Page 17 of The Pumpkin Bride

She leaned the broom against the support beam and scooped the tabby into her arms. “Have you met a cat? They sense who doesn’t like them and then lavish affection on them until they come around. I regret to inform you that he won’t give you peace until you’re hopelessly infatuated with him.”

The orc made a sound low in his throat as he flipped the kitchen table’s bench upright as easily as she might right an errant shoe.

They worked in silence through midmorning. Jask carted away all the broken bits in a barrow, and between them, they’d swept up three neat mounds of hay, cotton fluff, and feathers.

With her hands on her hips, Marigold surveyed the size of the piles. “I’d guess your mattress and pillows are no more.”

She hadn’t ventured up the stairs and into the loft where she presumed he slept. Everything else about this cottage suggested he kept the same habits as humans. Did orcs sleep in night clothes? An image of him without a shirt flashed in her mind, and she shoved it away.

“I never should’ve opened the door to you,” he snarled. “This is your fault.”

That stung, but he was right. Alas, regret was wisdom that arrived fashionably late. In his cottage, the damage was literally already done. All she could do now was help fix it. The orc scowled as he swiveled his gaze, as though he was stuck deciding his next move. Fortunately for him, her royal training featured many a lesson on soothing prickly egos, which mostly involved suggestions and compliments delivered with more sparkling bubbles than mountain water.

“Go assess the damage.” She shooed him toward the stairs. “If anything else needs to be mended, use your considerable strength to toss it down.”

He rolled his large shoulders, then stomped up the stairs. Once the rattling stopped, Jask let loose a scorching stream of curses. If she hadn’t been permitted to gallivant with lads as a child, her ears might have burned.

“Is it bad?” she called.

“It’s not great,” he huffed.

Feathers rained down from the loft, then Jask returned with a bundle of torn linens. After depositing them atop the pile on the divan, he frowned at the size of the mending pile.

“We should repair these first,” she said. “So you have something to sleep upon.”

“Half the day’s gone.” He ran his hand down his face. “I don’t have time for this. I’ve chickens to feed, a cow to milk, and fields to plow.”

She dusted her hands together. “I’ll help with the animals.”

“No, Princess. You’ve done enough.” He opened the back door, revealing a charming courtyard situated among a byre, a chicken coop, a pig pen, and a few other things she couldn’t name. “Stay inside. The last thing I need is for Crispin and his men to come back this way, find you and toss me into Dreadmoor.”

As much as she wanted to feel the sun on her face, his caution was wise.

“Still, I’d like to be useful.” She pushed back curls that had slipped from her braid. “Where’s your sewing kit?”

The first casualty atop the pile was a pillow bleeding fluff. One of the knights had run it through with a sword. Kevin, if she remembered correctly. Why murder a pillow? She shook her head. Wisdom often chased Kevin, but he was faster.

“In the darning basket.” Jask hovered at the open door. “But I don’t need any favors.”

“Not a favor—an apology.” She held up a hand to stop him from protesting. “I’d like to earn my keep. Should I prepare anything for our midday meal? I imagine we’ll both work up an appetite.”

He paused. “A princess who cooks?”

“Earning my keep, remember?” She lifted a shoulder. “To be truthful, I can’t cook much, but I can make a sandwich.”

“I don’t care what you do. Just stay inside.” Jask’s mouth rippled as though words tried to escape him, then blew out a breath. “I must go while the weather holds.”

She raised her eyebrow. Was the weather likely to turn? Beyond the door, the sky was a perfect cornflower blue. A glorious fall day, in fact. Chirping birds, buzzing bees visiting their final flowers for the season, and temperatures warm enough to leave her cloak on the hook. But maybe the climate was different in the hinterlands?

More likely, he wanted to escape her company. But another skill she’d learned in her princess training—for some, candor formed alliances better than flattery. She’d wager the orc fell into that category.

“Thank you for helping me,” she said. “I am not your princess, nor a friend. You have no reason to risk your safety on my behalf. I am grateful.”

His hand tensed around the doorknob. “You’re wrong, Princess. It’s everyone’s duty to help someone in a difficult situation. Even if we’re repulsed by them.”

Not exactly a sonnet, but she’d take it if it meant he wasn’t flinging her in front of Crispin. What was it about the prince that had changed the orc’s mind? Before her betrothed darkened the orc’s doorstep, he’d threatened to turn her out. When they were better friends, she might dare to ask. For now, she’d be content with light teasing.

With the sewing kit in hand, she settled herself on the divan. “For someone who denied being a knight, that’s a courtly thing to say, Jask Bone-Cracker. Aside from the repulsion bit.”