Page 155 of The Pirate Queen

Grace had counted on at least two more weeks, had argued with Richard when he begged her to stay. But she made the case for one last trading run to Galway before the báb arrives. She knows her own body well enough after all these years—it’s not the first time she’s carried a child into this world, after all. But it is a matter of cycles, and she had lost track of hers in those first lusty months of their marriage. Weeks matter little at the end of a fourth pregnancy, it would seem, and her time has run out.

Finn is none too pleased about the development. His solemn, mossy eyes rove her face, her clenched hands, her belly.

“When did this start?” he demands.

“My waters broke an hour ago.”

“That isn’t what I asked.” He looks like a dried apple, all angry and pursed as he stands there in the cabin door.

“Eight hours,” she says. “It’s only gotten bad within the last two.”

Finn looks to her belly. “How long do you have?”

She knows what he sees, that the baby has dropped and what was a high shelf filled with child last night has become a ledge nearer her hips. Grace feels it in every fiber of her being, that this báb will be here before sunset.

“I’ve four hours left. Maybe. I’ve never gone longer than twelve.”

“And how old were you then?”

She glares at him and would make some snide remark about him being old dry shite as well, but the vise tightens on her belly and she groans as the contraction pulses down, down, until the pressure is a ball of fire between her legs.

“We won’t make it home in time,” she tells him.

“Sure, Richard is going to kill me for letting this happen,” Finn curses, and she realizes that he’s afraid.

“He won’t get the chance if we don’t get away from that boat. How close are they now?”

Grace can’t stand any longer. Hasn’t been able to stand for the last half hour. So she waves her hand toward one of the small cabin windows and watches as Finn goes to look out. She doesn’t like the expression on his face.

“Looks to be Algerian. Pilfered, no doubt. Not so large as Niamh, but sleek and heavily manned. Two cannon. Six guns. I can see their faces,” he tells her.

“Then ready the men to be boarded.”

“You think we’re giving up that easily?”

“I think,” she says, then clenches her teeth as a new wave of pain crashes over her, “that we’ve little choice in the matter anymore. We’d have outrun them if we could.”

“I’ll send Gutty in to protect you.”

“You’ll do no such thing. Our best chances are with the sword.”

“You are having a fecking baby, Gráinne!”

She hears the panic in his voice but cannot summon the energy for sympathy. “If you think I don’t fecking know that, then you’re dumber than I thought. Now get your sorry ahhhh!”—she lets out a scream, then growls until she can control her voice again—“arse. Your sorry. Fecking. Arse. Back on deck and defend this ship. Or we’re all dead.”

Grace doesn’t watch him leave. She doesn’t want to know what expression twists his grim face.

“Think. Think. Think,” Grace tells herself. “You’ve done this before.”

But not for many years, she thinks, and I thought I’d never have to again. Richard refused to be instructed in the use of her body. He took her as he wanted and left her blind and stupid with pleasure. A child was inevitable. And now that it has taken root and grown, she finds she does not mind at all. As long as they both survive whatever happens next.

Grace slides her dagger out of her left boot, then kicks them both off. She rids herself of bodice, belt, and skirt—she’s no longer able to wear her sailing trews with this cumbersome belly. She strips herself of everything but her leine. Ties her hair back in a braid, then waits for a lull in her contractions. It takes every one of those thirty seconds to scoot to the edge of the bed, where she is forced to linger until the next wave ceases before shuffling to the cabin door and dropping the heavy bar latch. It’s little protection but might buy her precious moments. Another contraction, another wave—this one bends her over at the waist and she braces her hands on her knees—then she holds to the portside wall and eases along until she reaches her father’s old blunderbuss. As always, packed and greased and ready in its bracket on the wall. There’s little chance she can wield her blade today.

Three lumbering steps and she’s back in bed, crawling, scooting, sitting with her back against the wall. Dagger by her left thigh, blunderbuss at her right. Grace knows there will be no getting off this bed again. She hikes her leine above her knees as the hardest contraction yet crashes through her body. She feels it from ribs to hip bones, a relentless squeezing, then spreading, followed by a near-unbearable searing between her legs. Water rushes out, followed by blood.

A quick exploration with her hand proves that the báb is starting to crown, that its head is covered with soft hair. She cannot tell the color, though, still cannot see anything beyond the mound of her belly.

There are shouts on deck, followed by the unmistakable roar of cannon fire. Grace ducks her head on instinct but decides it was only a warning shot when there is no sound of ripping wood, no boom of impact.