Page 32 of The Pirate Queen

“All I’m saying is, a man could make a fortune if he knew how to navigate these waters, how to navigate the channel and escort ships up the river too. Most of those merchant vessels are small. Easy to board. Easy to tax.” He looks at her carefully to gauge her reaction. “It would be a better life than tending fires at Bunowen.”

“Take them,” her husband says. “I don’t have time to play nursemaid—not if you want a dry place to sleep.”

Grace looks to the sky. Bright and clear. So it is her fault that he must set up the tent and no doubt her fault as well if the weather changes and turns to rain. She can think of nothing in the last eight years that Donal O’Flaherty does not consider her fault.

But Grace nods and says the thing she knows will enrage him. “Yes, mo fhear.”

His jaw clenches.

Then he walks away.

She lifts Margaret to one hip and tugs Eóin by the hand. “Let’s find Granny and Daideo,” she says. “They’ll be here somewhere.”

The open field stretches from the water’s edge, where four dozen ships lie at anchor, to the western slope and the village of Moycullen. It is swarming with different clans, impossible to tell one from the other unless they’ve got their flags up. Grace doesn’t see the O’Malley crest, even though she strains for the sight of that boar against a red and gold background.

Grace sidesteps a stubborn patch of teasel, easing around the ridged spines growing along its stalk. Six foot if it’s an inch, and hasn’t been plowed under. Likely because of the games. Why go to all that work taming a field when it will be trampled by day’s end? She smiles at the bright purple florets, though. It has always been her favorite color.

She is on her tiptoes, leaning around the bulk of a wagon stuck in the mud, when she feels a heavy hand settle on her shoulder.

“Gráinne,” the voice says. She wants to smile, but she can still hear her husband in the distance, shouting invective, abusing Gutty for not being able to carry everything at once.

Two heartbeats and then she turns.

Richard Bourke is taller than when she last saw him, but he hadn’t yet been twenty then. Taller and bigger and now he’s bearded too. Like his father. All dark and brooding. His eyes, though, are the same. And she is drowned in all that somber blue. Like falling into the sky at eventide.

“I didn’t know you’d be coming to the games,” Richard says. His gaze roams her face, then shifts to Margaret on her hip, drops to Eóin at her side, then rises again to the swell of her belly. He blinks several times in surprise. “You didn’t mention that in your last letter.”

She isn’t sure if he means the games or the pregnancy, and she waits a bit to see if he is upset about either.

“It was a surprise,” she says, answering both.

His smile is soft. Kind. “I am glad to see you.”

“And I, you.”

“Wait until I tell Walter that you’re here,” he says, then waggles his eyebrows. “He’ll be thrilled. Has always been fond of you, hasn’t he?”

“Of me? No. Your brother is fond of putting his hands where they don’t belong. On my arse in particular.”

Richard laughs. “No more of that. He’s a wife that keeps a weather eye on him now. Keeps him busy too. They’ve three children already.”

“Boys or girls?”

“Just the one boy.” He hides a smile by pressing his lips together. “Richard.”

“Jesus wept. Not another one.” Grace makes a show of rolling her eyes. “At least the pressure is off you to provide an heir.”

Richard shrugs, but she thinks that his eyes tighten, that he looks to Eóin’s chubby hand in hers. And if she were a betting woman, she’d think that would be a heavy gulp that moves down his throat.

Grace allows herself to stare at him for one long moment, noting the changes in his face, and he stares back—doing the same. But then she remembers that she’s standing in a muddy field surrounded by men assembling their tents and women yelling after their children, and she drops her gaze, hoping that he can’t see the color bloom in her cheeks.

You are married, Gráinne Ní Mháille, and not to him, she tells herself.

“Do you know where my father is camped?” she asks, still looking at the mud. “He’ll be wanting to see the children.”

When she finally looks up, Richard is searching her face for the answer to some question he hasn’t yet asked. He motions toward the north with his chin. “Tá. Top of the ridge. Just like your da to claim the high ground. Follow me, I’ll take you.”

He turns to lead the way, then stops when her boots make a squelching sound in the mire. She can see the hesitation flicker in his eyes for a moment before he bends down, picks up Eóin, then slings the boy over his shoulders like a sack of oats.