Page 30 of The Pumpkin Bride

“Shall we finally break our fast?” she asked. “We could have more brie, or—”

“Please not, for the love of saints.” His swollen hand throbbed. There was no easy way for him to cook, but he craved something heartier.

“As you wish, sir.” With her back straight, she sank into a perfect curtsy, then rose again. “Toast, then? I don’t know how to make anything else.”

He knew that. Princesses rarely spent their lives in the kitchens. They were taught to supervise household staff, not do the work themselves. Not so for knights or their squires.

“Well then, Princess, would you like to learn?”

Chapter 8

The confidence Marigold possessed in the courtyard disappeared faster than Fuzzle during a thunderstorm. From the stiff set of his shoulders, it was clear it cost him to accept help. She couldn’t refuse Jask’s offer to teach her to cook.

But cooking . . . she was a disaster at anything that involved more than two steps.

The brie-and-blackberry sandwiches represented the extent of her culinary skill. She’d tried to learn at Thornwick Castle, but upon burning a third loaf of bread, the cook kicked her out of the kitchens. From then on, she’d decided she was better suited to eating meals than preparing them. But she was game to try. With a full belly he might at least consider escorting her to Mareval before grunting a no at her.

After washing up at the pump, she asked, “What are we making?”

“Pottage. Easy, filling, flavorful. It’s a good first lesson. You’ll need this.” With his left hand, he reached for a well-worn cutting board stacked on a shelf behind her. Her heart stuttered at the warmth radiating through his shirtsleeves.

Sweet mercy, he smelled even better than his bedsheets.

She cleared her throat. “Was pottage the first thing you learned to cook?”

“No. Egg scramble.” He slid a knife from the block. “But I don’t feel like eggs. Fetch ingredients from the root cellar, would you? Carrots, a turnip, an onion, garlic, and cabbage.”

“I will.” She raised her index finger. “One quick question. Where is the root cellar?”

He wiped his good hand down his face. “You were in it earlier. Across the yard, past the coop. Door stuck in the hill’s side. I assume you went in there in search of breakfast?”

“No, I . . .” Might as well be honest. “I thought it might be a fairy house.”

He squinted at her. “But the door is full size.”

She shrugged as she headed toward the door. “I’ve never met a fairy. In the stories they’re small, but the stories could be wrong.”

“The stories often are.” Jask snorted. With amusement or derision, she couldn’t tell. “Get the vegetables?”

“Bide a moment,” she called over her shoulder.

Jask was so hard to read. Because he was an orc? Possibly. Between his tusks and his permanently lowered brow, his resting face was set to grumpy. But there were times where she was sure she amused him. Like yesterday, when he’d opened the door to her, his lips curled in a smile before something had chased it away quickly.

Hopeful chickens clucked as she came near. “Not feeding time, ladies. Sorry.”

Not for them anyway. The root cellar door’s hinges squealed as she flung it open. Inside, the cool and dry air smelled of the earth. She gathered the vegetables he wanted from the tidy shelves. The way Jask hid his feelings was so strange—she was the opposite, blurting out her emotions at every turn. Much to Bess’s chagrin. Her companion endlessly coached her to keep her upper lip stiff and expressionless.

What was the point in that?

It wasn’t as if it was a surprise that people had feelings. He certainly had no trouble expressing the surly ones—anger, irritation, exasperation. So why couldn’t he admit he liked her? She liked him. She supposed she could see how some people would find him terrifying, with his growly voice and under tusks and mounds of muscle. He could probably pick her up like she was a doll, fling her around, pin her to a wall, and—

She flared her eyes and covered her mouth.

Where had that come from? Her heart had died the day the Harvest Hollow squire arrived at Thornwick Castle with the official letter about Bram. The gray numbness that followed convinced her she’d never feel an amorous spark again. Crispin’s offer proved her theory when she met his proposal with nothing more than a vague pop of surprise.

With her pruning knife, she snipped a garlic bulb free from its twine.

The court had buzzed about his proposal while she simply shrugged. He was handsome, yes. Anyone with eyes could see that. But everything about his demeanor was overly practiced, like he’d studied facial expressions and optimal angles to present to his adoring fans.