Their Brazen Bride (Bridgewater Ménage 8)

“You only want to kiss her?” Tucker asked, his eyes raking my body in a dark and carnal way. My nipples tightened beneath his blatant inspection.

“I didn’t say where I’d kiss,” he countered.

Oh dear lord. I could only imagine where.

The men put their hats back on. “Too bad, precious,” Tucker said.

“Too bad?” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

“We don’t take what doesn’t belong to us. If you’re claimed by Aaron, then”—he shrugged his shoulders— “we’ll respect the match.”

My exhilaration turned to dust, and I worried I would throw up. They wanted me. I wanted them. And my lie was keeping us apart. The stupid lie! Tennessee was ruining everything!

“Not claimed,” I countered, trying to make them understand I was not spoken for. “The stories being spread are highly exaggerated.”

Tucker didn’t say anything else, just winked once more

and walked away. Gabe looked at me for another moment, tipped his hat then turned to follow in his brother’s wake. I should have said something, admitted the truth, but they wouldn’t want me then. I was a liar, like a five-year-old. Once they knew the truth, they’d think me childish and not worthy of their time. Even worse, once they learned that I was going to steal from my own brother, they’d hate me. I couldn’t have them if I lied, couldn’t have them if I told the truth.

The open field in front of the church was filled with townspeople, lingering and chatting, waiting for the small wedding reception to begin. I was surrounded, but completely alone, and it wasn’t because of my stupid scar. I feared I’d be alone the rest of my life. A lie would not keep me warm in bed at night.

CHAPTER TWO

Gabe

“She will be ours,” I said.

“Without question,” Tucker replied.

After the wedding reception, Tucker and I returned to Bridgewater. We worked for two days, riding the fence lines, fixing downed sections, herding stray cows, all the while stewing on the conversation with Abigail. Talked through every word she said, every tilt of her chin, the way she angled her head to hide her scar, the emotions I could see in her eyes.

“Who?” Andrew asked, carrying a stack of dirty plates in from the dining room.

He was one of many men who lived at Bridgewater and shared the communal dinner with everyone who wasn’t working. These days, a large group met for the meals so the chores for it were shared and rotated. Tucker and I were on dishwashing duty, and I had my hands in a sink full of hot water as I scrubbed a pot.

“Abigail Carr,” I replied. “We’re going to claim her.”

I pictured her in my mind. Petite—she only came up to my shoulder—with lots of dark-brown hair tucked back into a neat twist. It was hard to tell how long it was, but if I pulled the pins free, I imagined it fell all the way down her back. And I would do it, too. Soon, if Tucker and I had our way. She had equally dark eyes and a surprising spray of freckles across her pert nose. She was beautiful—she’d caught my eye the first time I saw her. It hadn’t been lust as it was now. No, she just… caught my heart.

She’d been just a girl when we met—a shy and tentative little sister of our friend James—and a young woman when she went away to school. But, after two years, she’d turned into a woman. We’d wanted her when she was seventeen, knew she’d be ours someday since she was much too young for us at the time, but now… now it was time to make Abigail Carr ours. We were done waiting.

“The woman with the scar on her face?” Andrew asked, placing the dirty dishes on the washboard beside me.

I gave him a hard stare. Tucker stopped scraping plates and turned a hard eye at Andrew.

“Yes, she has a scar, but she also has brown hair,” I clarified.

She did have a scar. A mottled, puckered area of flesh on her left cheek that appeared to be from a burn. It wasn’t even like a jagged slice indicating a cut. The damaged area was a mixture of her pale skin and pink scarring. It was an old wound, fully healed, yet her skin would never be blemish free. Whatever the cause of the wound, she would carry the mark as a badge of honor for surviving.

But the scar was small and inconsequential. Yes, it was noticeable. Yes, it looked bad because of the pain and discomfort it had caused. What scar didn’t? I had plenty on my body, but no one judged me for them or used one as a way to describe me.

Andrew’s eyes widened at my sharp tone, but he took my meaning readily enough. The scar shouldn’t be used to define her. It bothered me, but Tucker hated it. I was impressed he held his temper and hadn’t punched Andrew in the eye. I was protective of her, but Tucker…

“Yes, and pretty blue eyes, too,” Andrew added, redeeming himself.

“Who has pretty blue eyes besides me?” Andrew’s wife, Ann, came in from the dining room carrying a few glasses, an impish smile curling her lips. Christopher, their small son, ran in after her with a handful of napkins. Tucker squatted down and took them, flicking his nose. The boy grinned.

“Abigail Carr,” I repeated.