Page 61 of The Pirate Queen

His eyes narrow when he glances first to Murray, then to Finn. If Gráinne weren’t standing between them, Murray is certain The Joyce would think he was seeing double.

“My father told me about you,” he tells Gráinne. “Said the wife of Donal O’Flaherty was a fine cailín. But he failed to mention you were as ruthless as your husband. I had not anticipated the melted lead.”

“A failure of imagination.”

“Only a setback.”

“I liked your father, Seán. He was kind to me. So I will make a deal with you.”

He takes a step forward. “I do not make deals with fecking O’Flahertys.”

“Then ’tis a good thing I am not one of them.”

His eyes narrow. “You’re mother to plenty.”

“Take your men—however many are still alive—and go. Accept the loss. That is my deal.”

“Doesn’t seem like much of one.”

“The alternative is I take your life,” she says.

Seán Joyce is bright enough to have laid siege to this castle and taken the head of Donal O’Flaherty. Brave enough, even, to launch another attack. But he is also fool enough to laugh at Gráinne. And when he does, she relaxes her arms, lets her hands hang at her sides. Murray has seen this stance before. So has Finn. They know what it means and they shift away from her.

The Joyce is distracted by their movement and he looks away from the Bean an Tí.

Fool of a man.

Gráinne draws back her right arm and throws the dagger in one smooth motion. The blade catches a glimmer of torchlight as it hurtles end over end. Before Joyce can flinch, the blade lodges right below the shoulder of his sword arm. It sinks to the hilt with a wet thump and his sword clatters to the stone floor. He looks at Gráinne with a stupid kind of alarm. Stumbles back a step as a delayed grunt of pain escapes his chest, a labored echo of his previous laugh.

“Take your men and go.” Gráinne raises the blade in her left hand—her better hand. “Or the next one hits your eye.”

Seán Joyce lifts his shield even as he shakes his head. Not in refusal, but surprise. Blood flows freely down his other arm, dripping from his fingers. Splattering to the floor.

“I did you a favor by killing the fecker,” he spits.

“Tá. You did. Is the only reason I didn’t kill you on the first throw. I have already grown weary of your face. G’wan, leave before I grow weary of your voice as well.”

Swords still clash out on the lawn. Men scream and shout and curse. But now Joyce laughs again, with real humor. “We could make a different kind of arrangement. We would be formidable together.”

“Oh for feck’s sake,” Finn hisses.

“You would kill my husband, then propose marriage?” Gráinne asks in disbelief.

“Such arrangements are not uncommon.”

“Only when the women have no other options. I have plenty. And you are still married.”

He attempts a shrug, but winces instead. “Wives are replaceable.”

“Not this one,” she says.

Gráinne could easily take his eye with the throw, but for some reason she allows Seán Joyce to live. So her blade only clips his left ear. Enough to leave a permanent nick.

“You fecker,” Finn curses. “You come here to kill us and—failing that—to suggest marriage to our Taoiseach.”

That gets Seán Joyce’s attention. Their leader. Their chief. Not just a woman or a widow or a pawn.

The Joyce’s mouth falls open.