Their Captivated Bride (Bridgewater Menage Series Book 3) (2 page)

From the way the men at the dance were watching her, I disagreed, but was not going to waste the dance arguing with her. I gave her hand a light squeeze so she looked to me. "Very well, but I am Cross from Bridgewater Ranch if you ever have need."

The song came to an end and while we stopped moving, I did not release her. "Promise me, Olivia."

People milled around us, chatting amiably while we stood still and I pinned her in place with my words.

"You are not in Helena and cannot offer any kind of shelter, regardless of the storm, however from the serious look upon your face, you will not release my hand until I agree."

I grinned at her savviness.

"Very well, I agree. I will call upon you if ever I have a time of need."

The definition of the word 'need' offered more than one connotation. While I would protect her from any type of harm, I also would gladly fill the role of any other kinds of needs she might have. From the look of her, from the type of rearing she had, she led a sheltered life and did not know of a woman's needs. The idea of any other man teaching them to her was off-putting at best.

Unfortunately, I had no choice but to release her. I was adverse to do so for she felt...right
in my arms.

OLIVIA

I had enough male interest to keep me dancing for most of the evening, which was quite surprising. From his place in the corner chatting with his friends, Uncle Allen watched with a broad smile. We'd wagered the last slice of cake that I would not be a wallflower at the event. Unfortunately for me, I was the loser and would not enjoy the dessert.

The attention was surprising, for my day-to-day life was quite tame. I had male callers, but none were of interest to me. Some were handsome even, but they spoke of insipid things as if I had an empty head. I did enjoy a discussion about ribbons and the latest dress patterns, but I also liked to engage in debates over statehood and other civic concerns. However, when I broached such a conversation, I was either rebuffed for not knowing my own head or scorned for sharing it.

It was Clayton Peters who had been subtle in his attentions but warranted the most concern. He was appealing to the eye, but his character set me on edge and made me feel quite uncomfortable. Each time I saw him, his attentions became more aggressive. He’d not physically touched me more than a shake of the hand; the aggression was verbal, proprietary.
When you are mine.... It is only a matter of time before you relent to my expectations.... My plans include you....

He made my spine tingle and not in an appealing way. Although I rebuffed all of his attentions, he did not seem to recognize my disinterest or he did not care about it and continued to seek me out. Just a day earlier when we’d sat in my parlor and I’d told him I no longer wished to see him that he changed before my eyes. The attentive suitor was replaced by a man scorned - a sinister man who refused to take no for an answer. He was angry, his skin flushed and mottled, and he'd grabbed my wrist quite painfully until Uncle Allen hastily entered the room at the sound of our raised voices. He'd been stunned and angered by the other man's altered demeanor and had bodily removed him from the house.

After we'd calmed down—Uncle Allen vowing to 'kill the bastard' if Mr. Peters got anywhere near me again—he reminded me, "You will feel as if you were struck by lightning when you find the right man." That had never happened in my twenty-three years, especially not with Mr. Peters, and I started to feel concern that it never would. My uncle, while only in his early fifties, was a confirmed bachelor and clearly had not had such an occurrence, so I couldn't guarantee the veracity of his words. But at the dance it happened not once, but twice. Surely Uncle Allen was in error if I felt lightning two times within a short time span.

The first had been with the man named Cross. I wasn't sure if that was his given name or surname. He hadn't said, and my mind had not been clear enough to ask. To say the man befuddled me was an understatement. When I'd first seen him from across the room, I thought my heart had stopped for a moment, for it lurched, and then leapt against my breast and I felt hot all over. One time I'd fallen through a rotten board on the porch and I felt flustered and surprised and overheated and fearful and my heart had beat frantically at the jolt of it. Just looking into Cross's green eyes—for the most certainly were a very appealing grass green—had me feeling as if I'd fallen through the porch floor all over again. There had most definitely been a jolt.

He was tall enough where I only came to his chin. When I'd been in his arms for the dance I'd felt so small, his wide shoulders, solid torso and long legs had me ogling and from the closeness, it had been easy to do. His hand had dwarfed mine, all but swallowing it in his gentle grip. I'd expected him to be brash and rough, but he'd been just the opposite. I'd felt almost incorporated into his person, as if the rest of the dancers had disappeared and only a tall, fair-haired man existed. I could barely look past his shoulders. Instead, I had been content to get lost in his words, his deep voice, in his gaze. As he looked at me, I’d felt as if I had all of his attention, and perhaps I had. His jaw was square and his mouth wide beneath a long nose, yet it fit his face. His jaw was clean-shaven and his hair, while reasonably long, was neat and groomed.

When I'd glimpsed Mr. Peters in my periphery I had not wanted the dance to end. I'd felt safe and sheltered in Mr. Cross' hold, clearly protected from Mr. Peters' ire. Heat radiated from Cross’ body, the clean, male scent of him enticing me to put my head upon his chest and close my eyes. Somehow he'd noticed my fear over seeing the other man and offered his concern, even his protection. It had been...kind and I had wanted to revel in it, but the dance drew to an end, for then I worried if Mr. Peters would make a scene and I would have to deal with him once again, this time more publicly.

When Mr. Cross escorted me back to my friends, there was nothing more I could do than to thank him for the dance. Throwing myself at him or calling to him from across the room were things I could not do, regardless of the strength of my desire to do so. The lightning had struck and yet the man departed, and so did my eagerness to dance with others. Fortunately, I saw nothing more of Mr. Peters.

To my surprise, it was an hour later when the last dance was called, that lightning struck again. I was telling Uncle Allen that we could leave early, for nothing could compare to dancing with Mr. Cross, but a different man cleared his throat behind me. Uncle Allen saw him first and his eyes widened and a soft smile formed on his lips. I spun on my heel thinking it was
Cross. Instead, it was the antithesis of him, but equally heart stopping. The newcomer had dark hair, perhaps as dark as mine, and tanned skin that only amplified the brightness of his smile. Dark eyes pinned me in place. Oh....

"Miss Weston, may I have this dance?" His voice was clipped, the words spoken with a strange accent.

Realizing my mouth was open, I snapped it shut. I glanced briefly at Uncle Allen, not wanting to put him out, yet at the same time didn't want him to see any hint of the jolt
I felt at just the stranger's simple question, but he nodded readily.

"Yes, thank you," I replied.

He held out his elbow and I wrapped my hand around his biceps. His very thick, hard and well muscled biceps. The cut of his jacket did nothing to diminish it. As he led me out onto the floor, he leaned down closer so he could speak solely to me. "I am Rhys, a friend of a man you danced with earlier. Cross? Do you remember him?"

Remember? How could I have forgotten? But this man, he was so completely different than Mr. Cross. He was just as tall, but leaner. Darker, yet more intense. While Cross had been calm and offered his protection somewhat like a heavy winter blanket, Mr. Rhys was bright assurance and confidence. People parted for us; the man had a way about him that called for deference. When he took my hand in his he was just as gentle as Mr. Cross, but he had much more intent, placing my hand about his waist and the other upon my shoulder just as he wanted. When the music began and we started to move, I felt as if I was being taken for a dance rather than led.

As I glimpsed up at him through my lashes, I realized I'd been comparing instead of considering them separately. It wasn't as if I'd see Mr. Cross again, and there was certainly no reason for comparison. The men were different and just like Mr. Cross, when this dance ended I would not see Mr. Rhys again either. And so I stilled my thoughts and just enjoyed being held in the circle of his arms, knowing that he sought out the dance and had been interested specifically in my attentions.

"Miss Weston, it is rare to see a Black Irish such as yourself, and a quite lovely one at that," he commented. I'd heard the reference to my hair and eye color before, but that was not what made me misstep. A firm hand on my hip held me securely without a chance to fumble.

"How do you know my name?" I asked, cocking my head slightly.

The corner of his mouth tipped up. "As I said, Cross is my friend and he thought I might enjoy meeting you."

How strange. "Why?"

He frowned slightly and a small line formed at his brow. "Why?" he repeated. "It isn't often that either of us see such a beautiful woman, a woman who catches both of our eyes."

I couldn't help but flush at the compliment, but at the same time felt it odd. "You share dance partners?"

He took a moment before answering. "We share many things, Miss Weston."

Another odd answer, but I was intrigued. "Your friend, Mr. Cross, said that he was from a ranch east of here. Do you fare from that direction as well, for your accent is quite unique?" Surely it was idle chit-chat, but I didn't know what else to ask. He had me off kilter and the dance would end soon enough and that meant he would leave me just like his friend. It
was
just a dance. Nothing more.

"I am British, but I have not been there in some time. My home is Bridgewater, as is Cross'."

"Is it quite large?"

He arched a dark brow at my question, but responded easily enough. "I believe it to be one of the largest in the area, but we are a ranch of many."

"You are here in Helena on business or pleasure?"

"This dance and your company, Miss Weston, are all pleasure." The compliment heated my cheeks and I did not know how to respond, nor could I continue to look at him, so I studied the buttons on his dark jacket, just as I had with his friend. He was as neat as his friend. "We are in Helena to purchase a horse."

"You and Mr. Cross?"

The music played and the people danced around us but I, like before, ignored it all.

"Cross and I, as well as a good friend of ours, Simon."

"You have many friends," I added. I had many acquaintances, but no close, bosom friends.

"Not many, but the ones I do have I hold in the highest of esteem. And you? Your chaperone, Cross said he was your uncle?"

"Yes. My parents died when I was small and he raised me."

His hand tightened about my waist briefly. "I am sorry to hear about your parents."

A flicker of sadness appeared in his eyes was quickly hidden.

"You have lost family as well?" I ventured.

He gave a single nod. "I, unlike you, did not have an uncle to take me in and orphans are not held in the highest regard where I come from. Over time, I have learned that a family is one you make, so I have been lucky."

I faltered. "You are wed then?" I glanced around as if I could find a woman on the fringes of the dance that could be his wife. It was a silly act, but kept me from seeing the truth on his face.

"Of course not. I would not dance with another if I were married."

The dance drew to a close and Mr. Rhys led me back to my uncle, his hand upon the small of my waist. The feel of it sent tingles down my spine. Had I insulted him? A crushing feeling invaded my chest at the realization that I'd insulted his honor, for an honorable man would not seek out another woman for a dance or any other type of amusement.

"Sir." Mr. Rhys held out his hand to my uncle and introduced himself. "Thank you for the opportunity to dance with your niece."

"Anytime, young man," he replied. He seemed impressed by Mr. Rhys and was not aware of the gaffe I had made. "You are not from around here."

He shook his head. "No, sir. I am from Bridgewater."

Uncle Allen's face changed then, in some slight way I couldn't identify, but it wasn't disdain. He was...pleased somehow. Impressed, too. "I am familiar with another gentleman from the ranch, a Mr. Kane, I believe."

The dark slash of Mr. Rhys' brows rose in surprise. "Yes, Kane is part of Bridgewater as well."

"He purchased cattle last year from a man in Simms, I believe," Uncle Allen added.

"He did." He paused, then grinned. "Weston, yes. Now I have the connection. They were your cattle then."

Uncle Allen nodded.

"We are in town to purchase a stud horse, however the arrangement has not been as smooth as Kane's dealings with your man last year."

"Oh? Who is your connection here in Helena?"

"Clayton Peters. While he has been somewhat difficult to work with, his horse flesh is quite impressive."