Page 173 of The Pirate Queen

It is pleasant, this pressure and heat.

It is nice.

It is…

Richard moves slower now and she allows her eyes to close so that she might concentrate on this new sensation. She feels the warmth of his breath, the warmth of his…yes, his tongue, as it slides softly across her mouth, playing at the seam of her lips. She thinks he is asking her to open for him.

Grace moves her lips in response and he takes it as permission, brushing the barest tip of his tongue into her mouth and swiping away any argument she might make. This intrusion should be terrible. But this is Richard. She likes him. He tastes of apples and mead.

Her mouth moves of its own accord, her tongue tangling with his, and his body settles. She likes the weight of him. She likes everything about this.

There is a rumble deep inside his chest. More laughter. He lifts onto his forearms. “Perhaps you don’t hate me so much anymore?”

“I never said I hated you,” she answers.

“You just want to kill me?”

“Only maim,” she retorts, and they are both laughing now.

Perhaps if they weren’t on the floor of the byre, dusty, tangled together, kissing, they would hear the approaching footsteps.

“What is the meaning of this?” The steward of Rockfleet Castle stands in the byre door, hands fisted at his waist. Brian is his name, and he has always been kind to Grace. But the tone of his voice sounds lethal now. “Best the two of you never do this again.”

Mother, 1577

“A Famous Feminine Sea Captain”

Grace is forty-seven years old

It is late afternoon, nearing dinner, and Grace is hungry. She is also tired of her crew. Tired of their faces and their stench. She wants a hot bath, a good meal, and better company. This is how it always begins when she grows homesick. A new development these last ten years, this longing to return home. She misses Rockfleet and Tibbot and Richard, but him she’ll see in Galway three days hence. First she must get out of Dublin. And that requires a visit to Howth Castle.

Grace leaves her men to ready Niamh for departure and walks from the pier toward a sloping tree-lined drive that leads to the home of Christopher St. Lawrence, Lord Howth. She carries with her a satchel and change of clothes in anticipation of her bath. The old Norman fortress sits on a rise overlooking the Irish Sea, surrounded by high defensive walls that have started to crumble in sections. It doesn’t take her long to reach the sprawling estate, but when she does, she finds the gates shut tight and the drawbar down.

“Odd,” she mutters, then peers at the sun, still high in its arc.

All seems still and quiet within the courtyard. There are two guards atop the wall, but neither pays her much mind, nor do they speak. So Grace goes to the guardhouse and lifts the knocker. She strikes it against the metal plate. Waits in silence for some time, then does it again. Then a third time. Grace is lifting the knocker to call again when she hears footsteps shuffling through the gravel. A small door is slid aside at eye level.

The steward looks at Grace like she is some smelly fish dragged up from the docks. His eyes travel her tired visage. His nose wrinkles. “Who goes there?”

“I am Gráinne Ní Mháille, chieftain of the O’Malley clan and mistress of The MacWilliam. I come to seek the hospitality of Lord Howth, as is my right, before I return to sea.”

“Wait here,” the steward says, blowing an irritated sigh from his nostrils. He slides the door shut with a clang.

Howth Castle is three stories tall and built of pale stone. Numerous large windows. Four towers. She wonders if one could get lost wandering through those rooms, if they would lose all sense of direction trapped behind so many layers of stone. Grace is counting chimney stacks when she hears the shuffle of gravel once again. Then the grating slide of the small door.

“Lord Howth is at dinner and will not be disturbed.”

“He would turn me away?” she asks, aghast.

The steward blinks at her. “He would finish his dinner. And you have not been invited.”

“ ’Tis the custom of the lords of Ireland to provide a welcoming hearth to fellow clan leaders. I have done so myself more times than I can count.”

“You are no lord,” he says dryly.

“And you are no manner of host.”

The steward snaps the small door closed once more, then departs. Grace stares at it. Then turns her scowl to the guards when they begin to chuckle above her.