Page 181 of The Pirate Queen

“Tell me, Lord Howth, have any of your needs been unmet while a guest in my home?”

He twists his lips. “No.”

“I am glad to hear it.” She grins. “But I forget my manners. Please meet…my husband, Richard Bourke, MacWilliam of clan Bourke. I met him in Galway on my way back from Dublin.”

St. Lawrence rises and offers Richard a small bow. Then they sit, one on either side of Grace.

“What would you have me give in exchange for my grandson?” St. Lawrence asks.

“In exchange?” Christopher asks, looking between them all with his dark round eyes.

“For getting you back,” St. Lawrence tells the boy.

“From what? We’ve been on a grand adventure!”

St. Lawrence sets a heavy hand on the boy’s head, then looks at Grace with a frown.

“Surely you did not think that I would hurt him?” she asks.

“I did not know what to think,” he whispers.

“Had you done your duty, you would have never had to find out.”

“What is your price, Mistress O’Malley?”

“I ask only a promise,” she says.

“Of what sort?”

“That, from this day forward, the gates of Howth Castle will never be closed to those seeking your kindness. That you not deny the hospitality required of you as a lord of Ireland. That you always keep an empty chair and an extra plate at your table for those who might appear at your doorstep hungry or tired.”

St. Lawrence’s mouth falls open. “That is all?”

“I would think it more than enough. For I expect you and all your descendants—every son and grandson, this one in particular, along with those who come after him—to keep this promise. If you can swear to that, you are welcome to take your delightful budding arsonist home.”

“I am happy to make that promise,” St. Lawrence tells her, then pulls a ring from the pinky of his left hand. It has a wide gold band with a round, rough-cut blue stone in the center.

He sets the ring in her palm and explains, “It is an aquamarine. Mined from India. My own grandfather brought it back with him and had it mounted in that ring. The Greeks and Romans believed aquamarines gave protection when crossing seas. It has brought great luck to my family. Take it as my pledge to honor your request.” He motions to her hand. “Please.”

St. Lawrence’s fingers are a great deal larger than hers, and the ring that so snugly fit his pinky slides easily over her thumb. Grace looks at her hands. Maeve’s fede ring on her right thumb and St. Lawrence’s aquamarine on her left. The symmetry pleases her.

St. Lawrence pushes back from the table. “If our business is complete, I will be going now. I must get Christopher home before his parents return from England.”

“That would be a mistake,” Grace tells him.

“But—”

“There is a storm coming, Lord Howth. And you do not want to be at sea when it hits. So—” She smiles. “I suggest that the two of you enjoy my hospitality a while longer.”

Matriarch, 1593

“The Eighteen Interrogatories”

Grace is sixty-three years old

London stinks of the plague. It stinks of dirty water and sewage, of perspiring masses and a long summer that won’t let go of the heat. The Hanging Docks along old Wapping Street smell of dead men left to rot in the sun. Grace stands at the far end of a narrow alley. It is dusk. A dangerous part of the city. And she is tempting fate just being here.

Grace is being watched. Always, she feels the weight of curious eyes. She has found herself at the pointed end of a blade on more than one occasion in the last sixty-three years. Still, she does not turn to face the shadows, or the man who lingers there smoking a pipe. Instead, she keeps her back straight, her eyes on the massive wooden beam that juts out over the River Thames. The cobblestones at her feet are damp and uneven, softly lit by the sinking sun, and she moves toward a set of worn steps that descend into the brown brackish water. It is high tide and her way to the riverbank below is blocked. No matter. She isn’t here to mudlark. She is here to see the gallows, to pay her respects to the three gibbeted men who dangle over the river, bound in rusted chains.