Page 139 of The Pirate Queen

Gráinne’s hair tumbles loose around her shoulders, those long curling tendrils wild from where he’s run his fingers through them. Her cheeks are pink and her lips swollen from their kissing. The sight is enough to harden him again. Richard thinks that he will take her here and now. An early consummation of this promised marriage. Then daily, if he has any say in the matter. It is winter, after all, and the nights are long.

Richard kisses her again, moving his lips over hers with intent. He lets his hands wander, down her back, over the swell of her hips, and onto her backside.

“Feck,” he mumbles, frustrated by the layers of fabric separating his hand from her curves. He has always wanted to know what her body would feel like beneath his fingers, whether her skin would be smooth as fresh cream, or pebbled by his touch.

Now that they have reached an accord, her resistance is gone. He can feel it in her touch. The way her fingers slide over his arms, the way her tongue claims his. She tastes of mulled wine and old longing.

“I would expect nothing less from the two of you. Always sneaking off to kiss when you should be elsewhere,” the steward interrupts, a smile in his voice. Neither of them heard him open the door. But they look at him drunkenly now. Disheveled, not entirely ready to part from each other. Richard holds her at the waist and she leans her head against his collarbone. “And though I am loath to interrupt what is clearly a happy reunion, Taoiseach, your guests are waiting.”

“Let them.”

Brian smiles. “I would, if you were not expected to make a toast to begin the feast. After that, I can easily make an excuse for your absence. Gráinne is welcome to wait here for your return.”

Richard studies him for a moment, thinking, then nods. He has a better plan. “She comes with me.”

Richard raises his cup in one hand and clasps Grace’s hand with the other. She tried to pull away as they went down the stairs, but he shackled himself to her, his grip nothing short of iron.

“Greetings, kin and clan!” he shouts above the noise, and they all turn to where he stands at the head of the table. A breath later, and they see Grace as well. Note their joined hands. A few whisper, but most wait silently. “I welcome each of you to my hall on this, the longest night of the year. Though the sun has left us early, I charge each of you to stand in defiance against the dark and against our enemies.”

“Hear, hear!” the call goes up throughout the room.

Richard continues. “This season will pass, as it always does, and the sun shall return. Until then, may we seek guidance from our ancestors, be warmed by our own hearth fires, and find truth in the light of the church.”

“Hear, hear!”

“May the bonds of this clan be unbreakable, may our spirits be bolder than legend, and may we continue to forge our own path!”

“Hear, hear!”

“And finally, I ask that you celebrate with me this evening, as I am to finally be married.” He lifts Grace’s hand, then brings it to his lips and brushes a kiss against her knuckles. “Join me in welcoming Gráinne Ní Mháille to clan Bourke. Now eat your fill, drink deeply, and be merry, knowing that every day shall grow brighter from here! Ung roy, ung foy, ung loy!”

His guests cry out each part of the Bourke motto in response.

“Ung roy!”

“Ung foy!”

“Ung loy!”

Richard tips his cup back and drains what is left of the whiskey he poured upstairs. The room roars their applause, and he pulls Grace in for a firm, quick kiss. It is a press of bodies then, men and women, clansmen and parishioners rushing to congratulate them, to smack Richard on the back, to embrace her.

It is too much.

Too fast.

Too loud.

Grace shrinks away from the throng. Still Richard holds fast to her hand, but he moves her carefully from the table and toward the hearth, where it will be easier for guests to speak with them.

“Was that necessary?” she hisses. “Or did you think I would change my mind?”

“I have no intention of letting you escape. Not this time. But it did seem best to announce our marriage in this place, before the people who will look to you as Bean an Tí. And on a night when their spirits are already high.” He grins, then bends low to whisper in her ear, “And what better way to spread the news amongst our foes than make so many people aware of it at once? You did mention strategy, mo ghrá.”

And there he is, the military tactician respected and feared throughout Connaught. She has always known a different Richard Bourke, has rarely gotten to witness this part of him up close.

When they pull apart, an old man in priest’s robes stands before them, hands clasped at his waist, looking none too pleased. He bobs his head.

“Richard-an-Iarainn,” he says.