Page 135 of The Pirate Queen

Richard growls, then stomps over to his desk and lifts the jug situated in the corner. He glowers at her, then grabs a pewter mug from the tray and pours a not insignificant amount of whiskey into it. She listens to the amber liquid glug, glug, glug into his cup, then he drains it in one long gulp. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“What was that for?” she asks.

“I hate arguing with you.”

“If memory serves, you once loved nothing more than picking fights with me.”

“Because those fights always ended with a kiss,” he snaps. “I don’t know what to expect from this one. But g’wan, explain why you can have two sons and it’s fine, but I only have the one and you travel all the way here to punish me for it.”

“Because I was married for nineteen years! I had no choice.”

She can see the wariness in his eyes turn to anger. “And you think I did?”

“Well, no one made you swive Aoife, did they?”

He recoils. “How do you know her name?”

“Nora told me. Same as she told me that you weren’t married, which would have been nice for anyone to mention when you came to my father’s funeral. But all I got was an introduction to your son.”

“Perhaps if you hadn’t run off when I tried to speak with you, I could have explained.”

“What was I supposed to think, Richard, when I saw the boy?”

“That I keep my fucking promises!” His turn to shout now, and he’s waving his arms as well. Richard shakes his head as the anger leaches from his face, replaced by hurt. “You haven’t forgotten. Don’t pretend you have, not when I reminded you every chance I had.”

Grace shakes her head.

“Say it.” He steps closer.

She pushes past him and goes to stand before the fire.

“That’s why you were so cold to me at the funeral?” he asks. “You thought I’d taken a wife?”

“I knew I had no right to be upset. But my father was dead. My dowry stolen. My followers adrift. The idea that you—” Grace shakes her head. “Well, my heart could not hold any more grief.”

Richard watches her quietly, but says nothing.

She takes a deep breath. Lets it out, then asks, “Who is Aoife?”

Grace doesn’t want to hate a woman she’s never even met. Yet she can taste the acid on her tongue with each syllable. Eee-fuh. It isn’t fair. She should be thrilled that Richard has built a life of his own. It is such an unfamiliar feeling, this jealousy.

He comes to stand behind her and sets his hands on her shoulders and one thumb brushes the side of her neck. Grace softens into the touch. Bows her head slightly. He waits a moment longer, then turns her to face him. Richard takes her chin gently in both hands and tilts it upward so that she must look at him.

“Ego te expectabo,” he whispers.

“You should have never promised that.”

“Why?”

“Because I did not expect that you would keep it.”

“Then you expect too little from me, Gráinne.”

Grace closes her eyes, but does not let him change the subject. “Aoife?”

He sighs and she smells the whiskey on his breath. “After Moycullen, after Walter was killed, The MacWilliam made it clear that—whether I married or not—I would provide an heir. The title has not left our family in four generations. With Walter gone, and him only having the one son, my da insisted I do the same. I held off as long as possible.” He shrugs. “Seeing as how you were not available to help, I did what I had to.”

“So ’tis my fault?”