Page 1 of Irish Reign

1

SAMANTHA

It takes so little time for a home to burn to the ground.

I’m standing outside Thornfield, looking up at the massive stone mansion as flames engulf all three floors. My throat aches—from smoke or from holding back tears or from screaming for Braiden Kelly, the man I love.

Less than five minutes ago, Braiden and I woke from sated sleep, finally reconciled after an argument we never should have had. As the smoke detector shrilled its warning, Braiden draped me in a waterlogged towel and forced me out of our bedroom, ordering me to get down the stairs and out the front door. My lips are bruised from the last kiss he gave me.

Braiden is still in that hellscape.

“Samantha!”

I whirl at the sound of my name, even as I realize the voice belongs to Alec Fairfax, the elfin man who keeps every aspect of daily life running at Thornfield. He’s hurrying toward me fromthe back of the house. His cottage and the other homes for staff are safe from the fire, for now.

Fairfax’s hand is gripped by Aiofe, Braiden’s ward. The child has seen far too much violence in her eleven years. Until last night, trauma kept her mute. I could almost believe that I imagined her speaking, until she flings herself at me, burying her face in my T-shirt.

“Samantha.” She echoes Fairfax, her voice almost lost in the crackle of flames. “Where’s Uncle Braiden?”

Fairfax is already composing his ever-present reassuring smile. It’s not until I falter, trying to tell Aiofe the truth without terrifying her, that he realizes the danger Braiden’s in. “Sweet God,” he murmurs, turning toward the house. “I called 911.”

Before I can tell him that I did too, glass shatters onto the granite cobblestones of the driveway. More windows are bursting from the heat. Most of the rooms on the second floor are consumed by flame. Curtains have caught, and shadows look like a ghost army fighting to escape.

“All right,” Fairfax says, as if this is nothing worse than a pot boiling over on his stove. “Let’s move further down the drive, all of us.”

We can’t take refuge in the garage.Itwas firebombed earlier tonight when Braiden’s traitor brother tried to lure him to his death. The firefighters must have left too soon. A few live sparks still lived among the ashes. They blew to the house and caught on the roof.

Fairfax glances down and sees my bare feet. “Mind the glass,” he says.

I move, but I don’t care about the glass. My eyes are on the third floor. Braiden should be there by now.

Where are you? Get out! Now!

The third floor is where Birte Mason lives—Aiofe’s aunt, the woman Braiden married seven years ago. And Birte is watched over by Grace Poole.

I’ve been suspicious of Grace from the moment I arrived at Thornfield. She’s devoted to Birte, and to Aiofe too. But she’s a drinking alcoholic who is always looking for a way to duck out of work. A couple of months ago, she allowed Birte to set fire to the door of Braiden’s office, kindling it with large church candles.

Birte, with the cross she wears around her neck and the rosary she chants at dinner. Birte, who dresses like a nun.

Over the past four months, Birte has spiraled into madness. I don’t know if my presence has been the trigger, or Braiden’s violent life as Captain of Philadelphia’s Irish mob, or all the other disasters from Birte’s past.

And if Birte set that earlier fire…

Maybe the house didn’t catch from a stray spark.

Maybe this was all planned.

In the relative safety of a curve in the driveway, Aiofe shifts from foot to foot. She’s trying to get a better view of the burning house. “What’s that smell?” she asks.

“I don’t—” I start to say, but then I realize I smell it too—the sweet, pungent reek of gasoline. “Fairfax?” I ask.

His nod is grim. He hurries over to my Mercedes, the only car to survive the garage fire because it was parked on the driveway. Fairfax kneels beside it, then comes back with a length of garden hose. “This was in the tank,” he says. “Someone siphoned off the petrol.”

Jesus. No wonder the fire is burning so strong.

Braiden, what’s taking so long?

“Samantha?” Aiofe asks. I wonder how many questions she has pent up inside after seven years of silence. “What’s that paper?”

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