Page 42 of The Pumpkin Bride

“Uprightness is a hazard.” He covered her with a quilt, then lit a taper in a chamberstick. Her pale skin deeply contrasted with the dark russet of her wet hair. “Look at me?”

She turned to him, and saints, she stole his breath.

He brought the flame close to her blue eyes. “Are you nauseated? Or have a headache?”

During tournaments, some knights who’d been knocked from their horses were stunned to the extent that they sought dark rooms and buckets to catch the contents of their stomachs. One telltale sign that they’d suffered a serious blow was the irises’ lack of response to light, but Marigold’s pupils shrank to pinpricks.

“No on both counts,” she said. “The bruises are solely on my ego. And perhaps my ass.”

The tight fist of fear around his heart eased. Jokes meant she was fine.

He set the candle down. “Would you like some water?”

“My embarrassment calls for something stronger.” She lay her head back on the divan. “Whiskey?”

Hmph. He hadn’t gotten around to building a stillroom. “All I have is cider.”

She nodded. “Then cider it is.”

“Don’t move,” he said as he surged to his feet.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” she said. “But I’ll take care of this for you.”

In a flash of blue sparks, the bucking tub reduced to the size of a porringer. Magic still raised his hackles, but he was growing accustomed to hers.

“Thanks,” he said.

He tossed the water from the tiny tub into the kitchen’s wash basin, then grabbed a tankard from the kitchen. Outside, he set the tub on the trestle table that doubled as a work bench, then made short work of dipping a portion for Marigold.

On his way back to the cottage, he glanced upward. It was nice to see the night sky through her eyes earlier. Forced to live here, he rarely allowed himself to appreciate the hinterlands’ beauty. The stars had grown bold as the evening darkened and twinkled nearly as brightly as the fire within the cottage.

Quietly he opened the door, then rejoined her on the divan. His chest warmed at the sight of the locket around her neck. Just as he’d carried her image with him in Harvest Hollow, she’d carried his with her. The halves had been rejoined years before the lovers, even if she didn’t know they’d been reunited.

“Here you are,” he said.

In her hands, the tankard was enormous. “None for you?”

“No, I’ve already indulged enough for the evening.”

“My lady’s companion warned me never to drink alone, but I believe rules are meant to be broken.” She sipped. “Oh, that’s lovely. How many ciders before you feel tipsy? With your size, I’d imagine it takes twice as much to satisfy you as it would a human man.”

He turned that over in his head, looking for the critique, but found none. It was an honest question about the differences between orcs and humans. One meant to learn, not mock.

“Thrice, actually,” he answered. “I eat and drink at a ratio of three to one.”

She furrowed her brow. “But we eat the same amount at meals.”

He twisted toward her. “I wanted you to have enough.”

“Oh, Jask, that’s so sweet.” She laid a hand on his knee, and the sizzle when straight to his cock. “But please, eat your fill. I’d speak up if I wanted more. You must be starved.”

“I’m fine,” he said.

His stomach rumbled at the most inopportune time.

“Sure, you are,” she laughed. “Go, eat.”

He swung his legs to the floor. “I’ll put a snack together for both of us. Don’t move—give your humors a chance to settle.”