Page 41 of The Pirate Queen

“ ’Tis not your concern. You aren’t my husband.”

He reaches out. Cups her cheek gently. And when she leans into it—just the slightest pressure—he closes his eyes. “I should have been. We both know that. And you know that I would never hit you. So please take the fecking knife. Let me have that, at least. Let me know that it’s my steel that will bleed him dry if he hurts you.”

She lifts the dagger from Richard’s hand and looks at it, uncertain where to even sheath the thing.

“It will fit,” Richard says, then drops to one knee and unlaces her left boot. He pulls out Cook’s old knife and hands it to Gutty.

“That’s mine!” she argues.

“And you can have it back if you ever come to me at Rockfleet.”

There is an interior sheath sewn into the edge of her boot, and he slides his dagger inside. He loosens the laces to make room, then ties them again.

“If he ever sets a hand to you again, gut him.”

Grace wants to tell him thank you. Or goodbye. Or I love you, I always have, and I’m so sorry it wasn’t you. There are nearly a dozen things she could say, but she doesn’t get the chance because Richard brushes his thumb across her lips, then leans in and whispers, “Ego te expectabo.”

I will wait for you.

The sob is rising in her throat when Richard grabs Gutty by the wrist and leads him away. Then she is left standing alone in the dark.

Five seconds. Ten. Twenty. She stands there until her heart settles. Then she turns and winds her way back to the O’Flaherty camp.

Her husband is waiting for her inside their tent.

Grace stops short when she sees him sprawled out on the pallet. Half drunk. Half naked.

“Take your clothes off,” he orders.

Rage, then.

“No. I will not play this game tonight.”

He sits up and balls his fists. “Do not speak to me like that.”

“Then do not go killing men in the forest where anyone can see.”

Reckless. Stupid. She should leave and go to her parents’ camp for the night, but when is he going to learn? When will he stop leaving his messes at her feet?

Donal O’Flaherty is up and pacing in an instant. “That fecking little dry shite of a boy. He ran to you, didn’t he? Like some sniveling báb. Like you’re his mother. I’ll kill him. Where is he?”

“Gutty’s gone,” she lies. “I found him packing his things. He’s already run for Galway.”

“And you didn’t stop him?”

She looks at her swollen belly. Lifts her arms. “How am I supposed to stop anyone?”

Grace might see it coming otherwise, if she wasn’t looking down, if she didn’t take it for granted that the child growing in her womb would offer some kind of protection. But the hit lands hard. An open palm to the temple and she is on her face on the floor before she can draw a breath. Eyes watering. Head ringing. The world spins before her. Mouth opening and closing like a fish. But not for lack of air. It’s words she can’t find.

She is pregnant.

And her husband has hit her.

The very thing Richard said would happen.

Grace moves a hand to her belly first. Prods slightly, looking for a response. She doesn’t think that her stomach broke her fall, but she can’t remember. There were three seconds of darkness before she realized she was on the ground.

There. Tap-tap-tap. A foot against her ribs.