Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
ELIJAH
“We’ll camp an extra night here,” I said. “Let the animals rest before they tackle the mountains.”
We’d all earned a night to breathe. And maybe I could find some time alone with my wife.
The wagons were drawn up along the edge of a small village.
Smoke drifted from chimneys in the distance, and the clang of a blacksmith’s tools chimed alongside saw teeth biting into freshly cut logs.
It was the last taste of civilization. Beyond this place, there would be no more towns, no hearths left open to travelers.
Only forest, stone, and the long climb ahead.
Soon, fires ringed the clearing, their glow warming the air as men tended to beasts and mended harnesses.
Silas oversaw the oxen yoked to the heavy sledges, his laughter carrying now and then on the cool air.
Brigit sat near the wagon, the fire painting her hair in copper tones.
Patrick quietly played in her lap as she softly sang words in a language I didn’t understand.
It didn’t matter. The sound of her voice was like a tether drawing me closer.
I wanted to sit beside her. To tell her that each mile had bound me tighter, that I saw her not just as a companion, but as a woman I could no longer imagine leaving.
I took pride in being a man of patience, believing most things grew in their own time.
But lately, patience had begun to feel like a punishment.
She was always just out of reach, even when she slept beside me.
I wanted her. But she was just beginning to trust me, and I wouldn’t take that peace from her.
But I knew, if she turned to me, I wouldn’t have the strength to turn away.
Martha Dawson crossed the clearing just then, hands on her hips.
“Elijah Allen,” she said, her tone part stern, part kind.
Her eyes glinted with mischief. “After that scare with the wagon near tipping your wife out, I’d say you both could use a night’s peace.
Grab a warm bed. And a warm moment between you,” she added with a knowing look.
Brigit’s head lifted quickly, eyes wide, her arm tightening around Patrick. Martha only waved a dismissive hand. “I’ll see to the babe. My girls will dote on him.”
Brigit hesitated, her gaze dropping to Patrick’s downy head as though weighing Martha’s words against every instinct of her heart. I could read the war in her eyes, but when the babe stirred only faintly and settled again, she finally nodded.
“If you’re certain…” she murmured.
Martha plucked the child from her arms with the ease of one who had raised a houseful. “Certain as sunrise. Now off with you both. The good Lord meant for a man and wife to know each other better than through tired glances across a cookfire.” She winked, already bouncing Patrick on her hip.
Brigit’s eyes darted to mine, wide and uncertain, but full of wanting. That made up my mind. I offered my hand, and after a heartbeat’s pause, she placed hers in it.
The tavern stood at the heart of the settlement, its timbers dark with years of smoke and rain. The keeper, a burly man with a beard as thick as a broom, gave us a once-over and jerked his chin toward the stairs.
“Room’s at the top,” he said.
Brigit’s face flamed, but she lifted her chin and climbed the narrow steps, her skirts wisping against the wood. I followed closely, my chest tight with a mix of nerves and longing.
The chamber was small with low rafters and a single bed pushed against the wall. A washbasin stood in the corner, a candle stub flickering on the table beside it. “I’ll leave you to wash and change,” I said, then slipped from the room.
I lingered in the hall, pulse hammering as it had before a battle. While there was no combat, the stakes felt equal. I could not read her thoughts plainly, but I would have her hear what I hoped for first.
Brigit stood by the bed, dressed only in her shift, hands clasped before her, eyes downcast. The firelight from the hearth threw dancing shadows across her face.
I swallowed hard, unsure how to bridge the space between us.
“Brigit,” I said quietly, “we’ve had little time to…
be what we’re meant to be. I don’t want to press you.
But I would like—” My words faltered. I drew a steadying breath.
“I’d like to spend this night as your husband.
Not out of duty, but because I’ve come to want it more than I can put into words. ”
Her head lifted then, eyes luminous in the candlelight. Something unspoken passed between us—a mingling of fear, of hope, of want.
“Truly?” she whispered.
My pulse kicked, uncertain if she’d agree or put more distance between us. “Aye.”
She swallowed, eyes darting from mine. “There’s something I must tell you first. About when I met you.”
“Don’t.” I covered her hand with mine, my thumb brushing the backs of her fingers. “No more burdens tonight. Nothing matters but us.”
She hesitated, lips parting. “But—”
“Brigit,” I said, her name rough in my throat. “It’s simple. You’re my wife,” I continued, voice low. “Not just in name. Not just because a preacher said the words. You’re mine, and I mean to love you as such.”
A soft sound escaped her, almost a sob.
I pulled her against me, closing the space I’d kept for far too long. “No more words,” I murmured against her temple. “Not tonight. Just this.”
I kissed her. The taste of her—warmth, want, and something that felt like hope—was enough to make the room fall away. I cupped her jaw, bracing for retreat, but instead she gripped my shirt and drew me closer, until our breaths mingled and there was no distance left to mind.
The kiss deepened, slow at first, then hungry. Weeks of restraint burned off with every touch. I reached my hands into her hair and slowly loosened it from her braid until long waves fell as a curtain around us.
When I finally drew back, my forehead rested against hers, breath uneven. “Tell me you feel it, Brigit. Tell me I’m not alone in this.”
Her hand trembled as she traced my jaw. “Aye. It frightens me, this wildness. But I do not think I wish it tamed. I want a home—a true home with you, Elijah.”
The words struck something deep in me. A groan escaped before I could rein it in, half relief, half hunger. Whatever caution I’d held dissolved.
I gathered her against me, burying my face at her throat, her pulse beneath her skin racing against my lips.
She made a soft sound—surprise, want, I couldn’t tell—and I kissed her again.
The second kiss was both urgent and coaxing, all the weeks of restraint stripped away.
I eased her back onto the feather tick, bracing my weight on my forearm so as not to crush her.
Even so, her warmth pressed up against me, stealing every coherent thought from my head.
Her breath caught when I drew her closer still and slid my hands down the lines of her neck until they reached her breasts. The shift of her body beneath mine felt right in a way I hadn’t dared imagine.
“I need to taste you,” I whispered.
“Elijah,” she whispered, my name breaking off on a sigh—
uncertain, pleading, and full of permission.
My fingers worked the ties of the thin linen until I could open it. Like a man starving, I took a nipple into my mouth and sucked, causing her to buck beneath me.
“Elijah,” she whispered.
I felt her hands work their way beneath my shirt.
“I wonder if I might make you feel the same way,” she whispered as I felt her hands work their way beneath my shirt. I sat up and removed it, grasping her hands and placing them on my chest. I reveled in their softness as my own desire grew hard and fast.
“Oh, you definitely can, my love,” I murmured. “But I fear your touch will finish this before I’ve had my time with you.”
“Then you had better not waste time,” she goaded softly.
I didn’t need to be told again. I kissed her again until the desire to taste more of her was too much. I ran my lips across her jaw and along her collarbone before curling my tongue around her nipples. All the while, I pushed the fabric to her waist, feeling her shudder beneath me.
“Are you ready for me, I wonder?” I asked, moving my hand lower, letting it hover between her thighs.
Her eyes locked on mine as she swallowed and wet her lips.
“Please,” she begged.
She gasped as I cupped her heat, stroking her as I watched her thrash her head against the bed. I let one finger glide through her slickness, then two. I crooked them inside her, relishing the way her hips rose as her legs fell wider apart.
“Elijah,” she panted. “I…I need…”
“I know what you need.”
I continued to move my fingers until she splintered apart, crying my name as she did.
“I need to be inside you,” I said hoarsely, climbing above her.
Her hands gripped my shoulders. “Show me what to do,” she gasped. “I want everything you have to give me a chroí.”
I grabbed her wrist, bringing it to my hard length. “Guide me to you,” I commanded gently.
Carefully, I helped her guide me to her wet heat, where I rubbed my shaft between her folds.
“You’re mine,” I declared gruffly.
She nodded. “And you’re mine.”
I pushed all the way inside her, giving her time to adjust, then began rocking in and out of her. Slowly at first. Then faster and faster until I felt her clench around me, and I gave into the moment.
I held her close, her breath warm against my skin, her body soft and spent beneath my arm. My pulse hadn’t yet settled, as though some part of me had finally found its place.
She fit here. God help me, she fit.
For a time, we said nothing as I smoothed her hair. Touch made it real—made her mine in ways no preacher or paper ever could.
She trembled once, and I didn’t ask why. I didn’t want to know anything that might sour the sweetness of the moment or steal her away from me. Not tonight.