Page 20 of The Pumpkin Bride

“Are you okay?” she asked.

His mouth was on fire. “It’s scalding.”

“You did see me just pour it from the steaming kettle, didn’t you?” She shook her head. “You must blow on it to cool it. Or have patience and wait.”

With another bite, half his sandwich was gone.

She stared at him. “I’ve never seen someone swallow a sandwich whole.”

Couldn’t she pretend he wasn’t here? He didn’t enjoy being observed.

He drummed his fingers on the table. “That’s how orcs eat.”

“Noted. What if I change my scent?”

He cocked his head. “What now?”

This, at least, was unchanged about Marigold. She leapt from topic to topic like a tumbler at a fair. The constancy of her conversational acrobatics were oddly comforting.

“I’m slathered in stupidly expensive creams and ointments and have a trunk full of clothes that have been cleaned and pressed in the royal laundry. I hadn’t thought about Crispin’s hounds and their sharp sense of smell. He extolled their perfection over one particularly long meal.” She sighed and rested her cheek on her fist. “I should bathe with your soaps and shampoo and wear your clothes. To reduce the concentration of trackable scents. Tonight, perhaps?”

“No,” he said through clenched teeth.

Did she not realize the power of her words? Thinking about her in her shift caused him to burn his tongue. If he pictured her in a bath, he might impale himself on a fork.

She wrinkled her forehead. “You don’t bathe?”

“Didn’t say that.” He blew on the volcanic beverage before drinking. “I wash in Coldpress Lake.”

“But it’s autumn,” she said. “It must be freezing.”

He wished. “Orcs run hot.”

She drummed her fingers. “Then I shall bathe in the river, too.”

“No.” He shook his head. “Too risky.”

“Then find me a basin—I’ll take anything. Laundry tub, a particularly large soup pot.” She flipped her palms toward the thatched roof. “As long as those hounds can track me, I’m a sitting target. A forest-filthy target.”

He rolled his neck. Her strategy was sound, but he did not have locate a bathtub among his tasks for today. A tub in which a naked Marigold would rub soap and . . . No. The way it stoked his imagination was not welcome.

“I’ll try,” he gritted out.

She rested her chin on her latticed hands. “Thank you.”

There, that was five minutes. As he shoved back from the table, he popped a petit four into his mouth, and damn, if those weren’t tasty little sugar bombs. Life-changing? No, but he welcomed the treat and could eat a dozen more.

“Leaving so soon?” She dabbed her lips with a napkin. “I’d prefer your company if you can spare the minutes.”

Ah, shite. How had he not noticed her tired eyes and taut shoulders earlier? Marigold was troubled. Her confident sunshine had blinded him at first, but now her distress was all he could see. Something dreadful must have prompted her to jilt Crispin. Shirking royal responsibility was not a choice Marigold made lightly—at least, not the Marigold he’d known.

He clamped his jaw shut. No good could come from asking her what happened. If she reported a bitter argument between her and Crispin—or worse, a lover’s quarrel from which she’d recover—he’d want to rip that preening fool apart. Bram did not need to fan his vengeance flames further.

“Farm work never stops.” He drained his mug, and the belch that escaped him was legendary.

Marigold straightened her shoulders. “Charming. Until I figure out my next step and revise my plan, Jask, I pledge I won’t make your life harder.”

“Too late,” he said as he slammed the door behind him.