Page 92 of Irish Reign

The door is almost closed when I hear Fairfax speaking to someone in the hallway. His voice is hushed, but I can’t miss the urgency in his tone. Before alarm can spike my blood, Samanthaslips into the room, closing the door behind her. She turns the small button in the knob, locking us in.

I suspect my grin is somewhat ridiculous as I take a step forward. “You know it’s bad luck for the groom to see the wedding dress before the ceremony.”

“What? This old thing?” Samantha grins as I study her with blatant approval.

I offered to fly in any designer she wanted in the world. I said we could postpone the ceremony if her dress required hand-made lace and individually stitched seed pearls. I told her she could have a train as long as the church’s nave.

But she insisted she didn’t want a traditional white wedding gown. She had one for our first wedding, and we both know how that ended up. So Samantha’s wearing an outfit she already owned.

The hem of the skirt brushes the floor. It’s made out of yards and yards of black silk, covered with gigantic flowers. Fairfax is the floral expert in my household, but I recognize tulips. All the blossoms are in shades of gold and pink and purple, and they’re gathered together by a wide purple belt. Like all of Samantha’s favorite skirts, this one has pockets.

Her top is all black. The front is demure enough to satisfy the archbishop. But the sleeves and back might have him rethinking his priestly vows—they’re made out of a fabric so sheer Samantha looks naked.

It’s the outfit she wore to a party at Thornfield, back when she thought she had to compete with Fiona for my attention. Madden cornered her in those clothes. She almost left me, wearing that kit.

But she decided to stay.

“You’re gorgeous,” I tell her. And I’m not just talking about the sweep of her hair in some complicated knot, or the cosmeticsthat make her eyes look huge, or the shine of her lips. Everything about her is beautiful—her body and her brains and her bravery.

I love that I can make her blush with two simple words. I love that her laugh snags something deep inside my chest. I love that I have a wedding gift for her, something I meant to give her after the ceremony, but now is even better.

“Close your eyes,” I say.

I watch her automatic refusal, her instinct to do what she wants, when she wants. And I watch her shut down that response. A patient smile quirks her lips, and she closes her eyes.

The box is on a chair, covered by the garment bag that held my tuxedo. I haven’t wrapped it. Haven’t shifted the contents from the bare-bones container my man delivered a few nights back.

I heft it onto the table, watching a line appear between Samantha’s eyebrows as she processes the sound. She wants to peek. She wants to be in charge. But she waits until I say, “Go on, then. You can look.”

The box is made of heavy corrugated cardboard. It’s the width of a sheet of printer paper, the length of a legal-size one, the depth of a standard file folder. It’s fitted with a lid, and a label covers one end: EVIDENCE. SIGN LOG BEFORE REMOVING.

No one signed the log. Not my man, who liberated the box from lock-up. Not the file clerk who accepted an especially heavy envelope to look the other way.

“Is that—” Samantha starts, her voice breaking with disbelief.

I don’t answer. I only gesture for her to remove the lid.

There’s not a lot to show for eleven years of investigation. Most of that time, though, was spent ignoring three deaths on a mountaintop, overlooking a crooked sheriff, forgetting a young woman’s greatest mistake.

Philadelphia’s Detective Tarrant came up with photographs of the crime scene. There are interviews with a handful of witnesses. Attempts to track down next of kin for a long-buried John Doe.

Samantha looks up from the debris, barely shaking her head from side to side. “I—” she starts. “I can’t believe you—” And then, after swallowing hard: “Thank you.”

I nod, because it’s as much a gift to me as it is to her—a guarantee that no prosecutor will ever come after her for the horrible choice she made that night.

“But…” she says, staring at her clasped fingers as she trails off.

I have to touch her then, because she’s sad, and because she’s beautiful, and because she’s mine. My finger curls beneath her chin, forcing her to look up at me. “But what?”

“Detective Tarrant…” she finally says. I can tell how much she hates what she’s thinking. “He wouldn’t just keep physical notes. He has electronic files that can be used against me. He has computer records.”

“Had.”

“Had?”

“Hehadelectronic files. Hehadcomputer records.”

Understanding widens her eyes. “You paid to delete them too? But there have to be backups, offsite storage, cloud?—”

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