Page 97 of The Pirate Queen

Sivney calls the order and deckhands scurry across the ship as they set all sails to align with the wind. Niamh jolts forward with a creak and a tug, and her wake spreads wider behind them.

Soon they are near enough to read the name emblazoned across the caravel’s dark wide stern. Their man in the crow’s nest calls out words Grace doesn’t understand as the wary crew watches from the gunwale.

“Fecking sea dogs,” Eóin declares, then, seeing her confusion, clarifies, “Portuguese.”

“How can you tell?” Grace asks him.

“That name is written differently in Spanish.”

Grace can’t read it either way.

“The Portuguese don’t usually sail these waters,” Sivney adds. “What are they doing here?”

“One way to find out.”

They are now close enough to the ship that they could call to the crew. Or signal by flag. But they do neither. Instead, Eóin beckons Donal onto the cabin deck.

“Bring me the blunderbuss.”

Donal returns a few moments later with the short-barreled gun. It has a wooden stock and a flared snout and is packed and ready to fire. He hands it to Eóin.

“What are you doing?” Grace asks when he pulls back the cock.

This is a side of her father that she has never seen. A wild, scary side of him—he is no longer just her da. He is a chieftain, a pirate, with a glint in his eyes that makes her shrink away.

“If that ship wants safe passage through my waters, it must pay a fee, bird.”

He points the gun skyward and pulls the trigger. Thunder echoes across the deck and the acrid scent of gunpowder fills her nostrils. He makes no attempt to reload.

“Why do you call them sea dogs?” Grace asks, her gaze fixed on the frantic movement aboard the other ship.

“It’s what they call themselves. Lobos do mar. Wolves of the sea,” he says. “And that is the only warning they will get. One shot. Prepare to be boarded. They can offer a portion of their cargo, or fight to keep it.”

“How are we doing this?” Sivney asks, and she sees that same wild light in his eyes.

They are enjoying this.

They are all enjoying this.

All of them except her. And perhaps Donal, who looks every bit as stricken as she feels.

Eóin answers with certainty. “Drive them closer to Clare so that they must slow down to avoid the rocks.”

Clew Bay is filled with treacherous granite, hidden sandbars, and sunken drumlin islands. The O’Malleys have held it securely for centuries. Only those who know these waters are guaranteed safe passage through them. There is little chance that the Portuguese caravel is familiar with the bay, but now that they’ve been challenged, they are increasing their speed.

“Perhaps ’tis time you learn what being a captain really means, bird,” her father says, and there is no kindness in his voice. Then to Sivney he adds, “They mean to hide among the inner islands. Faster.”

Over the next hour Niamh edges the foreign boat closer to shore, always keeping to their port side and strategically maneuvering them inland.

“Careful,” Eóin warns Sivney as the Portuguese ship reduces her speed.

The first mate is sweating, the veins in his arm protruding as he holds the tiller and guides them nearer the Portuguese.

“Donal, run the banner,” Eóin says.

Grace watches her brother hoist the O’Malley banner up the mainmast so that the crimson and gold fabric whips and snaps in the wind, declaring these waters to be their territory.

“Now!” Eóin orders.