Page 13 of The Pirate Queen

She offers nothing more than a thin smile.

“Well?” he demands. “Did I not instruct that very thing?”

“ ’Tis All Hallows’ Eve.”

“And what is that to me?”

“Sure, I can’t say. But it matters a great deal to those in the village. I brought them a flame from our hearth. As is custom.” She lifts the saddlebag and pulls out a coin purse, then sets it in his hand. “And I returned with the rents.”

He weighs the purse in his palm, listening to the soft jangle of coins. “This is enough for new lead flashing on the eaves at Castlekirk.” His brows pinch together with suspicion. “Aillebrack has not paid rents in five years. How did you weasel it out of them?”

“A contingent will arrive tomorrow with the livestock,” she says. “Those who had no coin paid in sheep and chickens. I believe there are six pigs as well. And many bushels of wheat. They enjoyed a bountiful harvest this year.”

He snorts. “My wife would mean to do my job?”

“Of course not. I only mean to do mine.” She lifts her gaze to his. “As Finola taught me.”

“My sister should have taught you that your job is to manage my home and warm my bed. The first was dark upon my arrival and the second was cold.” He looks her over from head to foot, gaze settling on the muddy boots and grimy hem of her riding dress. “I had not thought that I would have to domesticate my own wife.”

There, that flash of hatred in her eyes. It’s all she’s ever given him.

“I am not a cat,” she says. “Nor some stray dog.”

“You smell like one.”

“We were long on the road. I will go find a bath,” Gráinne says, then turns to the door.

“The ewer is full. I had one of the serving girls bring it while I waited. You will bathe here.”

She takes another step toward the door. “I would rather—”

“You will bathe here!” He grits his teeth. Curses himself. This is what she brings him to. Fury. Always.

Gráinne flinches, then lowers her eyes when she sees the hard set of his mouth.

“I know you are not stupid,” he tells her. “I know you heard me. Clean yourself.”

“Yes, mo fhear.”

This, the root of every argument since the day they met, and the enmity has only grown during their marriage. Mo fhear. My husband. An insult to no one’s ears but his. It infuriates him, this honorific. Other men think him a fool, but he understands the insult in her words. Her resistance.

“I have a name. Say it,” he tells her.

Gráinne pulls in a long breath through parted lips, then bends to unlace her boots, draws her feet out carefully. She goes to the ewer and pours the water into a basin. There is a linen cloth and a bar of soap and she makes quick work of her face and hands.

“I could force it out of you,” he says. “Make you say my name.”

“You could.”

But he won’t. They both know it. Donal O’Flaherty wants the thing he cannot have: his name, given freely, whispered affectionately in his ear. A weakness. There are other things he does not mind taking, however, and his gaze roves slowly across her figure.

When Gráinne shifts to undo her braid, he rises from his chair and crosses behind her. He pulls his shirt over his head. Drops it to the floor, then tugs at the laces of his trews. They too are abandoned, and then there is the rustle of the mattress as he climbs on top.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“My hair needs brushing.”

“You haven’t washed yourself.”