Their Wayward Bride (Bridgewater Ménage 2)

"We have today at least, I expect, before they show," Brody replied. The men glanced at each other briefly and seemed to speak to each other without words.

"There is much to do."

I had a suspicion they weren't speaking about ranch chores.

CHAPTER FOUR

BRODY

I was standing at the pump sink washing the breakfast dishes while Mason showed Laurel our collection of books. Our library wasn't extensive, but something should interest her on a snowy day. The idea of spending it with her was a perk neither I nor Mason, had anticipated. She was a perk we had not anticipated.

The story Laurel told was a mixture of truth and lies. It was obvious to me, and Mason as well, that she was hiding something. Her name was Laurel. She'd told us when we first brought her in from the cold without a chance to think. I believed she was intended to marry a man not of her choosing. I believed her father had made a business arrangement of it. But that was all. There was no man named Hiram Johns in Simms or even in the outlying areas. No one moved into the area without the news of it spreading like wildfire at the mercantile. Everyone at Bridgewater had a vested interest in keeping abreast of the latest news, especially relating to new faces. Evers, our former regimental leader, was always at the back of our minds and whether the bloody bastard would track us down halfway around the world and find us. He'd pinned his heinous crimes from our military stint in Mohamir, a small middle eastern country, on Ian and it was only a matter of time before the past returned. We'd fled to the United States, traveled all the way to the Montana Territory to find a swath of land we called Bridgewater. We ran it together, our common home. We were always vigilant for danger of any kind.

That was why we knew Laurel was not who she said. Pushing her would not bring answers. Well, it could, but then we'd have a woman who hated us and that was most certainly not in our plans. We wanted Laurel to like us. Very much. She would be our bride as soon as the weather cleared. She'd tell us the truth, in time. I chuckled to myself. She was a terrible liar. She'd most likely slip up soon enough.

Rinsing the coffee mug, I turned it upside down on a cloth to dry.

As for the man she was to marry, Laurel's reaction to him was enough for us to keep her as far away as possible. A fifty-year old man only wanted a young woman, a virgin, like Laurel for only one reason. Hell, all men wanted Laurel for the same reason, including Mason and me. I wanted to fuck her over and over again until my need for her was sated. I'd even tie her to the bed as she'd said the man would do. Even keep her there until her belly swelled with a baby we'd made.

We weren't sadistic. We weren't thinking only of ourselves. Mason and I were thinking of Laurel, of her pleasure. Her needs. Her desires. I doubted the bastard would think of her at all after he fucked her, or during for that matter. In fact, knowing his kind, he'd have a mistress or two on the side, ensuring Laurel's value and self-worth were always in question.

Running away had been her only option. If both her father and intended husband were as committed to the business arrangement as she'd said and she hadn't run off, Laurel would be married right now. The thought of that had my breakfast settling in my stomach like a heavy river rock.

She could have died. She would have died if Mason hadn't gone out for firewood. I wasn't a man to think of things like fate or destiny, but she'd literally fallen at our doorstep. She was ours.

I wiped down the table with a damp cloth, thinking of our time in bed. Although Laurel was clearly unaware, we'd claimed her then and there. Her body was so lush and curvy my cock was rock hard. Again. She'd tasted as sweet as her breathy little moans of pleasure. Her skin was silky soft and I wanted to learn every inch of it. Seeing her come for the very first time was something I'd never forget. So was the look on her face when she'd seen her very first cocks. Ours. Knowing our seed coated her breasts and belly was akin to marking her, branding her as ours.

With these thoughts running through my head, I scrubbed the table with a little extra vigor. Glancing out the window, I watched the snow fall, but it had tapered off to just flurries. The sun was brilliant and sparkled on the thick, fresh coating of white. Looking outside was almost too bright for my eyes. Squinting, I could see across the ranch to the other houses. In the near distance, I could see someone approaching. He was on foot, trudging through the deep drifts, coat collar lifted up around his neck, hat low over his face. It was only when he stomped his boots on the back porch that I could see it was Andrew.

Tossing the dishcloth over my shoulder, I opened the door for him. The man stepped in with a swirl of cold air behind him. He shut the door firmly to keep the warmth inside. Placing his hat on a peg by the door, he looked up at me and smiled.

"Quite the storm," he commented.

Andrew and Robert also lived on Bridgewater. They were married to Ann, who'd given birth to their first child only two months ago. They were the Americans of the group; we’d met them in Boston directly after our arrival in the country. Besides them, Bridgewater was home to Ian and Kane, who married Emma over the summer. Other members of our regiment were Simon, Rhys and Cross. MacDonald and McPherson were new to Bridgewater, having arrived just last summer. It was quite the week when we'd thought Evers had found Ian. Instead, it was Simon's brother and friend.

"Two feet?" I guessed, glancing out the window.

"Easily."

"Is everyone all right?" I asked. Ann was well after birthing Christopher and the lad was thriving, but it was a vulnerable time for both of them.

He nodded. "Besides being tired, everyone is well. I should be asking that of you. I heard a shot last night. You're the closest house and thought it would have come from here."

"It did. An interesting turn of events."

He ran his hand over his beard and watched me closely, unsure if it was good news or bad.

"Take off your boots and I’ll tell you."

I told him about Mason's trip to the woodpile, the discovery of Laurel and her predicament.

"I've never heard of a Hiram Johns."

"Neither have I," I replied.

"Then who the hell is she? She didn't just fall out of the sky."

I shrugged. "Based on the weather, she couldn't have been riding more than a few hours, so she had to have come from somewhere near Simms. Don't worry, the story will come out."