Their Captivated Bride (Bridgewater Ménage 3)

"Then I will have to offer him my thanks."

"Why?" she asked, tilting her head slightly.

"I never would have met you otherwise and I am quite pleased." Again, her cheeks flushed prettily. "But you never answered my question regarding a male protector."

"As I said, my uncle is quite enough. I am not in need of additional protection."

From the way the men at the dance were watching her, I disagreed, but was not going to waste the dance arguing with her. I gave her hand a light squeeze so she looked to me. "Very well, but I am Cross from Bridgewater Ranch if you ever have need."

The song came to an end and while we stopped moving, I did not release her. "Promise me, Olivia."

People milled around us, chatting amiably while we stood still and I pinned her in place with my words.

"You are not in Helena and cannot offer any kind of shelter, regardless of the storm, however from the serious look upon your face, you will not release my hand until I agree."

I grinned at her savviness.

"Very well, I agree. I will call upon you if ever I have a time of need."

The definition of the word 'need' offered more than one connotation. While I would protect her from any type of harm, I also would gladly fill the role of any other kinds of needs she might have. From the look of her, from the type of rearing she had, she led a sheltered life and did not know of a woman's needs. The idea of any other man teaching them to her was off-putting at best.

Unfortunately, I had no choice but to release her. I was adverse to do so for she felt...right in my arms.

OLIVIA

I had enough male interest to keep me dancing for most of the evening, which was quite surprising. From his place in the corner chatting with his friends, Uncle Allen watched with a broad smile. We'd wagered the last slice of cake that I would not be a wallflower at the event. Unfortunately for me, I was the loser and would not enjoy the dessert.

The attention was surprising, for my day-to-day life was quite tame. I had male callers, but none were of interest to me. Some were handsome even, but they spoke of insipid things as if I had an empty head. I did enjoy a discussion about ribbons and the latest dress patterns, but I also liked to engage in debates over statehood and other civic concerns. However, when I broached such a conversation, I was either rebuffed for not knowing my own head or scorned for sharing it.

It was Clayton Peters who had been subtle in his attentions but warranted the most concern. He was appealing to the eye, but his character set me on edge and made me feel quite uncomfortable. Each time I saw him, his attentions became more aggressive. He’d not physically touched me more than a shake of the hand; the aggression was verbal, proprietary. When you are mine.... It is only a matter of time before you relent to my expectations.... My plans include you....

He made my spine tingle and not in an appealing way. Although I rebuffed all of his attentions, he did not seem to recognize my disinterest or he did not care about it and continued to seek me out. Just a day earlier when we’d sat in my parlor and I’d told him I no longer wished to see him that he changed before my eyes. The attentive suitor was replaced by a man scorned - a sinister man who refused to take no for an answer. He was angry, his skin flushed and mottled, and he'd grabbed my wrist quite painfully until Uncle Allen hastily entered the room at the sound of our raised voices. He'd been stunned and angered by the other man's altered demeanor and had bodily removed him from the house.

After we'd calmed down—Uncle Allen vowing to 'kill the bastard' if Mr. Peters got anywhere near me again—he reminded me, "You will feel as if you were struck by lightning when you find the right man." That had never happened in my twenty-three years, especially not with Mr. Peters, and I started to feel concern that it never would. My uncle, while only in his early fifties, was a confirmed bachelor and clearly had not had such an occurrence, so I couldn't guarantee the veracity of his words. But at the dance it happened not once, but twice. Surely Uncle Allen was in error if I felt lightning two times within a short time span.

The first had been with the man named Cross. I wasn't sure if that was his given name or surname. He hadn't said, and my mind had not been clear enough to ask. To say the man befuddled me was an understatement. When I'd first seen him from across the room, I thought my heart had stopped for a moment, for it lurched, and then leapt against my breast and I felt hot all over. One time I'd fallen through a rotten board on the porch and I felt flustered and surprised and overheated and fearful and my heart had beat frantically at the jolt of it. Just looking into Cross's green eyes—for the most certainly were a very appealing grass green—had me feeling as if I'd fallen through the porch floor all over again. There had most definitely been a jolt.

He was tall enough where I only came to his chin. When I'd been in his arms for the dance I'd felt so small, his wi

de shoulders, solid torso and long legs had me ogling and from the closeness, it had been easy to do. His hand had dwarfed mine, all but swallowing it in his gentle grip. I'd expected him to be brash and rough, but he'd been just the opposite. I'd felt almost incorporated into his person, as if the rest of the dancers had disappeared and only a tall, fair-haired man existed. I could barely look past his shoulders. Instead, I had been content to get lost in his words, his deep voice, in his gaze. As he looked at me, I’d felt as if I had all of his attention, and perhaps I had. His jaw was square and his mouth wide beneath a long nose, yet it fit his face. His jaw was clean-shaven and his hair, while reasonably long, was neat and groomed.

When I'd glimpsed Mr. Peters in my periphery I had not wanted the dance to end. I'd felt safe and sheltered in Mr. Cross' hold, clearly protected from Mr. Peters' ire. Heat radiated from Cross’ body, the clean, male scent of him enticing me to put my head upon his chest and close my eyes. Somehow he'd noticed my fear over seeing the other man and offered his concern, even his protection. It had been...kind and I had wanted to revel in it, but the dance drew to an end, for then I worried if Mr. Peters would make a scene and I would have to deal with him once again, this time more publicly.

When Mr. Cross escorted me back to my friends, there was nothing more I could do than to thank him for the dance. Throwing myself at him or calling to him from across the room were things I could not do, regardless of the strength of my desire to do so. The lightning had struck and yet the man departed, and so did my eagerness to dance with others. Fortunately, I saw nothing more of Mr. Peters.

To my surprise, it was an hour later when the last dance was called, that lightning struck again. I was telling Uncle Allen that we could leave early, for nothing could compare to dancing with Mr. Cross, but a different man cleared his throat behind me. Uncle Allen saw him first and his eyes widened and a soft smile formed on his lips. I spun on my heel thinking it was Cross. Instead, it was the antithesis of him, but equally heart stopping. The newcomer had dark hair, perhaps as dark as mine, and tanned skin that only amplified the brightness of his smile. Dark eyes pinned me in place. Oh....

"Miss Weston, may I have this dance?" His voice was clipped, the words spoken with a strange accent.

Realizing my mouth was open, I snapped it shut. I glanced briefly at Uncle Allen, not wanting to put him out, yet at the same time didn't want him to see any hint of the jolt I felt at just the stranger's simple question, but he nodded readily.

"Yes, thank you," I replied.

He held out his elbow and I wrapped my hand around his biceps. His very thick, hard and well muscled biceps. The cut of his jacket did nothing to diminish it. As he led me out onto the floor, he leaned down closer so he could speak solely to me. "I am Rhys, a friend of a man you danced with earlier. Cross? Do you remember him?"

Remember? How could I have forgotten? But this man, he was so completely different than Mr. Cross. He was just as tall, but leaner. Darker, yet more intense. While Cross had been calm and offered his protection somewhat like a heavy winter blanket, Mr. Rhys was bright assurance and confidence. People parted for us; the man had a way about him that called for deference. When he took my hand in his he was just as gentle as Mr. Cross, but he had much more intent, placing my hand about his waist and the other upon my shoulder just as he wanted. When the music began and we started to move, I felt as if I was being taken for a dance rather than led.

As I glimpsed up at him through my lashes, I realized I'd been comparing instead of considering them separately. It wasn't as if I'd see Mr. Cross again, and there was certainly no reason for comparison. The men were different and just like Mr. Cross, when this dance ended I would not see Mr. Rhys again either. And so I stilled my thoughts and just enjoyed being held in the circle of his arms, knowing that he sought out the dance and had been interested specifically in my attentions.