entered, and then Josiah bent down—really bent down—to fit through the door.
My God, he was enormous. Six feet ten inches of muscle and curvaceousness, shoulders barely touching his frame, hands marked by forge burns that seemed capable of shattering stone. His face was weathered, bearded, and his eyes darted around the room, never resting on me. He stood with his head bowed slightly, his hands clasped, the posture of a slave in a white man’s home.
That brute was a fitting nickname. He looked like he could demolish the house with his bare hands. But then my father spoke.
“Josiah, this is my daughter, Elellaner.”
Josiah’s eyes rested on me for half a second, then returned to the floor. “Yes, sir.” His voice was surprisingly soft, deep, yet soft, almost gentle.
“Ellaner, I explained the situation to Josiah. He understood that he would be responsible for your care.”
I managed to speak, even though I was shaking. “Josiah, do you understand what my father is proposing to me?”
Another quick glance at me. “Yes, miss. I will be your husband, I will protect you, I will help you.”
“And you agreed to this?”
He looked confused, as if the concept that her consent might matter was foreign to him. “The colonel said I should, miss.”
“But do you really want it?”
The question took him by surprise. His eyes met mine. Dark brown, surprisingly gentle for such a fearsome face. “I… I don’t know what I want, miss. I’m a slave. Usually what I want doesn’t matter.”
The honesty was brutal and ruthless at the same time. My father cleared his throat. “Perhaps you should talk in private. I’ll be in my study.”
He left, closing the door and leaving me alone with a seven-foot-tall slave man who was supposedly my husband. Neither of us spoke for what seemed like hours.
“Do you want to sit down?” I finally asked, pointing to the chair in front of me.
Josiah looked at the delicate piece of furniture with its embroidered cushions, then at her imposing figure. “I don’t think that chair would hold me, miss.”
“So, the sofa.”
He sat carefully on the edge. Even sitting, he towered over me. His hands rested on his knees, each finger like a small club, marked with scars and calluses.
