Their Christmas Bride (Bridgewater Ménage 5)

CHAPTER TWO

October

"May I carry your parcel for you, Miss Travers?"

Mr. Porter startled me as I came out the door of the mercantile. I licked my lips and glanced left and right to see if he truly had spoken to me. The man was devilishly handsome with a quick smile and dark eyes. While they were similar in color to Mr. Quinn's, his were less brooding. I felt he could see past my cool facade. My palms were sweating inside my gloves and my nipples had tightened.

He, too, looked about. "There are no other Miss

Travers, are there?"

I frowned at his odd question. "No," I replied slowly.

"Then my attention is solely for you." He held out his big hand and I had no choice but to give him my paper wrapped bundle. I could feel the warmth of his palm as it pressed against the small of my back. I had no interest in moving, for the gesture was the only contact he'd ever made with my person. "I wonder...." His words trailed off and I tilted my head up to look at him.

When his gaze dropped to my mouth, I realized he'd stopped talking intentionally.

"Yes?" I asked, trying to fill the nervous silence.

"As I said, while my attention is solely for you, I wondered if perhaps your attention was given to someone else. Mr. Matthews, perhaps?"

The other man had circled about me, but his interest was not returned. Mr. Matthews might have been handsome in a way, but there was something unappealing about him.... "No."

He gave a decisive nod. "Good."

Butterflies filled my stomach at that one word. We went the length of the block before I spoke next. "Good?"

"I won't share you with him."

***

Mr. Quinn opened the stage door. Because of his large size, he only looked up at me slightly, but his face was hidden in shadow beneath the broad brim of his hat. "May I help you down?" he asked, his voice a familiar and pleasing rumble, but it held none of the warmth to which I was accustomed.

I slid across the bench seat as far away from him as possible, my back pressing against the far wall. "If you're going to put me in jail, at least...at least allow me to explain."

"You'll come with us, Miss Porter," he said.

I shook my head and my chin slid back and forth over my thick scarf. "No. I won't have the sheriff arrest me." I'd done nothing wrong!

He glanced behind him to the other men, sighed, then grabbed my ankle over my dress, pulling me slowly closer and closer across the bench seat until he was able to easily grab me about the waist and pull me out of the stage. I was petite, barely coming up to Mr. Quinn's shoulder, so he handled me as if I weighed no more than a feather.

I struggled in his hold. "I told you, I need to explain," I cried. "I'm not going to jail!"

Mr. Quinn unceremoniously flipped me up and over like a sack of grain, my belly pressed into the broad expanse of one shoulder, his hand hooking over the backs of my thighs. I squealed in surprise and protest. "Mr. Quinn, put me down!"

The man clearly chose to ignore me, for my voice was loud enough.

"Let's not stay out here long," the sheriff began, "for it's colder than a witch's—"

Mr. Porter cleared his throat.

"Beggin' your pardon, ma'am." The sheriff tipped his hat, although I could barely see the gesture around Mr. Quinn's back. "It's cold. Let's take this discussion to the jail."

"I told you I've done nothing wrong," I cried out. "I won't let you take me!"

A hand swatted my bottom through the layers of my coat and dress. It smarted and was a complete surprise.

"Be still, Allison," Mr. Porter said from beside me, and I realized he'd used my first name. It was the first time he'd said it, and that alone stilled me.