.

He and Finn have flanked her. Right and left. She can feel the tension radiating off their bodies like lightning.

“We get this over with,” she tells him.

It takes five minutes to reach the front steps of Bunowen Castle, but never has she felt less welcome. Suspicious glares follow her every step.

All but the twins are prevented from entering with her.

“Gráinne,” Finn whispers in warning.

When he reaches out to grab her arm and tug her back, she walks on, out of his reach.

The Great Hall is crowded. The table full. The fire roars, though it is mid-July and there is no hint of frost in the air. Men laugh and lounge, and servants—her servants—scurry about with platters of food and jugs of mead. One of the serving girls nearly trips when she sets eyes on Grace and a startled, happy cry escapes her lips. The girl sets the platter on the table and moves to embrace her.

No. Grace mouths the word, offers the slightest shake of her head. Not now.

The serving girl swallows a sob and runs off to the kitchen.

There is a harpist somewhere, though Grace cannot see him. He sings along to his own tune, loud. Drunk. They are all drunk. Leering at her with the same bawdy humor, as though they’re all in on some great secret.

Her fingers itch, eager to reach for the blade in her boot.

“We did not expect you so soon!” a voice calls, and the room falls silent.

At the head of the table sits a man she’d recognize anywhere. Those mean, squinted eyes. The ill-fitting body and thin legs. The potbelly.

“Rory,” she says.

He smirks. “I think you mean Taoiseach.”

Finn draws a deep breath at the word. He tenses, ready to lunge forward. She would set a hand on his shoulder in caution if it would not doom them both—if it would not be misconstrued as anything but friendship.

“It was not you defending”—Grace pauses, careful with her words—“Castlekirk from the Joyce clan these last days. Surely a Taoiseach would not stay here and lounge behind a table while such a battle claimed the lives of seven men?”

“It was Donal O’Flaherty—may God rest his soul—who beat back the Joyces. And from what I hear, there were twelve men lost. Though you couldn’t have known that, as you’ve been off galivanting since I arrived.”

“I have been at Castlekirk,” Grace says, “beating back another assault by the Joyces. Cock’s Castle is secure once more.”

She takes no small amount of pleasure in the surprised flash of anger that he quickly hides.

“ ’Tis Hen’s Castle now,” Murray blurts out, “and you have Gráinne to thank for that. ’Tis she who acted like a Taoiseach while you sat here getting fat.”