Their Captivated Bride (Bridgewater Ménage 3)

RHYS

Pounding on my hotel room door woke me with a start. I shot up in bed, noticed it was still dark, and wiped my hand over my face. I hadn't fallen asleep readily; seeing Olivia's face in my mind and remembering the feel of her waist beneath my palm had made my cock rock hard. I hadn't been able to sleep with a bloody cock stand, so I'd made myself come to ease the ache, thinking of her as I did so. Only then, did I fall into a fitful sleep. Unfortunately, I was being roused when I had finally settled in.

"What?" I shouted, tossing my legs over the side of the bed. More pounding. I stood, went to the door and pulled it open, stark naked. Whoever wanted to disturb me in the middle of the night could get an eyeful for all I cared. "What?"

Simon and Cross were at the door, and from the sight of them in the dimly lit hallway, they had hastily dressed. "There's been a fire at the Weston house. Allen Weston sent for us."

I ran my hand over my face again, and then turned into my room to throw on my clothes.

"Bloody hell. Was anyone hurt? Olivia?"

Simon stepped into the room. "We dinna ken for sure, but we've been told they are both fine."

The thought of Olivia being hurt in a fire had me dressing with additional haste. I stood, skipping a tie or even doing up all of my buttons. Tucking my shirt in was wasted effort. "Let's go."

Even if Allen Weston hadn't provided the address, the residence was not hard to find, based on the strong smell of smoke and the number of people milling about at such an hour.

The sight of Olivia, wearing a white robe, her hair long and unbound down her back, had my heart skipping a beat. If she weren't standing in front of her house that had been, from the looks of it, only partially ruined, I'd be quite pleased by her less than modest appearance. But no maiden should be seen in such a way—nor a wife for that matter—by the general public, and the idea of any man seeing her thusly had me stripping off my shirt and giving it to her.

"Take this." Those were my first words to her. Not overly comforting or reassuring, but she needed to be covered. Now. "Please put this on over your robe."

She froze in place as I started to unbutton my shirt, ogling my chest as it was revealed. Probably not my wisest of decisions, but she needed to be covered more than me.

"No," Mr. Weston said, undoing the sash of his dark, long robe and taking it off. He wore pants and a dress shirt, although some of the buttons at the collar were undone. It was as if he hadn't fully undressed from after the dance. "This will be more appropriate for everyone."

Cross took the robe from the man and moved to stand behind Olivia to help her into it.

Simon introduced himself to both of them and shook Allen Weston's hand. "Are either of you hurt? Burned?" he asked, looking Olivia over. It was the first time he'd seen her, and his gaze was more clinical that sexual.

She shook her head and looked over her shoulder at Cross as she slipped her arms through the sleeves. "No, we were both awake and in the kitchen."

"It was a rock. Broke the window," Mr. Weston said, glancing over to his house and where the damage had been done. Besides some streaks of soot on his face, he seemed fine. Angry, but fine. "Then he tossed in a flaming whiskey bottle. The floor in the foyer is stone, but the liquid spread and caught the walls."

I glanced at the house. It was two-story and made of quarried stone. The front door stood open and the front windows on either side of it were broken. The fire did not appear to have spread much, most likely due to sturdy construction. While the house was not overly large, there was no question that we stood in a well-to-do neighborhood. It was much smaller than Mr. Weston's vast means, but he did not seem the type of man to flaunt his wealth. Unfortunately, that wealth was most likely the motive for the fire.

Neighbors—no doubt awakened by the commotion—were standing about in various states of dress, watching and speaking to each other in hushed voices.

"Ye said he as if ye ken the person," Simon said. He accent was pure Scot, but when he became angry, the burr was much thicker.

Mr. Weston nodded. "I can't say with complete certainty, but I think it was Clayton Peters."

Olivia held the front of the robe closed, her hands up by her neck as if she were chilled. It was a warm night, so I was worried about shock, but she seemed calm enough. I would watch her closely though and at the first sign of unease, we'd whisk her away.

Cross took hold of Olivia's hand and slid the overly long sleeve of the robe back to look for the bruises I'd mentioned. There, on her slim wrist, I could see them, mottled and dark, even in the night. Her hand was so small, her wrist so narrow and delicate in Cross' hold, he could easily snap her bones. She'd been lucky with Peters. When I got my hands on him, he'd know what it felt like to fight someone of his own size.

"Because of this?" Cross asked.

Olivia tugged at my friend's hold and he let her go, the long sleeve covering her hand once again. Clearly she didn't want to be the reason for all of the destruction and Cross must have noticed it as well.

"This isn't your fault, love," Cross told her, carefully pulling her hair out from beneath the robe so it hung long down her back.

I was jealous of the man, for he knew what her hair felt like. I imagined it to be soft as silk.

"Oh, no, Olivia. This is Peters' doing. Not yours," her uncle said with certainty.

She nodded and stepped closer to her uncle. "If I hadn't made him angry, then—"

Mr. Weston shook his head. "No," he replied. "The only way to make him happy is if I hand over my money to him and that's not going to happen."