Page 40 of The Pumpkin Bride

Rot it, she’d tell him the plain truth.

“My father’s crown distressed Bram. Even before Papa took the throne, Bram thought my parents would deem him unworthy of me. Beneath my station. Good enough to fight under their banner, but not good enough for their daughter. Which is—was—ridiculous. He was so self-confident about a great many things, but he refused to believe me when I said they’d accept him. They would have, I swear it, because he was expert in what they considered the most important predictor for a good, loving match.”

After a pause, Jask turned from the stove. “What was that?”

“Bram saw me.” She turned toward the bath with aromatic herbs in her fists. “As a person, not a princess. And he loved me for my quirks, not despite them. My laugh that cuts through walls, my inability to dance, that I curse without hesitation and mix medicine as well as any apothecary. I don’t care a flipping fig for court intrigues and am besotted with the moon.”

Jask poured more steaming water to the tub, then rolled his neck like he was weighing his words. “That’s romantic, I’ll grant you. But surely a princess deserves to be cared for and to—”

“Stop right there. Ugh, you sound like Bram.” As she shook dried cloves and juniper berries into the tub, the near-boiling water released their calming fragrance. “It was the one vexing thing about him.”

“Just one?” Jask returned the pot to the stove.

“Yes, but it was a big one. He thought he knew how the world worked better than me and intimated my hopeful nature is rooted in naivety. Hope is a choice—a hard choice—but I make it every day. And I did my best to learn exactly how the world worked by slipping the palace guard at every turn. I longed for the day I’d prove him wrong. But then . . . he died.”

She truly believed tears were healthy, but Marigold would not cry in front of Jask twice in one day. Blinking faster than a hummingbird flapped its wings, she probably looked like a demon clutched her soul, but she’d accept that risk.

“And you . . .” Jask’s cleared his throat. “Lost your chance.”

“I didn’t lose it. My chance—my true love—was ripped from me and left a gaping gash behind. As much as loving him hurt in the end, I’d do it again without hesitation. Some go a lifetime without love like that. I was blessed to have it.”

If she wasn’t mistaken, pity filled the orc’s eyes.

Unable to face him, Marigold poured the final pot of heated water into the tub. It had not yet boiled, but that was fine. As much as she ached for a hot bath, she preferred not to cook herself.

“I respect you for that.” Jask slipped back into his house shoes. “I’ll wait outside while you bathe. Let me know when you’ve finished?”

“Wait—soap?” she asked.

“Oh, sorry.” From under the bench by the door, he grabbed his kit, then thrust it at her. “Here.”

From the kit, she extracted the soap. Yes, this was the source of the addictive scent that had bedeviled her last night.

“Cedarwood,” she said. “And, if I’m not mistaken, geranium and . . . bergamot?”

“And birch bark.” He folded his forearms. “Do you not like it? I can get you something else. Perhaps the pine from the kitchen?”

Marigold widened her eyes. “The opposite. I like it very much. Why would you assume I didn’t?”

His brown eyes searched hers. “Because you noticed it. To be noticed is to be targeted. Why would you comment on it if you weren’t criticizing it?”

Her hands were full, or else she’d settle a reassuring one on his arm. “Recognition can mean admiration, too.”

As he backed away, he said, “Not in my experience, Princess. But you have a nice bath.”

With the door firmly shut, Marigold shifted her weight. He’d hinted at something—what? The uneasy undercurrent to their exchange could be a ripple or a riptide. Impossible to know what he meant, but the longer she stayed here, the greater the chance she’d find out.

As she shed her clothes, her skin pebbled with exposure to the cool air. Slowly, clad only in her bathing shift, she dipped her foot into the water to test its temperature. Ah, perfection. With a sigh, she slipped the rest of her body into the steaming bath. Surrounded by Jask’s scent, she closed her eyes in the relaxing water and plotted her next move.

Journey to Mareval as soon as possible?

Or write another letter to Rowan and bring him here?

Both had their advantages. She sighed. If only she’d been allowed to study Machiavelli’s The Prince or Caesar’s Gallic Wars with Rowan and Beckett. Perhaps that wasn’t necessary, though. The gamesmanship of who was courting whom among the house staff could be just as complicated, and she was well-versed in that.

She’d walk through it in her mind, step by step.

For the journey option . . . Crispin’s men might yet be about, which was a concern. Jask would protect her from both the palace guard and whatever befell them in the Shivering Dales. But he was wounded, and on foot, travel would take at least two days in one direction. With no one to tend the animals, Paloma, Queen, and the chickens would suffer.