Page 3 of Irish Vice

And now I never will.

2

BRAIDEN

When I catch the feckin’ eejit who left the door open to the third floor, I’m sending her back to Ireland by the first flight from Philadelphia International Airport.

Her. Because I know this is all Grace Poole’s fault. Once again, that drunken wagon forgot herself. Once again, she failed to turn the key. Once again, she let Birte wander free through Thornfield.

Plenty of men say I don’t have a conscience, but they lie. I’ve got one. I just don’t consult it much.

The one exception to that rule: The woman finishing her cuppa now, at my right hand.

I hold up a finger, begging a minute, because I can’t have Birte hearing the things I need to say. Samantha’s lips thin; she’s clearly ready to argue. But she’s not a wicked woman. She’s not cruel, and it’s clear something with Birte is off. Samantha gives me one tight nod, turning her back while I do what I must.

Birte Antóinín Mason is the biggest mistake of my life, thegreat wrong I’ll never atone for. She’s the reason I’ve tolerated Grace Poole’s incompetence in this house for seven long years. She’s why I’ve paid a king’s ransom to tutors, trying to care for Aiofe.

And she’s the reason I test my voice in my head now, before speaking out loud. I know from past experience that a harsh tone will leave Birte sobbing for days. So I take extra care as I ask, “Ready for another cuppa, lass?”

She nods, her eyes as big as collection plates. I fetch her cup and fill it with tea, stirring in the four sugars I know she loves.

I can’t send her into the kitchen, not with Fairfax taking his day off. The last thing I need is to put an unsupervised Birte anywhere near a rack of knives.

Swearing under my breath, I stomp back to the mudroom. Of course Birte doesn’t have a coat there, but Fairfax has left one of his wool jackets. I check the pockets and find my first bit of good luck today—a pair of knit gloves.

Back in the dining room, I help Birte into the coat. I button it for her, and I help her slide her hands into the gloves. “Let’s take your cuppa outdoors, then,” I say. “Get a bit of sun.”

It’s not a perfect solution. If she spies a rabbit, she’ll go chasing after it, hoping to find more in a den. But I put her in one of the chairs on the flagstone patio and give her my wristwatch. I tell her I’ll be back in fifteen minutes, that she should drink her tea and watch the sky and see if she spies any hawks.

When I get back to the dining room, Samantha’s pacing. I catch her dashing a hand against her face, and I know she’s wiping away tears she doesn’t want me to see. Whether they’re from anger or sorrow, I can’t say for sure, but I know I’m the source of them, and I hate myself a little more.

“All right,” I say to Samantha, taking up a place by the window so I can keep an eye on Birte. “Ask me your questions.”

“Are you really married to her?”

“Yes,” I say, because the time for lying is long past.

“And you married me too?”

“Not exactly.”

I intend my answer to buy me a few seconds to phrase a better one. I don’t count on Samantha’s frayed temper. “Don’t fuck with me, Braiden.”

“Father Brennan,” I say. “Who performed our wedding. He’s a defrocked priest, without proper authority to confer the sacrament of marriage.”

“Just so we’re absolutely clear, you knew that fact the day you dragged me into St. Columba’s? You were one hundred percent aware our wedding was a fraud?”

She sounds like she’s interrogating a witness on the stand. I sigh, but I don’t try to duck the truth. “Yes.”

“Why?”

It’s a simple question. One word. Three letters. But the answer might take a lifetime to explain.

“I married you to keep you safe from Russo.” But we’re being honest now, so I have to confess more. “And to fuck with Russo’s mind. To take something he wanted.”

She takes the blow like a trained boxer. One breath, and then she’s back to her inquisition. “When did you marry Birte?”

“Seven years ago.”