Page 39 of Irish Brute
Of course, I don’t have a coat here, so I choose one at random, a man’s hip-length jacket of heavy black wool. As I tug it close around my shoulders, I catch a whiff of cedar and spice. It’s Braiden’s coat, the one he wore to our meeting with the Delaware tax authorities. I bury my face in the lapel and take a deep breath.
Outside, the January air is cold enough that the corners of my eyes start to crinkle. I walk briskly, hoping to generate enough warmth to avoid an immediate return to the house.
I hurry past a swimming pool covered with a leaf-strewn tarp and a pool house with floor-to-ceiling windows. As I round the corner of an outdoor kitchen that could easily feed a platoon, I discover a row of cottages, half a dozen of them, each with a freshly painted front door and neat curtains in its windows.
Beyond them lies a massive greenhouse. The building is low to the ground and large enough to cover a football field. Condensation fogs the glass panes, except where broad green leaves spread against the walls.
Blowing on my fingers to warm them in the bitter cold, I make my way to the greenhouse door. I look over my shoulder before I touch it. No one has told me not to enter. Braiden hasn’t forbidden this refuge, the way he did the door at the end of the hallway on the second floor. But the imposing glass building seems magical, like I’ll find myself in a distant land if I step over the threshold.
I could use an enchanted escape—something to take me away from a world where my cousin was hideously murdered, where I married a virtual stranger because he was the only man who could protect me, where I set aside everything I thought I knew about myself and knelt before my husband to beg. Where I let my husband spank me. Where I enjoyed it.
Two days. That’s all the time I’ve spent at Thornfield, and already I don’t recognize myself. Worse—I don’t recognize the woman who wants more of this, the submissive animal who wonders what other punishments Braiden has in store.
I shove open the door, half expecting an alarm to sound. When it doesn’t, I slip inside the close, wet heat of the sheltered space. The door latches fast behind me.
The air is heavy and moist, gloriously warm after my trek through the January garden. The heavy sweetness of orange blossoms coats the back of my throat, mixing with something more exotic, like jasmine or gardenias. I’m surrounded by more shades of green than I can count, the jungle punctuated with explosions of pink and purple, yellow and orange.
Paths wind through the greenhouse, smooth concrete swept free of leaves and fallen petals. Small puddles line the walkway, and I look up to find a complicated system of pipes for irrigation.
Unbuttoning my coat, I wander deeper into the rainforest. I recognize lilies and tall stands of gladiolus. The hothouse is full of all the flowers from the dining room table, along with things I’ve only seen outdoors before—pansies and impatiens and begonias.
There’s a forest of bamboo and a sandy collection of cactus plants. A bed of succulents spreads over a hill of tiny pebbles. A palm tree stretches all the way to the roof, its thatched trunk anchoring dozens of leafy plants. A wall of orchids draws me deeper into the maze, their suggestive petals splayed in shocking colors.
I turn a corner and find myself in a perfect little garden. A field of bright green moss leads to a pond where I glimpse flashes of giant goldfish—orange and black and white. Clumps of daisies riot beside the water, and huge pink roses climb a trellis on the far side of the pool. Stands of shamrocks line the edges ofthe garden, bright white flowers standing out against their three-fold leaves.
A cast-iron bench rests in front of the water, its graceful scrolls inviting me to sit. The air is heavy with the sweetness of honeysuckle, which climbs the walls of this sheltered nook. I shrug off my coat as I take a seat, bunching it behind me for comfort. Without thinking, I reach into the pocket of my jeans for my phone.
I don’t smoke. I drink in moderation. I’m capable of taking a single bite of a sinful dessert and leaving the rest on my plate.
But my need to check for freeport messages is a physical craving. My fingersmustskate over the clear glass. Ihave totap on the red badges. Ineedto read the first email—a routine confirmation that payment has been processed by the county court on a document we filed—and the next and the next and the next.
“Ma’am,” a voice says, interrupting my flying thumbs as I type out instructions for Mary to track down a federal regulation about private aircraft for the heliport Trap wants to build.
I bite back a shout of surprise, clutching my phone as I jump to my feet. Grace Poole stands in the center of the path, blocking the green doorway to this sheltered alcove. She’s wearing a bright white apron over mud-brown pants and shirt; the contrast so sharp my eyes start to water. I can’t escape, even if I decide to run—which would be foolish, because this toad-like woman isn’t a threat.
“Grace!” I say, trying to cover my shock. The skin on the back of my neck prickles like thousands of tiny insect feet are crawling in my hair. “I didn’t hear you behind me.”
“Ma’am,” she says again. “Saw ya from me cottage,” she says. Her Irish accent is so muddy it takes me a moment to realize she’s speaking English. She takes a step closer.
I can’t move away, not without landing in the water. I try to make a polite reply. “Cottage? I wondered who lives in those cute little houses.”
“I’ve got one, fer when I don’t sleep i’ th’ big house. Fairfax too. Other staff have th’ rest—gard’ner, secur’ty, ’n’ th’ like.”
This near, I catch a fog of whiskey on her breath. She has sleep in the corners of her eyes, and her hair looks like it hasn’t met a brush since the last century.
“So ya found th’ Irish Garden,” she says, as if we were carrying on a conversation. “Mr. Braiden built it fer th’ first Mrs. Kelly.”
First Mrs. Kelly.
That sounds like something out of a book, some Gothic horror novel where Braiden is something even more sinister than the head of the Irish Mob. I catch the lizard-flick of Grace’s eyes toward me. She wants to know if I’m shocked.
I don’t have any right to be surprised. It’s not like Braiden and I sat down and shared our numbers before he proposed. I haven’t told him how many lovers I’ve had (five), how many one-night stands (one, a regrettable drunken spin in college), how many engagements (none, except for his, and I’m not even sure that counts.)
Grace reaches into the pocket of her apron and pulls out a plastic bag. “I like t’ feed th’ fish.”
Her red, chapped fingers dig in the bag as she selects a cube of kibble. When she comes to stand beside me, the koi swarm to the surface, their hard-lipped mouths opening like greedy suction cups.
Grace sneaks a sly glance at me, but she doesn’t offer me any food. Instead, she feeds the fish piece by piece, like it’s the most important task she has at Thornfied Hall. She talks to them as they eat, and this time I’m almost certain she’s speaking Irish.
