Page 170 of The Pirate Queen

He uses it to grin at her now.

“If you want a real kiss, just say so.”

“What I want is to be left alone.”

“And I want to break Walter’s teeth for stealing your first kiss. Was supposed to be mine, wasn’t it?”

“Who says that was my first?” she demands.

Richard’s grin is wider now, showing all his teeth.

Grace hates that she likes the sight of it. She hates that she likes this game they have played almost every day for two years. Sometimes in the cellars. Or the byre. Or in the rolling hills around the tower house. Once they fought along the shallow edge of the bay itself and came in so drenched and muddy they had to lie and say they’d been chased into the water by a wild boar. Thanks to Richard, she can adequately wield both dagger and dirk. She holds the former now, having slid it from her boot while he forced her into the byre. Though Grace prefers the dirk, it requires wearing a scabbard at her waist. Finola Bourke is long suffering with Grace’s wild ways, but even she will not countenance her foster daughter bearing weapons at the breakfast table. But the dagger fits into her boot, and she never leaves her room without it. No one but Richard knows she carries it at all times. It is the only secret she keeps from her brother.

“Kissing isn’t so terrible. Just ask Donal,” he says. “And Nora. They’re at it often enough.”

Richard tries to maneuver her into the wedge of sunlight that slides through the narrow door. He wants her blinded so that he can disarm her and win quickly, but she won’t fall for that again. Nimble footwork gets her out of the trap as he prattles on.

“I caught them just yesterday—in the dungeon, of all places. That brother of yours has wandering hands. I was forced to defend my sister’s honor, wasn’t I?”

Grace laughs. “More lies. Your father doesn’t acknowledge Nora and neither do you, from what I’ve seen. Your loss, I might add. Nora would make any family proud.”

“You think that I amn’t fond of her? Or that I’ll let Donal besmirch her honor?”

“Donal takes nothing from Nora that isn’t freely offered. They seem happy enough. Let them alone.”

“Don’t mind me.” Richard laughs. “I’m just the only one around here not getting kissed.”

“Go find O’Flaherty, then. I’m sure he’ll oblige.”

Richard mutters something about O’Flaherty being a fecking scrubber as he rushes Grace and maneuvers her into the corner. They are both panting when he whispers in her ear, “Walter hasn’t done it again, has he?”

“No.” She has gone to great pains to avoid being alone with Walter Bourke.

Grace wants out of this byre. It’s too tight, but every time she tries to edge herself into a position where she can move toward the door and into the clean air, Richard cuts her off. She needs to get him on the defensive.

“It’s going to rain soon,” she says. “I’d like to be back in the tower when it does. It won’t be a light shower.”

“No point lying about the weather. ’Tis fair enough today. If you want to be done, then beat me.”

“I amn’t lying. Just wait and see.”

She lifts both hands to his line of sight, then darts in, attacking with elbow and blade.

“Use your right hand,” he orders when she lands a solid blow against his chest with the point of the knife. Her elbow misses contact with his jaw by an inch, but they’re out of the corner now. She can move.

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

“Fine,” he growls, then uses his free hand to parry. Bigger and faster, always. He doesn’t knock the blade out of her hand when he hits her wrist in a circular motion with his forearm, but she does lose the advantage and stumbles back. “But don’t complain to me when they tie that arm behind your back and call you a banshee.”

“Banshee. What’s next? Wench? Fairy? Don’t make me blush.”

“Rocks have a better chance of blushing than you. Never in my life have I met such a stubborn woman.”

Grace bats her eyelashes at him because she knows he hates it, that he has no patience for any kind of feminine silliness. She keeps it up even as they continue to circle each other, their boots shuffling through a fine layer of silt, their knives gripped tightly.

“Sinister,” he says, pronouncing the Latin word carefully, “means ‘left,’ as you well know. And sinister is what they will call you the moment you lift your blade with that hand. They’ll accuse you of devilry.”

“Says the man who insisted I use only that hand.”