Page 24 of Irish Brute
She slips her feet into her shoes and picks up the purse I went all the way back to St. Columba’s to retrieve. “You love this, don’t you?” she asks, as I palm open the door.
“I love keeping things orderly. Protected. Safe.”
“And bythingsyou mean?”
“You,” I say, gesturing for her to pass in front of me, into the hall. “Beautiful.”
So the blush goes at least as far as her shoulder blades. It won’t be long before I discover how much further.
10
SAMANTHA
Braiden Kelly is a domineering, egotistical murderer. But he has a surprising streak of kindness too.
He didn’t have to go back to the church for my pocketbook—especially after a night of dealing with Russo’s violence. But I very much appreciate the fact that he did. Just having my phone in hand makes me feel more human.
It almost makes up for the fact that I’m still wearing my wedding gown when I walk into the kitchen.
“Fairfax,” Braiden says as we enter.
There’s a man juggling pots and pans on the eight-burner stove. He’s small enough that I mistake him for a child before Braiden calls his name, but when Fairfax turns around, I see that he’s old enough to be my grandfather. His fine features are set in a web of wrinkles, as if he spent several decades working outside. His lips are thin and his nose is pert. His eyes are a much lighter version of Braiden’s blue.
“Samantha Kelly,” Braiden says. “This is Alec Fairfax. Fairfax is chief of staff around here. He’s in charge of the house, the grounds, pretty much everything.”
Braiden and I haven’t talked about my changing my name. I haven’t told him I won’t do it. But I don’t have time to protest because Mr. Fairfax is already wiping his fingers on a nearby towel, extending his hand to shake.
“Mr. Fairfax,” I say.
He shakes his head with a kind smile. “No ‘mister’ involved. Just plain Fairfax.” His words are dusted with an English accent, something sharper than Braiden’s Irish lilt. “Welcome to Thornfield. It’ll be lovely, having a bit of female influence over things.”
My lips purse, because I can’t imagine having much of an influence over anything in Braiden’s life.
But Fairfax is already turning back to the stove to shake a heavy iron skillet filled with hash. “Go on, then. You’re all set up in the dining room. No reason for everyone to cram into the kitchen now, is there?”
Before I have a chance to wonder who makes up “everyone”, Fairfax shoos Braiden and me toward a swinging door. “I’ll be right in with the food. Just get your tea from the sideboard.”
It’s coffee I want, coffee Ineed, to begin making sense of my strange new life. Because I’m just starting to grasp that I have achief of staffat my disposal. And I’m staring at a dining room table large enough to serve twenty. It sports three massive floral displays—huge flowers and shining greenery, all of it real. And there are full place settings on one end of the table—multiple plates, glasses, forks, and knives that all shout I won’t get away with gulping down a container of yogurt and calling that a meal.
But the real reason I need coffee?
A child sits at the table.
She’s ten years old, maybe eleven. Her bright red hair tumbles around her face in exuberant curls. Freckles splash her pale cheeks. Her huge eyes are so green, I wonder if she has colored contact lenses. She’s wearing a bulky green sweater over a white button-down shirt. Even though I can’t see beneath the table, I’m somehow certain she has a plaid skirt and thick black tights and heavy lace-up shoes.
“Samantha,” Braiden says. “This is Aiofe Mason.”
Aiofe. My ears hear the Irish name as Eefa, but I know the spelling. “Good morning, Aiofe,” I say, making a point of looking directly in her eyes. “You can call me Sam.”
“Aiofe prefers to stay silent.” Braiden says.
“Excuse me?”
“She doesn’t speak.”
Before I can question the incredible strangeness of that—or who the child is, what she’s doing here, what the hell have I gotten myself into?—Braiden turns toward the massive breakfront on the far wall. “Thank you, Grace,” he says. “You may take your meal in the kitchen.”
I startle, because I hadn’t noticed the woman standing in the shadow of the mahogany hutch. She’s impossible to describe—not tall and not short, not slim and not fat. Her blunt-cut hair is a nameless color, not brown, not blonde. It matches her eyes, which don’t seem to blink.
