Their Stolen Bride (Bridgewater Ménage 7)

He grinned then, brilliantly and wickedly. “Yes, exactly. Fair warning, I’m not like Benson. I will make demands on you, but I would never harm you. Marry me and I will protect you with my life.”

If his fingers hadn’t pressed against my lips, my mouth would have fallen open in surprise at his vehemence.

CHAPTER TWO

PARKER

The moment Miss Millard entered the train car in Billings, I knew she was the one. While the porter followed behind her carrying her small bag, she stumbled down the aisle as the train picked up speed. Pitching about, she used her hands on the backs of the seats for balance. I stood immediately, drawing Sully’s eyes from the book in his lap to the woman we would marry.

The dress she wore was of the finest cut, in a pale green silk with a bright sheen to it that, beneath my fingers, wouldn’t be as soft as the skin on her long neck. I didn’t have to be female to know the latest style or the expense of the materials. Her little hat, angled just so on her head of blond curls, matched perfectly. The gown was completely modest, from the long sleeves to the high collar, but it did nothing to hide her enticing curves.

For one so petite—she only came up to my shoulder—she had full breasts and wide hips. She was lush and just a bit shy of plump, but that was how I liked my woman. When she rode my cock—and she would—I’d be able to get a good grip on her lush hips. When I spanked her ass—based on her gentle nature it would be more for pleasure than punishment—it would quiver beneath my palm and turn a perfect shade of pink. Her breasts would be a delicious handful and I could only imagine her eyes blurring with passion when I tugged on her hardened nipples.

Stepping forward, I took the bag from the porter, then pulled a coin for him from my pocket. With a quick nod, he turned on his heel and left the car. Placing her bag beneath the seat, I gestured for her to sit across from us. While the car was not full and she could select her own seat, I removed that option for her. Her good manners dictated she accept the placement. Sully respectfully rose to his feet, ducking his head as he was so tall, and gestured for her to join us. As she settled in, adjusting her long skirts, I glanced at Sully. A slight nod was all I needed to know he was in agreement.

Within one minute, our lives changed. Inalterably. This fair-haired beauty would be ours. And so we’d talked with her from Billings to Butte. Well, I did. Sully was not one for many words and passed the time by watching her closely. I noticed the slight turn of her lip when she smiled, every freckle across her nose, the dainty swirl of her ears. We spoke of everything from her staid visit with her grandmother for the past month, to books, to politics in the Montana Territory. She was well versed, clearly well educated. While my cock wanted her for her body, I was glad she had a sharp wit and gentle spirit inside such a delectable package.

It was easy to fantasize how it would be with her as I listened to her soft voice, imagined how it would sound crying out my name as I brought her pleasure, how she’d beg Sully to take her. Harder. Deeper. Faster.

Fortunately, a surprising herd of elk were visible in the distance. As she watched them, I adjusted my cock, fair near to bursting within the tight confines of my pants. Sully just smirked.

It was then, once we’d pulled into Butte and I helped her down from the train, that I was pleased that she turned to me. At the time, I hadn’t known why she’d panicked, but I’d already considered her as mine and I would solve all of her problems. Sully, too. When I discovered who she was, that she was a copper heiress with an uncaring father set on using her for a business deal, my protective instincts took over. When I found out she was to marry that asshole, Benson, I was glad that Sully had joined us.

Benson was ruthless. A callous businessman, he considered money before men. His mine wasn’t safe; collapses occurred with dangerous frequency, knowing one dead man could easily be replaced with two more desperate ones. Copper was pulled out at a pace that made him richer than even those who owned the railroad. Assessing Miss Millard’s father, I had to guess that he might be even richer.

Men with avaricious business practices used people like pawns, even innocent daughters for marriage alliances. Miss Millard had laughed and warmed to our witty conversation on the train, so I knew she’d become a skittish and fearfully submissive woman if married to Benson. There would be no humor, no caring, no loving. There’d be fucking, surely, but she would not enjoy it, would not feel one bit of desire. Benson had worked his way through two wives and all the whores in Butte. He was infamous for his cruelty—infamous enough that even the innocent Miss Millard knew of it—and only the most jaded and darkly inclined whore could enjoy his needs.

Miss Millard was a passionate woman, I had no doubt. It would be our pleasure to awaken her every desire. To discover what she liked, what made her pant my name, to scream Sully’s, as we took her. But only a ring on her finger and her desperate need for our protection from Benson guaranteed that. While she expected a temporary arrangement, in her panic she could not see that temporary would not work. An end to an engagement would only delay her father’s plans. A real marriage was the only way to prevent the inevitable.

A real marriage she would get. Sully, as her husband, would afford her more protection than I would. It was a quick and smart decision, to shift the legal aspects of our union to him. As her husband, he’d protect her from the likes of Benson and her father with just his name alone. With his background, his notoriety, no one would dare impede.

When he’d warned her that he was not like Benson, that he would make demands on her, she would discover what those kinds of demands were, in time. It involved letting two dominant men control her in the bedroom, and quite a few places outside of it. Yes, Benson would have been a controlling spouse, but he would not be loving. From this moment forward, Miss Millard was the center of our world and she was right where she should be—between us.

When Sully lifted his finger from her mouth, he leaned in and said, “Smile

, love. You’re not alone any longer.”

That was correct. She would not be alone again. Would not have to stand up to her father by herself, would not have to associate with the likes of Benson. They couldn’t touch her. Not physically, not emotionally.

Being married to two husbands was not the societal norm, especially for Butte. On the ranch at Bridgewater, that was not the case. Everyone was married in such a fashion: two—or more—men for every bride.

“I don’t even know your given name,” she murmured, offering Sully a quick, nervous glance before facing the approaching men. I watched as her hands fiddled with her dress, that she bit her lip, eyes wide with trepidation.

“Name’s Sully.” He ran a hand down her arm. “Don’t you worry, sweetheart. We’ll take care of you. Always.”

Taking a deep breath—which made her breasts swell beneath her dress—she rolled her shoulders back and tilted her pert chin as if she were royalty. I could sense her nervousness and fear, but she hid it well. I just had to wonder why she’d had to perfect the skill.

Her father and Benson approached, their shined shoes loud on the brick. I knew the moment they first saw Miss Millard—shit, we didn’t know her given name—but I was even more aware of when they discerned Sully’s possessive hold on her.

While her father was short and round, his bespoke suit fit perfectly. His gray hair was thinning and the shiny skin of his scalp was red and freckled from the sun. Loose jowls formed his neck. Along with his hefty weight, he was not a man to deny himself anything. That meant he would not be happy when he learned that Benson would not be marrying his daughter.

Benson was the opposite of Millard. Tall and thin, he had the gaunt look of a man who didn’t need to lift a finger. His word, his command, brought immediate results. He, too, was dressed immaculately, in a crisp suit as black as his hair and mustache; he appeared to be in mourning.

“Mary,” Mr. Millard said to his daughter.

Mary. The tone he imbued in that one word held so much meaning. None of it was pleasure at seeing his daughter after a month’s separation. He did not pull her in for a hug; he did not put a hand on her shoulder for a simple squeeze. He didn’t even smile. Mary, though, took a small step closer to me.

“Hello, Father. Mr. Benson.” She tilted her head in greeting. “It was very thoughtful of you to meet me at the station, but unnecessary.”