Page 133 of The Pirate Queen

“I need to warn you,” Brian says.

The stairwell is crowded with parishioners coming up after him, all headed to the Great Hall for the feast. The narrow passage echoes with excited voices. After he’s jostled into the wall a third time, Richard motions toward the opening for the kitchen, and Brian follows. They are less welcome here, and Cook brandishes a spoon at them both when Richard ducks out of the way of a serving girl tottering beneath the weight of a heavy platter.

He grabs the steward’s sleeve and they press themselves against the wall.

“Warn me about what?”

“It would be who, Taoiseach.”

“If you mean Father MacKenna, I could no more keep that old bastard away than cut off my nose. It is Advent, after all. But he’s light in his cups. He’ll be gone before midnight.”

“Isn’t him,” Brian says.

“Then who?”

“Gráinne Ní Mháille.”

Richards yanks him closer. “What of her?”

“She is in the Great Hall.”

Richard doesn’t stay for an explanation but turns on his heel and darts back into the stairwell, paying no mind to his brehon, Bald Alec, who yelps when shoved into the wall, or the other parishioners he elbows out of the way.

The Great Hall is crowded with people, warm from the fire and all these bodies. It is loud. Too damn loud. Already his ears ring and he tries to blink away the noise. He cannot see her. Cannot hear the sound of her laughter in this cacophony. And then it occurs to him that she might not be laughing at all, that she might have sought him out because of some injury or tragedy.

Two, three flashes of red hair, none of them hers.

Frustrated now, Richard pushes his way toward the fire. And there he finds her, holding court. She’s seated in one of his big wooden chairs, looking for all the world like a queen. There’s an empty goblet in her hand and a circle of men huddled close.

“Did you really melt down the lead flashing at Castlekirk and pour it over The Joyce’s head?” one of them asks.

“If only our aim had been that accurate. We missed him by a foot.”

There’s a roar of laughter, and Richard pushes his way forward. Of course she has drawn a crowd. He’s never known her to do otherwise. Though he isn’t sure she understands the pull she has on others—particularly men. And yes, he’s heard this particular story more than once. Never questioned its truth. It sounds very much like the Gráinne he knows.

Richard forces his way into the circle, and the two men he displaces turn to curse him. Then see his face and quickly find somewhere else to be.

“Gráinne,” he says simply.

She smiles at him and, damn, if he doesn’t feel it throughout his entire body. Then she stands, pressing the goblet to her chest, and a smile wavers on her lips. “Richard.”

Suddenly her voice is the only thing he hears. He looks her over quickly, head to foot, checking for injury, but she seems well enough. So he returns his gaze to her face. That. Fecking. Face. It has haunted his dreams for twenty years. Those gray eyes and high cheekbones and full, soft lips. And if his gaze lingers on her lips for a moment too long, he’ll not be scolded for it. Richard Bourke has kissed many women in his life, but none with greater pleasure than Gráinne.

“Are you well?” he asks.

“Tá,” she tells him, then glances around the Great Hall. “But I need to speak with you. In private.”

Richard takes her hand and pulls her from the circle of admirers. Then he laces their fingers together and leads her through the room. Grace ignores the various looks of surprise, the way his guests glance at their clasped hands.

“Where are we going?” she asks.

“Somewhere quiet.”

He bobs and weaves through the crowd until he finds the steward at the end of the long trestle table. He gets the old man’s attention with a hand to his shoulder, a gentle shake.

“Taoiseach?” Brian asks.

“Has she eaten?” Richard lifts their clasped hands.