Chapter 16
16
SAMANTHA
O nce Braiden runs off with my computer, I try to figure out how to fill the day. I’ve been in this house for less than forty-eight hours, but it already feels claustrophobic. If I were home, in Dover, I’d go for a long walk, maybe head down to the state park that runs for miles along the Delaware River.
But there’s no state park here. And I’m pretty sure Braiden will lock me in the safe room if I try to venture beyond Thornfield’s walls.
Lucky for me, there are acres of grounds that come with this house. I’ve glimpsed them from the windows on the second floor. It’s time to explore my new home.
If I head upstairs to get my coat, I might run into Braiden. I’m not up for another sparring match, not so soon after our breakfast confrontation.
Instead, I make my way to the mudroom at the back of the house. Its walls are lined with coats on hooks, and there are rows of boots marching neatly on the floor. I spy a puffy jacket—pink with a heavy purple zipper—that obviously belongs to Aiofe.
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 of the 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 fingers must skate over the clear glass. I have to tap on the red badges. I need to 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.
When she finishes, she exhales with the satisfaction of relieving a long bout of constipation. “Usually, the wean feeds th’ fish,” she says. “But she’s fussin’ over a drawin’ wi’ her teacher.”
There’s something about her tone, or maybe it’s the way her face pulls into tight lines as she speaks. It’s clear, despite her grotesque manners. Grace Poole misses Aiofe, even if they’re only apart for the morning.
“You love her,” I say.
“I’ve known ’er fro’ th’ day she was born.” Grace actually crosses herself, those rough fingers curled into a claw. “Poor Aiofe and her brother both.”
“I didn’t know she had a brother.” Of course, I know virtually nothing about the child—why she’s living in Braiden’s house, what happened to steal her speech. But I won’t pass up a chance to learn more, even if I need a translator to make sense of what I hear.
“Aye,” Grace says. “Finn. ’E was a year older than Aiofe. Treated ’er like she was a daugh’er of King O’Hara, ’e did. And she loved him true, like ’e put th’ green in shamrocks.”
“What hap?—”
“Grace.” Braiden’s voice cuts through the thick hothouse air. We both whirl toward him like we’re children caught being naughty.
“Mr. Kelly,” Grace says, bobbing into an actual curtsey. I turn to face him like an equal.
“Aiofe should be finishing up her morning studies,” he says. “I’d like her to eat lunch in the nursery today.”
“Sir,” Grace says, with another deep bob. She pushes past Braiden, the rustle of her footsteps fading almost immediately.
“She wasn’t causing any harm,” I say once she’s out of earshot. Like Grace, Braiden seems to have braved the winter cold without a coat. Of course, he had to, since I wore his jacket to the greenhouse.
He’s angry about something, practically vibrating with rage. “What the fuck do you have in your hand?” he snaps.
I glance down, like I don’t know the answer. It takes all my self-control not to hide my cell in my pocket. “My phone,” I say.
“Did you not understand when I told you to take the day off?”
“I was just checking email.”
“Did you think I wouldn’t find out? Or that I wouldn’t care?”
“I…” I’m not sure how to answer. The lawyer part of my mind is building a case, detailing how my phone is different from my computer, arguing against his paternalistic, controlling house rules. But the woman in me—the desperate, needy creature I met when I was spanked yesterday—wants to answer with sass and boldness, even though I know that’s playing with fire.
“Why don’t we skip to the end?” I finally say. “You bend me over that bench and give me a quick smack or two.”
His eyebrows peak. “And why would I do that?”
“You get off on punishing me, don’t you?”
“I get off on giving you what you want—whether you know it or not. Yesterday, you wanted to be controlled. Dominated. Punished. That’s why you broke the rules.”
I broke the rules because I want to know what’s behind that fucking door. But instead of launching an argument that I know I’ll lose, I ask, “So all this crap about house rules is for my benefit?”
“In ways you don’t begin to understand.” He looks straight at me as he says it. I’m astonished by the wave of heat that rolls through me, a swooping zing that literally steals my breath away.
I want to tell him I understand perfectly well what he’s doing. He’s an arrogant son-of-a-bitch who’s used to getting his own way. He’s a dominant asshole with a sadistic streak who’s willing to use my fear against me.
But that argument ignores the dampness gathering between my thighs. It overlooks the way my breath catches as I watch his hands, as I try to anticipate his next move.
How can I want to be punished? Am I really looking to be hurt? I’ve spent a lifetime making hard choices, managing tough situations, doing difficult things. But I can’t deny how satisfying it feels to be told what to do, for someone else to do the hard work of making decisions—not for everything, not forever, but here, now, at Thornfield.
Braiden hasn’t led me astray—not once. At my condo, he made me eat when I was close to collapsing. The next morning, he rescued me from Don Antonio. He put me in the safe room to protect me. I don’t know what he’s hiding behind that door in the house, but I suspect it’s some ongoing criminal enterprise, something that would cost me my law license if I found out about it and didn’t go running to the appropriate authorities. So my begging, his spanking me, those were for my own good too.
So much good.
The flutter between my legs makes it hard for me to concentrate. So I give in to the one thing I know I want. The one thing I need. The one thing I’m certain he won’t forgive.
I raise my phone in front of my face. I open my office email. And I start to type a response to the first message on my list.