Page 196 of The Pirate Queen

Niamh does not sail with a full crew, but thirty men watch the exchange, stunned that she would speak to their captain—their chieftain—in such a way.

The last time she challenged her father before his crew, she was sent home to her mother in shame, her head nearly bald. But Grace is angry and reckless and scared. It doesn’t matter that she prefers Richard or that Rockfleet could be her home. It only matters that she not be sent away again.

“I will not marry either of them,” she growls. “You can’t make me.”

Not once in her sixteen years has Eóin ever raised a hand to her. Not until now. His arm is up, the back of his hand splayed and flying toward her face.

It is instinct, really. Training. All that time spent grappling with Richard. She blocks her father’s blow in a swift circular motion, knocking his arm away.

They stand toe to toe, blue fire in his eyes and gray fury in hers.

Then come the gasps.

From Maeve.

And the crew.

And Donal, who left his bride in the cabin to see what all the shouting is about.

Maeve is right. Grace has gone too far. She pushed her father too hard. She challenged him before his men. This should be a private argument, but she embarrassed him in public. Whatever mercy he might have been inclined to offer is gone.

There is gravel in Eóin’s throat when he says, “Donal?”

“Tá?”

“Put your sister in the cabin.”

Donal’s hand is at her waist and he is urging her away when Eóin calls out. But he speaks to her back, for she will not look at him.

“You have one week!” he shouts. “Walter Bourke or Donal O’Flaherty. Choose one of them. Or I will choose for you.”

Grace sits at the bottom of the stairs, listening to her parents talk in the privy chamber. They have been home for days and she has said not a word to either of them. They eat in silence. They work in silence. Grace knows it is petty, that her behavior is unhelpful and unbecoming. But it is her only form of protest.

“What will you do with Donal?” Maeve asks.

“I have not decided.”

“He cannot live in that bothy forever.”

“Now you worry about where he lives? You were content to let him stay in the village all these years.”

Maeve sighs. “He is married now.”

“So it’s Nora you are worried about? Or my reputation? Perhaps you would like to move them in here? Give them Gráinne’s room?”

Grace cannot see their faces, cannot read their expressions. So she doesn’t know what look is in her mother’s eyes or what makes her father say, “Oh. You think that I will install them here when she is gone.”

“ ’Tis her home,” Maeve whispers so lightly that Grace can barely hear the tremor in her voice. “Clare should always be her home.”

There is the rustling of clothing, a quiet sobbing.

“She is a little girl no longer,” he says. “And when she marries, she’ll not live here again.”

Grace can only hear a single word of Maeve’s reply: “…days…”

“Then make the most of them.”

“How? You have stolen all the time I have left with her. She will not speak to me.”