Page 134 of The Pirate Queen

Brian’s eyes focus on their threaded fingers. “I’d barely gotten her warm before the guests started arriving.”

“Then send up a tray. Whatever’s ready. And more of what she’s drinking.”

“And for you?”

“I have my whiskey,” Richard says; then they are moving through the crowd again and into the stairwell. Up another floor until he steps onto a broad landing and toggles a door latch. He puts his shoulder into it and the heavy oak groans inward. “Damn thing always sticks,” he mutters.

A fire in the hearth warms the outer room of Richard’s privy chamber, and candles light the mantel, windowsill, and desk. Chairs at the fire and a padded bench along the wall. There are clothes scattered everywhere and boots in a heap by the door. A man’s and a child’s. Her eyes narrow at that, then focus on the toys. A stuffed leather ball. A carved wooden horse with wheels for hooves. A tin whistle and a pile of rocks worn smooth, almost round.

Oh, she thinks, he’s making marbles. Clever.

This is the room where a family lives. Less tidy. Less formal. There’s a familiarity and warmth that’s absent from the Great Hall, and she feels like an intruder.

Grace thinks she must look a mess to deserve Richard’s close scrutiny, the way his eyes travel every inch of her. Hair wild. Boots muddy. She tucks a curl behind her ear. Runs a hand down the flat of her stomach. Stands up straighter.

There. A flicker at the corner of his mouth.

“Are you well, Gráinne?”

“Tá. I told you I was.”

“We were surrounded by others then.”

“You think me lying?”

“I think it odd that I have dreamed for decades that I would come home and find you at my hearth, then one day in winter it happens with no warning at all. So you’ll forgive all the various reasons my mind has come up with to explain this moment.”

That makes her smile. “Are you worried about me?”

Richard stuns her then by pulling her tight against his chest and resting his forehead against hers. “Almost every day for twenty years.”

His hands are at her waist and his breath is a warm breeze against her face. Grace is tilting her mouth upward, by instinct, when there is a gentle clearing of a throat at the door. Though they pull apart, Richard does not release her entirely. He slides an arm around her waist.

“Pardon the interruption, Taoiseach,” Brian says as he limps into the room. He sets a tray down on the desk, then lifts a goblet and hands it to Grace, taking the empty one from her hand.

Then he’s gone again with a bob of his head, and the privy chamber door closes firmly with a click. They listen to him on the other side, checking that it’s been pulled tight.

Silence yawns into the room. Ten seconds. Twenty. Then Grace loosens herself from Richard’s hold and sticks a finger in his face. A lifetime’s worth of fury and regret roars to the surface. But she wavers at the sight of his face. Even more handsome than she remembered—it always strikes her how well he has grown into himself. He seems even taller and broader than the last time she set eyes on him. Perhaps a trick of memory, but no less delightful. His dark blue eyes are wary today, unsure. They narrow at the sight of her pointed finger. His hair and beard need trimming. And that damn cocky smile, warm lips curving around straight white teeth.

“Angry at me already?” he asks.

“You. Aren’t. Married!”

“What has that to do with anything?” He frowns. “Had you hoped I was?”

“Of course not.”

“Then why are you yelling at me?”

“Because you have a son!” she shouts.

“You have two, last I checked. A daughter as well. And while I’m none too pleased about it, I’ve never yelled at you for making them.”

“This isn’t yelling!”

“Well, it sure as feck isn’t whispering!”

Grace takes a sip of her mulled wine. Hums happily at the taste and, well—if that doesn’t drag his eyes to her mouth again, a fierce look of determination on his face.