Their Brazen Bride (Bridgewater Ménage 8)

Even though James couldn’t see, I frowned at him. “Unpacking? I thought she’d been back for a few days.”

“She was going to Butte, by herself. By horse.” He lifted his arm from his eyes long enough to glance up at us. “As if I’d allow such a thing.”

“Why was she going? I thought she was finished with school,” I replied, my back straightening at the idea of Abigail traveling so far unaccompanied. I didn’t doubt she would be fine in the best of conditions, but she could be in danger if everything went to shit.

“She is done with school. Hell, she’s nineteen, well past time. No, she’s going to Butte to see her man.”

Was it more between them than she let on?

“He should come here to her,” Gabe commented.

What kind of gentleman made a woman travel so far, by herself? And why would she go to Butte for a man she clearly wasn’t keen on?

James dropped his arm and it hung down toward the floor as if it weighed a ton. “Exactly. I told her, if she wants to go, I will accompany her when I don’t feel like shit. I want to meet the man.”

I could hear footfall overhead, and we looked up at the ceiling.

James sighed. “She’s not happy.”

I had to wonder if Abigail was bothered she couldn’t go or that she couldn’t go alone.

“We will accompany her,” I offered.

James pushed himself up so he was sitting, although very slouched, on the couch. He wiped his hair back from his face. “Why the hell would you want to do that?”

“Because we want her.” Gabe put it right out there. Told the only man who stood in the way of making Abigail ours.

James’ eyes widened, and he leaned forward, put his elbows on his knees. He might be sick, but he pulled himself together when required. He was in protective-older-brother thinking now. Two men wanted his sister, and he would beat the fuck out of us, even ill, if he had to.

“You want her?” he repeated, his jaw tight. “Have you—”

“Fuck, James, you know us better,” Gabe groused, crossing his arms over his chest.

He thought we’d made advances, touched her. Fucked her. I had to stop such a concern im

mediately. “We wouldn’t touch her if she truly belonged to another, and, if she was ours, not until a ring was on her finger.”

It didn’t stop my thinking about it, but the man didn’t need to know that.

“Good, because there’s plenty of land to bury your bodies, but I don’t think I could lift a shovel right now.” He groaned. “Just as you said, she does, though. Belong to another, I mean.” He gave a roll to his wrist. “Aaron something.”

Gabe slowly shook his head. “We don’t think she loves him.”

James was quiet for a minute. “And you think she loves you?”

The steely edge to his voice couldn’t be missed. It was reassuring to know Abigail had someone watching out for her as cautiously as her brother. But sending her away to school, sheltering her from taunting her because of her scar, had caused her even more harm. She wasn’t a child, and perhaps she needed a little independence, a chance to find her own way. With us.

“We know she’s interested,” I answered, avoiding how we knew such a thing. We wouldn’t tell him how she’d flushed as we spoke rather crudely, yet carnally, to her at the picnic. She’d licked her lips, and her eyes had turned soft and eager at what we’d said we’d do. But James didn’t need to know any of this either.

“Is that why you’re volunteering to go with her to Butte? To watch out for her or because you want her?” He clamped his jaw tight, and I saw a muscle tic in his neck. Then he broke out in a coughing fit. I winced and did everything in my power not to step back.

“Both.” I replied. “If she’s got her mind set on going to Butte, we won’t have our woman traipsing over the countryside unprotected. If the man isn’t worthy of her, then we’ll take care of it. If he doesn’t hold her heart… then she’s ours.”

Gabe nodded. “Ours.” He didn’t believe in any of the “ifs” I’d just mentioned.

James looked between us. “I know the Bridgewater way, but does Abigail? If not, she will take some convincing.”

I was glad we did not have to explain the custom of two men marrying one woman, especially to the brother of the woman we wanted to wed. It went back to the men who’d started Bridgewater, a group of English and Scottish soldiers who’d been stationed in the small Middle Eastern country of Mohamir and adopted their custom. Ian Stewart had been framed for a ruthless crime, and they’d fled all the way around the world to the Montana Territory, a safe haven to start a new life, finding women who they could love, cherish, and protect. So far, there had been nine marriages. If we had our way, and we would, there would be ten before the day was out.