Their Kidnapped Bride (Bridgewater Menage Series Book 1) Read online

  "You are a virgin," she stated.

  I blushed furiously, my cheeks hot.

  "Yes, I can see by your reaction to that word alone that you are," she replied, going over to her desk, sitting down at the chair beside it. Her back was straight and she adjusted her full skirts. She might be a Madame, but she had the mannerisms of a lady.

  I looked down at the pale blue morning dress I'd donned just this morning. I thought back, realizing Thomas must have laced my coffee with the laudanum. I took it black, so the bitter taste would have been well masked. The last I remember was eating a piece of toast with marmalade in the dining room.

  "I suppose virginity is quite a commodity in your line of work. You are a Madame, are you not?" I countered, wanting to confirm her profession. I doubted she arranged for governesses.

  She nodded once. "I am. Unlike your Mr. James, I offer you two choices."

  I arched a brow as I waited to hear them. My options, which I doubted were going to be to my liking, might be better heard sitting down, so I returned to sit at the end of the velvet covered chaise on which I awoke.

  "You may work here to pay off your debt. As you are innocent, you will be quite popular, I assure you. You are also quite lovely, which will make your long-term appeal guaranteed. This is the finest brothel between Kansas City and San Francisco and we cater to more unusual requests. The other girls will teach you all that you need to know above and beyond basic fucking with regards to meeting the men's needs."

  My mouth fell open at her base language, but I supposed it was relevant to her profession and part of her everyday conversation.

  I glanced down at my hands in my lap trying to collect my thoughts. A dull throb filled my head, the lingering after effects of Thomas's deviousness, it made clear thinking difficult. "And...the other choice?"

  "You can pay off your debt in one evening. Tonight, in fact."

  This sounded appealing, but I knew there would be a high personal price. She might be selling carnal pleasures, but this was all business.

  "Oh?" I queried, very nervous about what she would say.

  "A marriage auction."

  I paused and stared at Mrs. Pratt. Did she say marriage and auction together? As in I would be auctioned off to a potential groom?

  "I beg your pardon?" I replied, confused.

  Mrs. Pratt smiled softly. "I know of several men who are seeking a wife who can handle their more intense sexual natures and dominant personalities."

  I frowned. I most certainly couldn't meet those requirements. "As you've said yourself, I am a virgin. I don't know anything about...intense sexual natures."

  "Good." She gave a decisive head nod. "I didn't say you needed to know anything about that, but that you could handle it."

  I frowned. "There's a difference?"

  "Vastly." I waited for her to clarify, but she remained silent.

  "How are you so sure I can handle these...expectations?"

  "From what Mr. James mentioned, you were aroused by the sight of a woman being fucked. Is this an accurate statement?"

  I tried my best not to squirm. To admit I'd been aroused by witnessing Clara's pleasure would mean I was just like any of Mrs. Pratt's girls. It meant I truly was a voyeur, a whore even. Perhaps I did belong in a brothel.

  "Well?" Mrs. Pratt asked.

  "The woman was pleasured by both men. I had no idea such things were possible."

  Her eyes widened slightly. "There were two men then? And you were aroused as you watched this? Interesting." When I remained silent, afraid to let any more secrets slip, she continued. "So you were aroused?" She'd twisted my words around to fit her needs. "Come, Miss James, there's no need to fear speaking your feelings with me. I am a Madame. I've seen and heard it all. Nothing you, a virgin, could admit would shock me."

  I couldn't voice the words, but nodded.

  "Did you like watching?"

  I nodded again. "I liked seeing the first man and the woman. I could have done without watching my stepbrother engaged in such activities."

  "Wished it had been you that was being fucked?"

  I met her clear gaze. Held it. "Yes," I whispered.

  She stood, the satin sheen of her dress catching the light. "What choice do you make? Work here or marry the highest bidder?" Her blue eyes watched me. Waited.

  Her words made my life seem so negligible, as if the choice were easy. I'd only woken up to this situation only minutes ago, my head still pounded from the after effects. I was now to choose my fate? "I will not marry myself to a man such as Thomas." I clenched my hands in my lap. "A multitude of men using my body is nothing in comparison to a lifetime of dishonesty, indifference and infidelity. It would be a prison without any means of escape. You met him. To suggest a permanent arrangement with the likes of him would make you of the same ilk."

  A hint of emotion shown in the woman's eye. Admiration? Surprise? I couldn't be sure. "I would never marry a woman to a man who was anything but generous and caring. I am stringent in the men to whom I serve, yet protective of the women I provide. Remember, being dominant in the bedroom is quite the opposite of being cruel."

  I didn't know what she meant by the last. "Why marriage? Why not just sell my virginity?"

  "You would gain nothing after the first man breaching your maidenhead. You would be tarnished and your value would be that of every other girl in my employ. You would then be unmarriageable and your fate sealed. Marriage will maintain your respectability. I don't stand for men who only take from women and give nothing in return. Or you may remain here and work to earn your keep."

  I had no interest in becoming a prostitute, the idea made me want to vomit, but I could only accept the woman's reassurance that I would not be shackled to a man such as Thomas on blind faith. Her oddly placed values – the need to marry me off to make money all the while maintaining my virtue – was an odd twist on my scenario and painted her in a slightly different light.

  "I can imagine the life of a wife readily enough. Perhaps you can describe my other choice."

  Her lip quirked up at my request. "Most girls work from six at night until six in the morning, servicing as many as twenty men. You'll soon discover your best skills and be known for them. At first, of course, it will be your innocence, but once that fades, you'll have to decide." She shrugged negligently. "Some go for straight fucking, others are known for their cock sucking. A few enjoy being fucked in the ass. Then there's being tied up, role playing, ménage, the list is quite long really."

  I held up my hand, not able to keep up with her long list of services. In fact, I was still considering twenty men a night. Clearly she was forcing my hand toward marriage. That, most likely, was her intention all along, allowing me to believe I had a choice. Licking my lips, I asked the relevant question. "How much money did you pay Thomas for me?"

  "Seven hundred dollars."

  My brows went up. That amount of money was a drop in the bucket for the James family and I could have paid her readily enough after a quick trip to the bank, although not any longer.

  "At less than a dollar a roll, that would be hundreds of men. You'll most assuredly be here for a lengthy duration. After that...." She shrugged her shoulders and let what she didn't say speak for itself. "Or you could be gone tonight."

  I pursed my lips. She, in a perverse and roundabout sort of way, was helping me. She couldn't just let me leave; too much money was at stake. Marriage helped me while she helped herself. There really wasn't much choice. The groom himself wasn't a choice either. It seemed Mrs. Pratt would decide that, or at least narrow the choices to a small cadre of eligible men who had the means to offer her the money she wanted. Based on her profession and business sense, their initial requirements included baser sexual needs and wealth. "You can guarantee the man I marry is not a drunk, geriatric or a beater?"

  Her blue eyes met mine. "I can."

  "I'll...um...I'll take the marriage auction."

  "A wise choice." She moved and opened the door. "As
I said, these men want you to fulfill very distinct, very clear needs. Being dominant is not akin to being cruel. Remembering that will serve you well."

  CHAPTER TWO

  EMMA

  Hours later, I stood before a group of men in just my shift, the new one I'd purchased with such eagerness earlier in the week. Mrs. Pratt, while seemingly kind, felt it prudent to let the bidders see more of me than what my dress exposed. Now, I was berating the very feature I'd so admired, as the material was so fine as to be translucent. I couldn't look at any of the men, seeing the looks on their faces as they looked at my body as if inspecting a horse for purchase. I kept my focus lowered to the floor.

  Looking down, it prompted me to what they could see of me. The color of my nipples was plainly visible, the tight tips poking out. My shift fell to the middle of my thighs and I was sure the dark color of the hair between my legs was clearly discernible. The fine embroidery detail along the hem only drew the men's eyes to the short length. It had been pleasurable to me to wear such decadence beneath my modest dresses, with secret knowledge of what was beneath, but to be exposed in such a way to a roomful of men was mortifying. Humiliating. Downright scary.

  It was almost impossible not to cover myself with my arms, to tug on the hem with trembling fingers, but Mrs. Pratt had made it clear that my future husband wanted a good glimpse of what he would purchase. If this were the case, I should be naked, however I most certainly wasn't going to suggest such an idea. Fortunately, the small room wasn't overly bright, only lit by a few lamps, which cast a muted yellow glow. It wasn't cold, but goose flesh rose on my arms nonetheless. The slight odor of kerosene combined with tobacco filled the air.

  And so I stood, hands by my side, fingertips rubbing together, eyes averted from all of the men as murmurs filled the air. Mrs. Pratt was the only other person in the room and I knew all eyes were on me, the men sitting in chairs in a semicircle around me. They could have any woman below stairs, so why me? Why an inexperienced virgin when a veritable courtesan could meet their every need without the burden of wedlock? Clearly, with that option available and not taken, these men were serious about their intentions. I'd briefly glimpsed four men as I entered, but refused to meet any of their eyes. It wasn't as if I was afraid I'd be an acquaintance of any of the men – the chances were remarkably slim being in Simms, and not Helena – but I didn't want to see their looks as they took in my dishabillé. I didn't want to see their expressions as they gazed upon me.

  "She is a virgin?" a man asked to my right.

  Mrs. Pratt, who stood behind me, spoke, her words clipped and surprisingly sharp. "Do not question the integrity of my auctions, Mr. Pierce."

  The man made a sound in his throat of dissatisfaction, but did not reply.

  "I want her naked," another man added.

  "Emma," Mrs. Pratt addressed me instead of responding to the request. "What has a man seen of your body?"

  I turned my head toward her voice, looked up at her through lowered lashes. "Ma'am?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

  "Has a man ever seen your ankles?"

  I flushed hotly at the very idea. "No." I dropped my gaze and concentrated on the carpet beneath my feet.

  "A wrist?"

  I shook my head. "No."

  "This is the first time a man has seen you in just a shift?"

  Why did she have to point out the extent of my innocence? I took a deep breath to calm my racing heart. It felt as if it would beat right out of my chest. Licking my lips, I responded. "Yes, ma'am."

  "Then, Mr. Rivers, to witness her reaction to being naked with a man will be saved solely for her husband. Bid the highest and that man will be you."

  A voice spoke from my left. "She has been trained to meet her husband's needs?"

  "Of course not, Mr. Potter. Her training is her husband's responsibility."

  "And pleasure." This man's voice came from directly in front of me. It was deep in timbre, rough, yet assured. I saw only his feet and lower legs. Leather boots, black pants. I refused to look higher. Pleasure, he'd said? This man would find pleasure in training me to meet his needs? A vision of Clara, her legs spread wide and being pleasured by Allen, came to mind. Had the maid been doing what the man wanted?

  "Precisely," Mrs. Pratt added, her words returning me to the present. "Shall we begin? The bidding starts at one thousand dollars."

  The price made me gasp. That much? No wonder Mrs. Pratt wanted to sell me to the highest bidder. She easily recouped her losses and would make a tidy profit.

  The price climbed readily enough. I didn't dare to look up and see who bid. The weight of the situation was not lost on me. These voices were of men who wanted to marry me. Marry. And they were willing to offer a small fortune to do so. There were no courtship, no dinners, walks, or chaperoned outings. No whispered confidences, flirty smiles, stolen kisses. The men were bidding on me because of my purity, my looks and Mrs. Pratt's assurance that I would meet their sexual needs. I ran my fingers over my shift at my sides as I continued to study the paisley pattern in the carpet, willing my breath to even. This was stripping my ideals of marrying for love and replacing them with something seedy, something tawdry.

  "Sold!" Mrs. Pratt said with finality, making me jump. It was over? It had happened so quickly, perhaps only a minute or two, yet my life had changed irrevocably. I was too frightened to look up and see the man who'd bid the highest. In fact, I wasn't sure who had won. Seeing his face would make it all the more real. "Mr. Kane, Mr. Monroe, congratulations. Please follow me. The doctor and Justice Of The Peace are waiting in my office."

  Did she mention two men? That couldn't be. The woman took my arm and led me from the room. As we walked down the hallway I noticed the man with the boots and dark pants following. He was Mr. Kane? He was to be my husband? When we turned a corner I observed a second man following a little further behind. It was all so overwhelming, confusing. Quick. It seemed we were to wed immediately. Mrs. Pratt was a shrewd businesswoman and most certainly didn't want any chance of this man, Mr. Kane, backing out of the arrangement. Most assuredly wedding vows would see to that.

  The Justice Of The Peace was a short, rotund man with a thin mustache. He had more hair above his lip than on his head. Bible in hand, he stood at our appearance. So did the doctor, or so I assumed. He was tall and trim, lanky in build, yet attractive in his dark suit. I glanced past the man with dark pants and boots, afraid that if I looked at him, all this would become real. The man who followed moved to stand unassuming in the corner. His clothes were less formal; dark pants, white shirt. His hair was longer than de rigeur and his skin was tanned as if he spent ample time outdoors. The color of his hair reminded me of a wheat field, where the locks were lightened by the summer sun. With his piercing green eyes focused directly on me, I felt exposed, a reminder I wore solely my shift. It was as if he could see through the fabric to my untouched skin. When his gaze held mine, I felt he could see into me, to read my very thoughts. I couldn't help but cross my arms over my chest in an attempt at modesty.

  I felt my cheeks heat, my nipples tighten at the knowledge he was looking me over. When I glimpsed, from my periphery, the corner of his mouth tilting up, I knew he would not be my savior in this farce of a marriage.

  "Doctor Carmichael, we will start with your examination," Mrs. Pratt said, and my gaze darted to hers.

  I froze in place. Examination? Here? With these men? Curling up my shoulders, I tried to shield myself as much as possible. The doctor took a step toward me and I jumped back.

  "Wait," Mr. Kane interrupted, holding up his hand, halting the other man's steps. I recognized his voice from the auction. "Don't you want to see the man you're marrying?" The man's voice was deep and stern and I realized he was speaking to me. A British accent laced his words, the vowels short and clipped. What was an Englishman doing so far from home, and in a brothel and wedding a complete stranger? The way he'd ignored not only Mrs. Pratt but the doctor as well, was indicative of his power, wh
ich had me curious about the man and fearful at the same time.

  I shut my eyes briefly and swallowed. I couldn't avoid him any longer. Turning, I looked forward, but only looked upon the buttons of his white shirt. Tilting my chin up, I took the first glimpse of my groom, and sucked in a breath. The first thing I observed was his eyes. Dark, so dark as to be black, with a strong brow. He looked upon me with such intensity, such possession, that it was hard to even glance away. His hair was equally dark, so black as almost to have a blue cast. It was close cut on the sides, longer on top to fall over his forehead. His nose was narrow, but had a slight crook in it, as if being broken at some point. His jaw was wide, angular with a hint of dark whiskers. His lips were full and the corner tipped up as if he knew I was impressed by what I saw.

  He was handsome, so very handsome. And tall – well over six feet – and also quite large. His shoulders were wide and defined beneath his white shirt, his chest broad, tapering to a narrow waist. His legs were long and blatantly muscular, something I hadn't noticed in the other room. If he hadn't spoken, I would not have known he was a foreigner.

  In comparison to his large size, I was small, dainty even. This man, my groom, could hurt me easily if that was his desire, however the smoldering look in his eyes told me he wanted to fulfill other desires. With me. I gulped.

  "There now. I can see your face. For such dark hair, your eyes are a surprising blue."

  His cultured voice, although rough and a deep baritone, had an undercurrent of something – tenderness, perhaps – which was unexpected. His lip turned up at the corner and a dimple formed in his cheek.

  "What is your name?" he queried.

  "Emma. Emma James," I replied, his soft tone compelling it from me.

  "I am Whitmore Kane, but everyone calls me Kane."

  Kane. My groom's name was Kane and he was English. Would he take me off to England to live? The idea struck fear in me. I knew nothing about England, nothing about life outside of the Montana Territory.