Chapter 5
5
SAMANTHA
A lec Fairfax is a marvel.
When I arrived in the pool house this morning, I found a building that hadn’t been touched in months. While the floor-to-ceiling windows looking over the pool provided stunning light, their water-spotted panes hadn’t been cleaned in ages. There were visible gaps between the door and its frame. The dorm-size refrigerator and microwave seemed functional, but I had a choice of sleeping on a too-short couch, a pool table, or the floor, with a stack of brightly colored beach towels as my only linens.
By the time the sun set over the main Thornfield house, a complete transformation was made. Fairfax commanded a small army of specialists—a carpenter to install weather-stripping and window shades; housekeepers to dust, mop, and polish the windows till they gleamed; multiple teams of delivery men bearing a king-size bed complete with wrought-iron headboard and footboard, a pair of nightstands, a mahogany armoire and matching chest of drawers, an overstuffed armchair perfect for reading, and a full array of lamps. The last crew to arrive brought towels and sheets and blankets, along with a duvet covered in a honeysuckle-and-tulip print.
The floral design is gorgeous, a classic pattern in greens and blues and cream. It’s prettier than anything I’ve owned in years.
I shouldn’t like the duvet. I shouldn’t allow it. I should have the discipline to stick with the plain solid colors I deserve. But I can’t stop staring at the beautiful flowers—one good thing to come out of today’s chaos.
Fairfax himself brings my clothes from the house—four suitcases that he must have ferried in stages before knocking at the pool house door. “Would you like me to unpack for you?” he asks.
“No,” I say, reaching out to take one of the bags. “I’ll do it.”
He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “Miss Samantha—” he starts.
“Please. Just Sam. Like before.” Before I moved out of the house. Before I found out my husband had another wife.
“Sam,” he starts again. “I owe you an apology.”
“No, you don’t.”
“An explanation then.”
“Your explanation is that you work for my husband.” That’s not exactly true. Braiden and I are not married.
Fairfax threads that needle delicately. “Nevertheless, I regret I did not tell you about the first Mrs. Kelly.”
The first Mrs. Kelly .
I shake my head, because we’re all trapped in these lies together. “Thank you,” I say. And then I purposefully try to brighten the mood. “I can’t believe you’ve done all this in just one afternoon.”
He dusts his hands after rolling the last suitcase to the foot of my bed. “Where there’s an unlimited bank account, there’s a way. ”
I frown. I don’t want any more debt on my account with Braiden. But I say to Fairfax, “I know this was supposed to be your day off. I truly appreciate everything you’ve done.”
“My pleasure,” he says, with such a sincere tone I almost believe him.
After he leaves, I unpack. I’m astonished by Fairfax’s thoroughness. He tracked down every item of clothing I had in the closet I shared with Braiden. He sorted the master bathroom, bringing my cosmetics and my bottles of shampoo and conditioner. I blush when I realize he emptied my nightstand as well, rounding up my nail file and cuticle scissors, a notepad and pen, and a half-full bottle of lube.
He wasn’t just busy packing. He’s laid in a supply of my favorite snacks—wheat crackers and dark chocolate Kisses and a bowl of tart little apples. He stocked the shelves with liquor too—all high-end bottles, with glasses to match. There’s a small bowl filled with lemons, limes, and oranges.
It’s nearly seven o’clock when I shove the suitcases into the storage closet, next to pool noodles and kickboards and a mind-numbing array of inflatables. I lower my new window shades against the twilight.
When I was a single woman living in my Delaware condo, I was rarely home at this time of day. I worked long hours at the freeport, poring over legal documents until nearly midnight. When I finally made it home, I changed out of my black suit and got ready for bed.
But Braiden made me sell my condo. And by Braiden’s house rules here at Thornfield, I’m not allowed to work past six. After hours, I’m required to set aside my plain clothes. I must wear one of my floral skirts.
Braiden is a liar. He tricked me into marrying him. He made a fool out of me.
But three months of living as a Kelly has changed me forever. It feels wrong to wear my skinny black jeans at the end of the day .
Refusing to think about how thoroughly Braiden’s gotten under my skin, I turn to my wardrobe. I swap my black cashmere sweater for a soft pink shell. I shimmy out of my jeans and select the brightest skirt I own, a riot of roses in amethyst and magenta and a heart-stopping fuchsia.
I hesitate once the waistband settles over my hips. Braiden demands I wear my skirts without panties. The house rules have been drilled into me so thoroughly that it feels wrong to be fully clothed.
Closing my eyes, I touch my forehead to the armoire. I don’t want to be this woman, bound by a man’s rules. I don’t want to be so weak. So controlled.
But the thing about my underwear, the reason for the rule: No one else in the house knew about it. It was our secret, Braiden’s and mine. I did it for him, and he knew it, and that gave me a certain power.
I reach beneath my skirt and hook my fingers into the elastic waistband of my panties. Before I can pull them off, though, there’s a knock at the pool house door.
I startle as if I’ve been caught doing something nasty, like masturbating in the middle of a train station. The elastic snaps back to my belly in punishment, and my heart pogo-sticks my sternum.
It must be Braiden out there. He’s come to survey his handiwork—this retreat that he ordered up in less than a day. He’ll tempt me as he always does, with a knowing look and a wicked grin.
But I’m ready for him. I’m not giving in without another conversation, and another, and another, until he does what’s right for Birte and Aiofe. I set my jaw against the commands he’s bound to issue. I close my ears to the special voice he uses, the tone that runs a direct line to every screaming cell in my body.
Before I open the door, I remind myself that I’m a strong and independent woman. I’m a member of the Delaware bar— at least for now, until the ethics office decides if That Night will cost me my law license. And if worse comes to worst, I’ll build myself another profession. I can do anything, once I’ve set my mind to it.
I turn the knob and raise my chin to meet my fate.
Madden Kelly looms in the doorway.
Madden is tall like his brother, and he’s got Braiden’s wide shoulders. But where Braiden’s eyes sparkle like matching star sapphires, Madden’s have the sheen of day-old coffee. Braiden’s hair is so black it’s almost blue, but Madden’s is the matte brown of a scarred oak trunk.
“What do you want?” Madden’s the one who told Braiden I was working for Russo. Sure, he was duped by the Mafia don, and he was only trying to protect his brother. But Madden’s mistakes sent me fleeing Thornfield for five long weeks, and I haven’t forgiven him yet.
“Is that any way to greet your kin?” He pushes his way past me like we’re old friends.
“I’m sure you’ve heard the news by now.” I watch him survey my new home. His eyes sweep like a stopwatch, tallying up the changes. I remind him: “You’re no kin to me. You never were.”
Madden slinks across the room like a cruising coyote. Pausing by the rack of pool cues, he picks up a cube of green chalk and rubs his thumb over the surface. “Ach,” he says, sounding more Irish than Braiden ever has. “You’ve learned the truth about poor Father Brennan.”
“You knew .” I’m unable to keep bitterness from my voice. Madden was Braiden’s best man. And when Russo launched an attack on our wedding day, Madden was the man Braiden trusted to rush me into Thornfield’s safe room.
He’s gloating now. “Of course I knew.”
“And the rest of Braiden’s men? Have you all been having a good laugh behind my back?”
Madden smirks. “Not because the priest who married you was false. But more than one lad has commented on the boss stinking like fish these past few months.”
“You’re disgusting,” I snap.
He moves faster than my eyes can follow. I don’t realize he’s grabbed a cue until the maple rod is pressed against my throat. Madden’s trapped my body with his; my shoulders are crushed against the solid wood door of my wardrobe.
I react automatically, falling back on self-defense training I mastered when I was in law school and returning home alone from the library, well after midnight most nights. Stiffening three fingers, I drive at Madden’s throat, putting all my strength into the short, sharp jab. At the same time, I grip his left wrist, turning into his arm and forcing my body weight against the joint of his elbow.
He drops the cue in surprise. It’s still rattling on the floor when I bring my knee up hard, smashing into his nose. Blood starts to flow as I stretch for the cue. He gets there first, but I kick at his wrist before he can bring the wood up between us.
He staggers back three full steps as I scream, “Get the fuck out of here!”
This time, I see every move he makes. His knees dip. His hand grips a holster at his ankle. Light flashes cold on steel as he comes up with a pistol.
“Not so brave now, are you, cunt?”
By reflex, I hold up both hands. His laugh is liquid as blood drips down his chin. He saunters forward one step, two. I back away until I’m once again stopped by the armoire.
The gun is ice against my carotid, so cold the muscles of my heart start to freeze. My eyes are open as wide as possible as I try to glimpse his finger on the trigger without turning my head. He raises his wrist, pressing harder into my throat. I barely feel his knee digging between mine.
“I know what you’re up to, bitch.” His spittle lands on my cheek. “You’re fucking my brother and running back to Russo. Take the Irish through the front door and the guinea up your arse. But when I catch you with that Italian gobshite, I’m blowing your fucking brains out. Got it?” The nose of his gun carves a divot in my throat. “Got it, bitch?”
I swallow, which only makes me feel the gun more. He’s delusional, but that won’t save me if he decides to pull the trigger. I nod my head once. My lips form the words, but I can’t make myself say them out loud. “Got it.”
Madden shoves one more time before backing off. “Christ,” he says, pressing the back of his hand to his nose. “Look what you did.”
As he stalks into the bathroom, I slide down the door of the wardrobe. I end up with my head between my knees, my neck bowed as I try to remember how to breathe.
A few minutes or an hour or a century later, Madden comes back to the main room. He throws a bloody washcloth at me. It’s one of the new ones, lavender now splotched with crimson. I cringe as it hits the floor beside me.
“Let’s go,” he says.
“Go where?” I’ll never get in a car with him. I wonder what other weapons he’s carrying.
His laugh is cruel. “To the main house. Braiden sent me to fetch you to dinner.”
“I’m not hungry,” I say automatically.
“He said you’d say that. I have Himself’s permission to throw you over my shoulder and carry you to the dining room.”
As if you need permission.
I think it. But I don’t say it out loud. I won’t do anything more to taunt the time bomb in front of me.
Instead, I push myself to my feet. I run a hand through my hair. I tug on my skirt, settling it firmly over my hips.
Madden nods approvingly. “You’ll want to look your finest,” he says. “We’ll have the whole family sitting around the table. Along with a very special guest. ”
I refuse to ask. Instead, I concentrate on making it to the main house under my own power, trembling legs and all. Every step, Madden follows behind, breathing noisily through his swollen nose, and I know he’s my enemy for life.