Page 14 of The Pirate Queen

“My face—”

“Is the least of my concerns. Do the rest.”

Her bodice is a rough brown twill, like her riding skirt, but it laces up the front and is easy enough to remove on her own. She tosses it onto a chair and her skirt follows shortly, and then she is protected from his gaze by nothing but the worn linen of her leine. Gráinne washes her feet and calves. Beneath her arms and her collarbones. And all the while he watches, leaning up against the pillows, eyelids heavy, legs spread, stroking himself.

The water looks cool and cloudy now. But still Gráinne stalls, washing the back of her neck. Her ears. The grooves between her fingers.

His voice thickens with the next order. “Take off your leine, wife.”

She looks at the mirror instead, scrubbing any inch of bare skin that she can see.

“Who were you with tonight?” he asks.

Her head snaps up. “What?”

“In the village. Who did you take with you?”

“The Murray twins.”

“And which of them have you fallen in love with?”

“Do not be ridiculous.”

“The steward told me they are the only guards you ever take.”

“Because you require me to take them. Either let me travel alone or do not make such accusations.”

“There is no need for you to travel at all. But you are disobedient. Why shouldn’t you also be unfaithful?”

Her fist tightens around the damp washcloth, and beads of water drip through her fingers. “I have fallen in love with no one.”

“That might be the only truth you have spoken tonight.” He can hear the anger in his voice now. “Do as I say and take off your leine.”

Gráinne shrugs out of the garment and pulls in a sharp breath as the cold air hits the rest of her skin. And if her hand shakes when it falls to her side, what is that to him? She should have been here when he arrived.

“Wash your breasts,” he tells her.

The cloth slides over her bare skin and he can see her nipples tighten in response. He strokes himself faster, the soft whisk of rough palms on smooth skin.

“Between your legs.”

Her entire body shudders and there is nothing left to wash, so she lifts the brush and runs it through her hair. Over and over and over until her curls grow and crackle, until she is shivering from cold or dread, he doesn’t care which.

“Enough,” he snaps. “Come to bed.”

Grace lies awake, her husband snoring in a heap beside her. She can feel the sound rumbling in her chest, like wagon wheels on a wooden bridge. At least he was quick this time. Grace blinks at the ceiling until the candles burn low and the fire is little more than embers. Sleep, it seems, will be no friend to her tonight. So she rolls quietly off the bed and goes to claim her leine, lest her husband wake to find her naked and be inspired. If it were later she would simply get up for the day. But dawn is many hours away, and if he discovers an empty bed, well, then he will come looking for her.

Grace sighs. She had not thought that he would be home so soon.

The water in the ewer is frigid now, but still she plunges the linen cloth into it, washes herself. Shudders at the cold bite.

Her bare feet are quiet on the rush mats. Quieter still as she slips from the bedchamber. The brightest candle burns on the desk and she goes to blow it out.

But then she sees Finola’s letter, spread open. Her gaze falls to a single section. Likely because she has gone to the trouble of underlining it.

You will need to kill him. But it must be done in Moycullen, where no one will suspect you.

Grace doesn’t dare pick up the letter, or budge it by a single inch. Her husband will know. But she stands there in the dim candlelight and reads every word.