The Builder’s Son #4
Helen crossed to him and placed her hands on his chest. “You do belong. You belong with me. And he will see that if you let him. Just... please. Come. Sit beside me. Be yourself.”
Nic stared at her—at her fire, her stubborn faith in him. He hated how much he wanted to believe it.
He sighed and shoved a hand through his wayward locks. “Did your father actually invite me?”
Helen arched a brow. “You want a written invitation?”
“I don’t want to crash a private family affair.” It was a pathetic excuse, but he had to try.
Her expression sharpened. “He didn’t forbid it, Nic. And you know it. If you need me to ask him to formally extend the invitation, I will.”
He grimaced. “No, no. That won’t be necessary.”
“So you’ll come?”
He groaned and dropped his head back toward the stars. “Fine. I’ll come. I’ll charm your uncles and endure the cold stare of Steward Jacob. And I’ll wear that ridiculous brocade waistcoat.”
Her smile was triumphant. “The one I love.”
“Of course. I live to suffer for your affection.”
She laughed and leaned in, brushing her lips against his. “Good. Then suffer a little more.”
With no warning, he grabbed her by the waist and lifted her effortlessly into the air. She squealed, laughing as her skirts billowed around them. He caught her lips with his and carried her back to the quilts, kissing her until they were both breathless again.
“Nic,” she murmured between kisses, “I just got dressed...”
He grazed her neck with his teeth. “That was a mistake.”
She laughed, gasping as he slid his hands up under her skirts. “You are impossible.”
“You love me—impossible.”
“Clearly,” she moaned as he laid her down and parted her thighs with his hands and knees. “Don’t stop.”
“Never,” he whispered, pressing into her with a groan.
The stars above shimmered wildly as they moved together—fast, fevered, full of pent-up ache. Helen clutched at him, arching as she cried out his name, her pleasure crashing over them both in waves.
“I love you,” Nic breathed against her neck, again and again, as he spilled himself into her warmth.
They clung to each other afterward, trembling, hearts pounding like the drums of battle and victory.
Nic rolled over in his bed with a groan. His eyes were still gritty with sleep, and the cold morning air nipped at his bare arms. He cracked one eye open. The window was pale with early light—not full dawn, but close enough.
Damn, if only he could have a few more hours...
From across the room came the creak of a dresser drawer. Uriah was already up, moving around with deliberate noise. A shirt was shaken out, followed by the heavy thunk of the drawer slamming shut.
“What time did you get home last night?” Uriah muttered through a yawn.
Nic grunted, dragging the quilt over his head. He didn’t have the strength for conversation. Not this early. Not today.
“You smell like wine,” Uriah added.
“I smell like triumph,” Nic replied, his voice muffled by blankets.
Uriah snorted. “Mother’s going to smell it.”
That got Nic moving—reluctantly. He sat up, rubbing a hand over his face. The scent of Helen lingered on his skin, faint but distinct, and it sent a confusing wave through him—pleasure tangled with unease, the sweetness of the night already shadowed by the burden of the workday ahead.
By the time he made it to the kitchen, Uriah was already seated at the table, chewing noisily on a hunk of day-old bread.
“Where’s Father?” Nic asked, reaching for the tealeaves.
“Workshop. Left before first light.”
“And Mother?”
“Went to deliver a baby sometime after midnight. You were probably still out rolling in moss.”
Nic grunted, rummaging through the cupboard. He found the last of the strawberry preserves and slammed the jar a bit harder than necessary onto the table. He dropped into a chair and tore off a piece of bread.
Uriah raised an eyebrow. “You’re a real delight in the morning, you know that?”
“I’m sore,” Nic muttered. “And not in the mood.”
“You’re glowing,” Uriah said, chewing with theatrical slowness. “Like someone who’s been up to something questionable and very, very satisfying.”
Nic shot him a look. “Drop it.”
Uriah didn’t. “Mam says you’re going to get Helen pregnant and ruin your lives.”
Nic choked mid-bite, coughing as a clump of bread and tart preserve caught in his throat. He reached for the tea and took a long, scalding gulp, eyes watering.
“God! Is that what she actually said?”
“More or less. Something about reputations. Consequences. She was talking about it with Da last night. When you didn’t come home.”
Nic slammed the mug down a bit too hard. He pushed his chair back slightly, bracing one elbow on the table. He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “Great...”
“You know how she gets.”
“Well, she can worry about her own life,” he said. “Mine’s not hers to micromanage.”
Uriah gave him a sidelong look. “She’s your mother, Nic. She’s allowed to care.”
“Caring’s one thing. Talking behind my back like I’m thirteen and sneaking around with the miller’s daughter is another.”
Uriah raised a brow. “Are you sneaking around?”
Nic didn’t answer. He ripped off a hunk of bread and shoved it into his mouth. It stuck to the back of his throat, dry and unpleasant.
“Look,” Uriah went on, voice quieter now, “I’m not trying to get in your business. But people are noticing, that’s all. You and Helen aren’t exactly subtle.”
Nic swallowed hard, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Yeah? Let them notice.”
“That doesn’t bother you?”
Nic stood abruptly, turning toward the washbasin. “What bothers me is everyone acting like I’m some walking mistake in Helen’s life.”
He splashed cold water on his face, gripping the edge of the basin like it might keep him from unraveling.
Behind him, Uriah’s voice stayed careful. “I don’t think that. I just... I’ve seen how you are when you come back from being with her. And how you are now. It’s like night and day.”
Nic straightened, drying his face with the kitchen towel. His tone came back clipped and light. “That’s called being tired, Uri. You’ll understand when you’re not naive and dreamy-eyed.”
Uriah leaned forward slightly. “It’s not just tired. You look—”
“Spare me your analysis.”
There was a beat of silence. Uriah sat back, lips pursed. “Alright. Fine.”
Nic turned, his voice cooler. “I’ve got a site to finish. If you’re not busy later, I could use a hand.”
Then he stepped out into the chill air of morning, the door closing behind him with a solid, final click.
If Nic were not so preoccupied, he would have thoroughly enjoyed the brisk walk through North Town.
The forest rang out with the music of songbirds as they rejoiced for the rising of another day.
The temperate spring air was filled with the fragrance of fresh morning dew, new sprouting leaves, and butterfly-kissed wildflowers.
Even sunlight caressing the woodland path carried the scent of brightness.
As he neared his worksite, echoes rang out through the trees—the noise of hammering, sawing, and the voices of men stalwartly laboring.
Could it be? Had his crew returned to work? He ran to find out, his heavy toolbox rattling in his haste.
Four of his six men were hard at work. Two were currently laying down the planks for the ledge.
One was measuring the window frame. Another was sawing floorboards that was scheduled to be installed in the next few days.
Not only had the crew returned to work, but they had begun the day early. Only Martin and Esaw were missing.
“Morning, boss,” Rene said from the top of a trestle. His greeting was not at all sarcastic.
Brandon shouted, “I hope you don’t mind that we started early!”
Nic set his toolbox down on the tree stump, his fingers lingering on the worn handle. For a moment, he didn’t move. The sounds of labor surrounded him—hammers striking true, saws rasping through timber, men calling to one another across the frame of the house—his project.
He scanned the scene, hardly trusting what he saw. His men—working not just steadily, but well. Focused. Coordinated. Like the weather had shifted overnight.
He had braced himself for silence, for the hollow sound of his own footsteps and the sting of being abandoned. He had prepared to fail alone. But instead, there was this—motion, effort, the subtle rhythm of trust being earned back, piece by piece.
His chest tightened—not with pride exactly, but something quieter. Gratitude. Maybe even belief.
He exhaled, the weight on his shoulders not gone, but lighter. Maybe—just maybe—he could do this after all, and he couldn’t wait to tell Helen.
He rolled up his sleeves. “Let’s get to work.”