Page 130 of The Pirate Queen

The cellar is empty.

Empty of people, at least. There are a dozen barrels stacked against the far wall. Crates of turnips and soft apples. Bags of barley and oats. Countless cobwebs hanging from the ceiling. A single torch sits in its bracket on the back wall, and she is turning to leave when she realizes the torch is freshly lit.

Then Grace hears footsteps on the stairs, and a moment later the dark head of Richard Bourke emerges. He holds a flickering torch in his hand. Warm yellow light glints off the chainmail of his shirt.

“It was too dark for knifework,” he says. “I like to see a blade when it’s pointed at me.”

Grace watches him place a torch in a bracket on either side of the door. The room fills with enough light to see that he has wet and combed his hair.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” he admits, after a moment of awkward silence.

“I thought you were tricking me.”

“And I thought Nora was lying. She does that sometimes, the little scamp.”

“That’s a horrible thing to call your sister,” Grace says.

“Oh, she calls me worse.”

“No doubt because you deserve it.”

He grins. “As does she. Nora is many things, scamp and bully chief among them. But I don’t intend any of that as an insult.”

“Well, they certainly don’t sound like compliments.”

“If you’d a sister, you’d be bullied too.”

“I have Donal and he wouldn’t dare.”

“That’s only because he’s afraid of you.”

“He is not—”

Richard Bourke grins, wide and bright. “Everyone is afraid of you.”

Grace rolls her eyes and crosses her arms and says, “How does this work, then?”

“Let me see your knife,” he tells her.

She carefully pulls it from her apron.

For the second time in less than twelve hours, he surprises her. “No. Let’s start with your left hand, since that’s the one you’re most comfortable with.”

“I am not citeóg!” she lies.

Richard raises his left hand. It holds a short blade with a hilt made of antler. “Well, I am,” he says, and lunges at her.

“I wouldn’t have really cut you.”

Gráinne had been so surprised that it took no effort for Richard to back her into the wall. He stands pressed against her now, his forearm at her throat and his blade near her ear.

“That’s what everyone says.” Gráinne shoves him away. “Until there’s blood on the collar of my dress.”

There is something in her eyes. Not fear, exactly. Or anger, though she certainly doesn’t look pleased to have been caught off guard. No—it’s a light, something deep and bright that animates her entire face. She finds this exciting.

“Why didn’t you raise your knife?” he asks.

“You didn’t give me any warning.”