Page 180 of The Pirate Queen

“I know.”

“Then why the sad face?”

A shudder runs up his spine, a quick reaction that surprises Tibbot as much as Grace. “Do you hear that?” he asks.

“Hear what?”

Tibbot thumps the heel of his hand against his ear, the way he does after swimming to dislodge a bubble of water. “It sounds like horses,” he tells her, then points toward the open water of Clew Bay, toward the North Atlantic. “Out there.”

She pulls Tibbot’s hand toward her chest and lays it flat against her heart. Grace closes her eyes. Listens. She hears it then—but faintly, and only when she holds her breath. The staccato drumbeat of pounding hooves.

“It does,” she tells him.

There is no fear in his face, only wonder and confusion, and a naive kind of trust that she would give anything to have back.

“It doesn’t make sense,” he tells her.

“Oh, it will,” she says, then asks, “Is there anything that you smell?”

The boy she shares with Richard Bourke, the boy who has inherited the Sense that she got from her own father, closes his eyes. His nostrils flare for a moment before his eyes flash wide again and turn to the sky, face clouded by confusion.

“It smells like wet dirt,” he tells her. “Like it does after the rain. But we’ve a clear sky today. What does it mean, Mam?”

Grace bends low and kisses the soft skin between his eyes. “It means that you are your mother’s son.”

A short time later they are docked at their usual spot near the front door of Rockfleet, where Sir Christopher St. Lawrence is pacing a rut into her steps. The moment Niamh is settled, young Christopher throws himself over the gunwale and into his grandfather’s arms. He starts chattering so loudly and quickly that the old man clamps a hand over the boy’s mouth.

Grace meets him with a steely glare.

“I did not know—” St. Lawrence begins.

“There is no need to lie. You did not care. That is the truth of the matter.”

He presses his lips between his teeth but does not argue. After a moment he clears his throat, then says, “Please accept my apologies.”

Grace steps off the ship. “Perhaps you should offer them inside.”

She walks past him, not waiting to see if he will follow. But of course he does. And once she reaches the Great Hall, Grace finds a number of St. Lawrence’s men seated at her table, already deep into their dinner. She goes to the head of the table and motions one of the serving girls to bring her mead.

With some trepidation, St. Lawrence returns to the table, an iron grip on his grandson’s arm. Frustrated, the boy tries to pull away, but to no avail.

“Please,” he says. “I am ready to pay whatever ransom you require. I have gold. Silver.”

Grace snorts. “I trust that you and your men have enjoyed the hospitality of my home?”

He hesitates, his cheeks turning red. “We have.”

“And how many days have you been here waiting?”

“Two.”

“You have been fed?”

“We have.”

She smiles. “And other comforts have been made available to you? Baths and beds specifically?”

“Yes.”