Page 141 of The Pirate Queen

“That we not sign in front of all these people. I want to do that alone. Just us and Alec for a witness. I want it to be ours.”

“Tá. Am happy to make that promise.”

“Then let us feast.”

Grace is lifted off her feet and spun around. Cheers go up as Richard leads her to the head of the table, where every spot has been taken but theirs. A violent eruption of music follows his whoop of joy. A happy cacophony. Pipes and drums and a harp, somewhere in the corner.

For one moment she is sad, hearing those pipes. She wishes Donal could be here to witness this. Her children as well. Don’t they have a right to see their mother marry the only man she’s ever loved? But this man is not their father. Perhaps they would feel only loss. So she lets the sadness go, a bit of smoke dissipating, and surrenders to the moment.

Grace leans over and takes Richard’s face in her hands. She kisses him gently. The kiss he offers in return is far less gentle. It is a tempest. And the room becomes a torch of joy, crackling and sparking and alive. Hoots and hollers and shouts of congratulations.

How good it feels to laugh! Grace lets the sensation roll over her, a joyous wave.

There is food and whiskey and wine. She tastes none of it. She remembers none of it. The feast is a blur, lost in revelry and laughter, so different than her last wedding. Then, after bellies are full and the trenchers have been pushed away, the table is shoved against the wall and the dancing begins. Richard spins her around the room but a single time. Then he moves to the hearth and settles into one of the big wooden chairs. He pulls Grace onto his lap, nestles his face against her neck, and secures his arms tightly around her waist. He declines every dance on her behalf and soon it is clear to all that Richard Bourke does not intend to share his bride. Not tonight, not ever.

When they are offered more whiskey, more wine, he declines that as well. “I’d like to remember this next part,” he whispers into her ear.

Her dance offers are replaced by ribald humor about wedding nights and autumn babies. She blushes like a virgin and settles against Richard’s chest.

“Is this real?” Grace asks at one point. It is near midnight and she yawns.

He presses a soft kiss beneath her ear. “It better be.”

It is the most joy she has experienced in many long years, and only when the villagers begin to disperse, stumbling off toward home, their words slurred and their laughter tipsy, does Richard finally set her on her feet. There are still duties to perform this evening.

Bald Alec sits at Richard’s desk inside the privy chamber. A sheet of parchment is spread before him. Quill and inkwell. There are but a few short paragraphs of text.

“It isn’t complicated,” Alec tells Grace. Then the short man tips his head to the side and asks, “You can read?”

“Only Irish and Latin,” she tells him.

“Very good. I’ve written it in Irish. Take your time.”

Grace sits at the desk and Alec turns the document so that she can read it. He places the quill and inkwell near her right hand. She sticks her tongue out at him, then moves them to her left side. This, of all things, makes him laugh.

“Not so unlike your new husband,” the brehon mutters.

The terms are simple. A marriage contract for one year and one day. During which time, both parties shall cohabitate. Any children conceived or born during their union will be considered legitimate heirs. Should either party find themselves dissatisfied by the end of the agreement, they can dissolve the union verbally. All lands, properties, and titles shall revert to the original parties in the case of annulment.

There is no risk to Grace or her children whatsoever.

There is no reason not to sign.

Yet.

Her hand hovers over the contract and a single drop of ink falls from her quill.

“What’s wrong?” Richard asks. “I will have Alec change any language you disagree with.”

“Nothing is wrong,” she says.

“Then what?”

Grace sets the quill down, and when she lifts her face to Richard’s concerned gaze, she says, “Please.”

“What?”

Oh, God. Curse Manannán. Tears make her feel weak. She hates them. Yet still they slide down her cheeks.