“Let me rinse off first,” he said, trudging toward the back. “Also, any chance you keep willow bark around? Orbitter almonds?”
“I’m not sure about the bitter almonds,” Helen called after him.
It took a minute to coax the pump to work. The cold water bit at his skin as he hauled a bucket inside. Helen was already in the solarium, holding out towels and soap like a priestess at a ritual.
He managed a half-smile. “You’re too good to me, Biscuit.”
“I put water to boil—the willow bark’s stale, but it should help a little. Are you unwell?”
“Just a light headache,” he said, stripping off his filthy shirt. “Plus bone rot. Possibly early-onset death.”
Helen quietly gathered his clothes. He noticed the way her shoulders sagged, the fatigue dimming her usual brightness. She looked as wrung-out as he felt. And that made him want to slap something. Hard. Preferably a wall. Or Captain Sol.
When he padded barefoot into the kitchen, smelling like her honey-and-goat’s-milk soap, she was just pouring tea. He slipped his arms around her waist and pressed his face into her neck. “I love you, Helen.”
“I love you too,” she murmured, but the tremble in her voice told him what he already suspected—her composure was running on empty.
He turned her to face him. One look at her tear-bright eyes and every fiber of him itched for a sword. If emotions wereenemies, he could fight them. Instead, he kissed her cheeks and tasted salt. “Why the tears, my love?”
Helen faltered. “I... I thought you wouldn’t come.” As soon as the words escaped, she buried herself in his chest. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean it—I just—”
Nic stroked her back in long, soothing lines. “It’s alright to be scared, Biscuit,” he murmured. But part of him twinged.
Did she really think he’d vanish?
She looked up at him. “I’m so fortunate to have you, Nic.”
He gave a tired smirk. “Well, someone should be.”
She handed him tea, the cup gilded in gold. He clutched it like a lifeline, barely tasting the bitterness. She returned with cheese and rolls. Nic grabbed one just to keep his hands busy—his appetite had taken the evening off.
He looked at her, then down at his half-eaten roll, then back again.
She was quiet, tired, still a little shaky. But she was here. They were here—together.
Maybe it wasn’t the perfect time, or the perfect setting—but what in his life had ever been perfect?
He set the roll down carefully and met her eyes.
“Helen,” he said, voice steadier now, “I’m going to ask your father for your hand.”
Her eyes widened. “That’s your plan?”
Nic blinked. “Yes? What was yours? Flee to the mountains?”
“I didn’t think you’d want to...”
“Oh, come off it. You know I want to marry you.” He tore a chunk from the roll a little too savagely. “Unless you don’t want to marry me.”
“Of course I do! But he’ll never agree!”
Nic gave a tight smile. “He’ll have to. We’ve given him very few alternatives.”
Helen’s face drained of color. “You’re going to use my condition to force his hand?”
“I’m going to use the truth. If he wants his grandchild born outside of wedlock, he can make that call. Otherwise, he’s going to have to stop pretending I’m just the gardener.”
“He’ll be furious.”
