Their Conquered Bride (Bridgewater Ménage 9) (Grace Goodwin)

Back arched, completely exposed to Ford’s fucking and Logan’s kiss, I shattered into a million stars, my vision hazy. There was no air to breathe, no Elizabeth. I no longer belonged to myself.

I was theirs now. Forever. In the darkest, neediest place in my soul, I knew the truth and it terrified me. I was tainted. Corrupt. I did not deserve such pleasure and would surely burn in hell for accepting it. My weakness for these men would damn me and my sisters both.

As my body came down from the spiral of need, I began to cry.

Ford

My brain was foggy from the most incredible orgasm of my life and yet instead of having my bride settle comfortably in my arms, she started crying. As soon as I slipped my spent cock from her tight sheath, she stood, albeit on shaky legs, and ran from us.

I glanced at Logan, who looked as stunned as I felt. She’d come three times. Satisfaction was not her problem. As I tried to understand her reaction, she wandered toward the horses, her back to us. Her hair had come unbound and it hung long down her back, like a black silk curtain.

I shouldn’t notice her body when she was clearly in distress, but I couldn’t help but glimpse the upturned swell of her breasts. They’d been a handful, heavy and lush. Her nipples were no longer tight peaks, but plump pink buds. Her body was all curves, dips and swells. She was… gorgeous. She was also terribly upset.

I stood and slowly walked toward her. “What’s the matter, sweetheart? Did we hurt you?”

She shook her head, but with her hands over her face, I couldn’t read her emotions. Her tears didn’t stop. In fact, my concern only made it worse.

Logan took another blanket from his saddlebag and wrapped it carefully around her shoulders. Instead of saying anything to her, he scooped her up into his arms and carried her back to the spot where we’d just fucked her.

“Put me down!” she cried, pushing against Logan’s chest. Her face was splotchy red and tears streaked her cheeks. All her fighting was futile, for Logan settled on the blanket with her on his lap, her head tucked beneath his chin.

“Shh, it’s all right to cry. Just go ahead and have yourself a good cry and then we’ll talk about it.”

I’d never heard such a gentle tone from Logan before, but when it came to a crying woman—our crying woman—he’d be whatever she needed.

Slipping on my pants, I let Logan tend to her as I took care of the horses, removing their saddles. As I did so, I watched as he whispered to her, stroked her back, her soft hair as she cried. She kept at it long after I let the horses graze and joined them.

When her tears turned to sniffles, Logan used the corner of the blanket to wipe her cheeks. “Now, tell your men what’s wrong. Are you hurt?”

She shook her head and whispered, “No, I’m not hurt.”

“Did we scare you?” I asked. We’d been fairly intense, but we’d done nothing but give her pleasure.

“No.”

“Then tell us what it is.” When she turned that dark gaze toward me, I saw only sadne

ss.

“I… I have my mother’s wicked blood in me.”

Logan looked at me over Lizzie’s head and frowned.

“Why is her blood wicked?” I wondered. “Lizzie?”

She sighed. “My mother loved a man who wasn’t her husband. I was born from that union.”

“You mean she was married and had an affair?”

Lizzie shook her head. “She fell in love with an Indian, and my grandparents refused the match. I’m proof of their union, of her going against their wishes. She was banished from the family, but before they could marry, he was killed. With nowhere to turn, she went back to her parents. They refused her. She went to live with my uncle, her brother. He… he was not happy, but he was a pious man and charitable to take a fallen sibling into his home.”

Logan loosened his hold about her, allowing her to sit up. The blanket slid and one pale shoulder was exposed.

“He married her off to a man from church who would have her—and me. They had Judith and Rebekah. I was very little, but I don’t remember much. I do remember her scent. Lemons and cinnamon. I remember her hair; it was as fair as the girls. She died when I was seven, run down by a stage beside her husband. I think it was from a broken heart.”

I could see the sadness on her face, hear it in her voice. I could not share the depth of her mourning for a child to lose a parent, but I certainly knew of a loveless—and forced—marriage. I knew the result of it, the hurt, the devastation.

“My sisters and I were taken in by my uncle.” She shuddered, turning her head to look at me, the bleakness gone from her eyes, replaced by anger. “Judith and Rebekah are perfect. Sweet, kind, meek. Just as young women should be. I am—not.”