Their Brazen Bride (Bridgewater Menage Book 8) Read online

  He ran a hand over the back of his neck to try and calm down.

  I wanted to throw my own glass at how frustrating it was to know a stupid scar defined Abigail, not only to the people around her, but to herself. She’d even turned her face to hide it when we spoke after the wedding. It was a subtle gesture, but obvious.

  Tucker felt for her more deeply. He liked to defend those who were weak, who were defenseless against bullies. His anger was deeply rooted, his younger sister having been the brunt of such cruelty. She’d been born special, with wide-set eyes and a gentle nature. While her body grew older, her mind had remained of a four-year-old. Tucker, being five years older, had watched out for her. But he couldn’t protect her all the time, especially from his own parents. When his mother died, his father had put her in an institution, where she’d died only months later.

  Only a year later, Tucker’s father had married my mother. Tucker’s father had been an asshole, so it had been easy to hate him, even at the young age of eleven. Why my mother married him, I never could understand, but I’d gained a brother from it. He might be legally my stepbrother, but it was only a word.

  Tucker had never forgiven his father for what he’d done and while I’d never met his sister, Clara, I wholeheartedly agreed with him. Because of his history, the cruelty in his own family, he wouldn’t let anyone bother Abigail if he had his way. Not even one bad word. Neither would I, but Tucker was… broken a little over it.

  “Oh, Tucker. The scar doesn't define her,” Laurel said, unaffected by his outburst. She went over to him and patted his arm. We all knew about what happened to his sister and why he was quick to temper. When it came to something like Abigail’s scar, for something so minor with a woman we loved, we knew he’d acted so impulsively because he was too kind. He offered Laurel a smile and then went to get the broom.

  The other men came storming into the room to see what the noise was, if anyone was hurt.

  “Abigail Carr seems to be under Tucker’s protection,” Andrew told the others.

  “And mine,” I added, crossing my arms over my chest.

  Andrew began to laugh then slapped me on the shoulder, grinning. “They are claiming her. Looks like we’re soon to have a new bride here at Bridgewater.”

  Damn straight. Now we just had to go and get her.

  ***

  Tucker

  Once Gabe and I were in agreement about Abigail, that she would finally be ours, I became impatient. I itched to feel how soft her hair was, to run my knuckles over her silky skin, to taste her lips, to hear her gasp when I began to unbutton her blouse, to see her face when I made her come. I needed her to be mine, to be ours.

  While she might have an admirer, he did not have her heart. Therefore, we had no concerns about stealing her away. If she’d been engaged, if we’d seen light and love in her eyes when we’d spoken with her at the picnic, then we would have bowed out. But that was not the case.

  But, as Laurel had said, Abigail was shy. Skittish even. While two sheltered years in school had kept the other men—almost all of them—away from her, it had not given her an innate confidence. Because of this, we had to tread carefully until we changed that. She would never feel excluded or alone at Bridgewater. She would have two men who made her the center of their world and a group of women who would be immediate friends.

  If she listened to worthless people telling her she was deformed because of her scar instead of her men telling her how beautiful and wanted she was, then she’d go over my knee. She’d learn through a good spanking she would not belittle herself ever again.

  Clara had never been able to understand people were being mean to her, poking fun at her expense. My younger sister’s mind had never grown past one of a small child. I’d watched out for her—anyone bothering her got a punch in the nose or worse. But I hadn’t deflected all the taunts, all the teasing. I’d fought enough by the time I was ten and most people left Clara alone. She hadn’t known those people were just mean, petty fuckers.

  Unlike Clara, Abigail knew, and yet she let those assholes make her doubt herself. Again and again, until she was afraid to look me straight on, wanting to hide the shame of her scar. They made her feel less than beautiful, less than perfect. It would be up to me and Gabe to change this. It wouldn’t happen overnight, but it would happen, as soon as she was ours.

  Because of this, the next day, we hitched our horses to the rail in front of the Carr ranch house and knocked on the front door, which stood wide open.

  Coughing and hacking preceded James as he feebly made his way to the door, looking like he’d been dragged behind a horse.

  “If I didn’t feel like hell, I’d be glad to see you,” he said, stepping back and letting us enter. His hair was tousled, his clothes wrinkled, and his skin had the flushed, sweaty sheen of someone with a fever. While I didn’t look too closely, I was pretty sure the buttons on his shirt were done up wrong.

  “We’re here to see Abigail, actually.”

  We removed our hats as we passed through the doorway. We’d been in his house before, several times, in fact, but never when Abigail was home. It was a large place, plenty of room for a family if James decided to settle down. It had yet to occur, so it seemed he was in no rush. The windows were all open, and I could look down the central hallway and see the back door open to the fresh air as well.

  “Like I said, if I didn’t feel like hell, I’d probably care about the reason for your visit with Abigail. Don’t worry, it’s just a summer cold. Nothing more.”

  He led us into the parlor, flopped down on the couch, and sighed, lifting his arm to cover his eyes.

  I glanced at Gabe, who shrugged. We hadn’t seen James sick like this before. Not much laid the man low.

  “Abigail, she is upstairs, unpacking her bags,” he said.

  Even though James couldn’t see, I frowned at him. “Unpacking? I thought she’d been back for a few days.”

  “She was going to Butte, by herself. By horse.” He lifted his arm from his eyes long enough to glance up at us. “As if I’d allow such a thing.”

  “Why was she going? I thought she was finished with school,” I replied, my back straightening at the idea of Abigail traveling so far unaccompanied. I didn’t doubt she would be fine in the best of conditions, but she could be in danger if everything went to shit.

  “She is done with school. Hell, she’s nineteen, well past time. No, she’s going to Butte to see her man.”

  Was it more between them than she let on?

  “He should come here to her,” Gabe commented.

  What kind of gentleman made a woman travel so far, by herself? And why would she go to Butte for a man she clearly wasn’t keen on?

  James dropped his arm and it hung down toward the floor as if it weighed a ton. “Exactly. I told her, if she wants to go, I will accompany her when I don’t feel like shit. I want to meet the man.”

  I could hear footfall overhead, and we looked up at the ceiling.

  James sighed. “She’s not happy.”

  I had to wonder if Abigail was bothered she couldn’t go or that she couldn’t go alone.

  “We will accompany her,” I offered.

  James pushed himself up so he was sitting, although very slouched, on the couch. He wiped his hair back from his face. “Why the hell would you want to do that?”

  “Because we want her.” Gabe put it right out there. Told the only man who stood in the way of making Abigail ours.

  James’ eyes widened, and he leaned forward, put his elbows on his knees. He might be sick, but he pulled himself together when required. He was in protective-older-brother thinking now. Two men wanted his sister, and he would beat the fuck out of us, even ill, if he had to.

  “You want her?” he repeated, his jaw tight. “Have you—”

  “Fuck, James, you know us better,” Gabe groused, crossing his arms over his chest.

  He thought we’d made advances, touched her. Fucked her. I had to stop such a concern im
mediately. “We wouldn’t touch her if she truly belonged to another, and, if she was ours, not until a ring was on her finger.”

  It didn’t stop my thinking about it, but the man didn’t need to know that.

  “Good, because there’s plenty of land to bury your bodies, but I don’t think I could lift a shovel right now.” He groaned. “Just as you said, she does, though. Belong to another, I mean.” He gave a roll to his wrist. “Aaron something.”

  Gabe slowly shook his head. “We don’t think she loves him.”

  James was quiet for a minute. “And you think she loves you?”

  The steely edge to his voice couldn’t be missed. It was reassuring to know Abigail had someone watching out for her as cautiously as her brother. But sending her away to school, sheltering her from taunting her because of her scar, had caused her even more harm. She wasn’t a child, and perhaps she needed a little independence, a chance to find her own way. With us.

  “We know she’s interested,” I answered, avoiding how we knew such a thing. We wouldn’t tell him how she’d flushed as we spoke rather crudely, yet carnally, to her at the picnic. She’d licked her lips, and her eyes had turned soft and eager at what we’d said we’d do. But James didn’t need to know any of this either.

  “Is that why you’re volunteering to go with her to Butte? To watch out for her or because you want her?” He clamped his jaw tight, and I saw a muscle tic in his neck. Then he broke out in a coughing fit. I winced and did everything in my power not to step back.

  “Both.” I replied. “If she’s got her mind set on going to Butte, we won’t have our woman traipsing over the countryside unprotected. If the man isn’t worthy of her, then we’ll take care of it. If he doesn’t hold her heart… then she’s ours.”

  Gabe nodded. “Ours.” He didn’t believe in any of the “ifs” I’d just mentioned.

  James looked between us. “I know the Bridgewater way, but does Abigail? If not, she will take some convincing.”

  I was glad we did not have to explain the custom of two men marrying one woman, especially to the brother of the woman we wanted to wed. It went back to the men who’d started Bridgewater, a group of English and Scottish soldiers who’d been stationed in the small Middle Eastern country of Mohamir and adopted their custom. Ian Stewart had been framed for a ruthless crime, and they’d fled all the way around the world to the Montana Territory, a safe haven to start a new life, finding women who they could love, cherish, and protect. So far, there had been nine marriages. If we had our way, and we would, there would be ten before the day was out.

  I gave one curt nod. “She does, but she didn’t learn it from us. Laurel, I think.”

  “You’ll treat her right?” he asked, looking between the two of us.

  Gabe stiffened, and I did everything in my power not to curl my hands into fists.

  “There’s a fine line, Carr, between protecting your sister and questioning our honor.”

  “Perhaps I did not speak clearly enough. We won’t just watch out for her. We will marry her.” Gabe eyed James carefully.

  “Why did you come here? To state your interest?”

  “We’ve wanted her for years.” I held up my hand before he overexerted himself for nothing. “Don’t get riled. We’ve done nothing untoward. Ever. We’ve waited until she’s old enough to even speak of our interest. And it’s not just interest, Carr. We’re talking commitment. Marriage. We’re tired of waiting.”

  “It’s been less than a week since she came back,” James countered.

  “We’ve waited long enough and will not sit idly by while some other man claims her,” I told him.

  Soft footfalls indicated she was coming down the stairs.

  “We’ll do this our way, Carr,” I murmured, not wanting Abigail to know we’d spoken about her. “With all due respect, she’s a grown woman and needs to make her own decisions without her older brother.”

  James turned his head toward the stairs then back toward us. His jaw tightened, but he nodded. “Done.”

  While he wasn’t too keen on two men marrying his sister, he had to relent. He’d known us for years, and we’d shared mutual respect. That shouldn’t change now because of this. He had to use our history to let go of his parental role over his sister. What was best for her was us, and he’d come to this conclusion quickly enough.

  He began to cough and slid down onto his back on the couch once again.

  “You shouldn’t even be out of bed,” Abigail scolded from the hallway. “I’ve got all the windows and doors open, but you’ll be getting everyone sick with—”

  She came into the room and stopped abruptly at the sight of us. Her eyes grew large and her mouth fell open. She turned to look at her brother, but it was second nature to turn the left side of her face away from people, including the two of us. She might hide now, but not much longer.

  “Mr. Landry,” she murmured, saying the name only once, but we knew it was for both of us instead of saying it twice. “What a pleasant surprise.”

  Today she wore a simple navy skirt, the hem of which brushed the floor. Her white blouse was crisp and buttoned to just beneath her chin. It was the epitome of modest, and yet I was having the most immodest thoughts. What would she look like if her hair was down? If the top few buttons were undone to see a hint of her breasts? If she lifted the bottom of her skirt to show the turn of her ankle then more?

  “I know you wanted to go to Butte, Abigail,” James said, breaking me from my thoughts. From the way he lay, Abigail was taller, and he looked up at her. “I’m too sick to take you, but the Landrys have volunteered in my stead.”

  She looked to both of us, clearly petrified. She wasn’t scared of us; we knew that. Skittish, certainly, for we were bold men, and she had been raised quite sheltered. Her mind was working hard, trying to figure out what to say. Having us escort her to Butte was probably the last thing she imagined.

  “Thank you for volunteering, but it is not necessary,” she said, finally, holding her hands in front of her waist, wringing them.

  “We insist,” Gabe replied. “I’m sure your brother would like to climb back into bed and rest. If you pack your bag… again, we will be on our way.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Abigail

  “Are you all right, Abigail?” Gabe asked as we rode across the open prairie. The sun was hot, and I was thankful for my straw hat.

  I was exhausted and nervous and completely frazzled. I hadn’t been able to sleep because of worry for Tennessee, what I was going to take to Mr. Grimsby. When I did sleep, I dreamed of guns and death. And then, always, the decadent thoughts of the Landrys. Now, they rode beside me. How could I not be nervous, spending the last hour riding beside Gabe and Tucker, the men I wanted with all my heart? Their clean scent was undeniable and, even with their large size, both sat a horse as if born in a saddle. I couldn’t help stare at their strong thighs pressed taut against their pants, their corded forearms peeking out from their rolled up sleeves. The size of their hands. It was a torture of my own making.

  I wanted to tell them the truth, not just about the imaginary Aaron, but my love for them. The words perched on the tip of my tongue. The men were quiet and prepared to listen to anything I had to say, but I couldn’t do it. As soon as they found out I’d lied, they’d hate me. And I certainly couldn’t tell them the real reason I’d lied. The idea of either of them having Mr. Grimsby’s gun aimed at them made my blood run cold.

  And if they knew I had my mother’s diamond brooch tucked away in my bag to give to Mr. Grimsby, they’d be livid. It was the one thing of value James wouldn’t miss right away, was small enough to hide, and held high value. I was stealing from James, who was to give it to his bride on their wedding day, and using it to barter with a very bad, very dangerous man for Tennessee’s safety.

  I glanced briefly at Gabe, so handsome with his dark hair and beard, equally dark and piercing eyes. I bit my lip, my mind—my heart—in anguish. I gave him a curt nod when h
e glanced at me, then looked toward the snowcapped mountains in the distance.

  My original intention was to go to Butte on my own, overnight, give Mr. Grimsby the brooch and ensure Tennessee’s release then return home. I would tell James—and the entire town—I broke things off with my suitor. James would probably be happy I ended a romance with someone who lived so far away. Then I’d be free of Mr. Grimsby and the lie once and for all. There would be some pity from the townspeople, but I didn’t care. As long as Tennessee was safe and Mr. Grimsby wouldn’t send his henchmen after James, everything else was trivial. When James discovered the heirloom brooch missing… well, I’d worry about that another day.

  But my plan wasn’t to be. James had forbidden me to travel on my own. Concern for my safety out in the wilds all alone his reason. Although we’d argued while he was sick, he still won.

  And so I’d unpacked my bag while fretting over a new way to return to Butte with the brooch in time to save Tennessee. An hour later, when James called me down to the parlor, I’d had no new plan and been stunned to see both Landrys. When they volunteered to accompany me to Butte, there was no way out. While James was stubborn and hardheaded, the Landrys were twice as bad. They would not relent and, if I declined, I would not have another way to get to the city. But, now, I struggled with a way to extricate myself from them long enough to meet Mr. Grimsby.

  And so I bit my lip once again and wrung my hands, even as I held the reins. What was I going to do? I darted a glance at Gabe and Tucker, riding easily, without a care in the world. The sun glinted off their hair beneath their hats: Tucker’s fair locks and Gabe’s dark curls. They were watching me intently, as they had the entire journey, and I squirmed yet again.

  I wanted the Landrys. So, so much. It would be over soon, their kindness toward me. ’They’d hate me, resent me. Think me a little girl for inventing something so silly as a nonexistent beau. I’d wasted their time in escorting me. I wouldn’t blame them for their disappointment and frustration. They’d easily move on and find a woman who was just right for them, one who didn’t make up tales.