Page 43 of The Pumpkin Bride

In the kitchen, he sliced apples, then added a chunk of fresh cheese, roasted pumpkin seeds, a few dried apricots, and a dollop of the blackberry jam Marigold had left in the cabinet. He knocked the bread against the counter. Stale, but it would make excellent bread pudding. No matter—the rest should suffice as a snack for the two of them.

“Here.” He set the tray on the divan between them. “Have some.”

“You first,” she said. “Bram couldn’t function if he was hungry.”

It was so odd, hearing about himself this way. Like earlier, when Marigold had cried over her lost true love and listed his qualities. He’d blushed at her praise, and his tenderness wanted to wrap her in a hug. His desire for her, however, had encouraged distance.

At that, he’d failed.

He reached for a thick apple slice. “How so?”

“It became his sole focus. Me? I acknowledge hunger but can keep myself together until I eat. Bram, though—he treated everything that stood between him and a meal at the appointed time as a villain. He was often locked in existential battle with people who had no idea they were playing the role of opponent.”

She . . . wasn’t wrong. But he thought he’d hidden it better. The sweet-and-savory blend of the apple slice slathered in fresh cheese and sprinkled with pumpkin seeds took some of the sting out of her observation.

“Why were you with him if you disliked this about him?”

She blasted him with her laugh. “When did I say I disliked this? I loved him as he was. Since the age of seven, honestly. As we grew older, I suggested he have a snack instead of burning the world down. Don’t you think our quirks, our flaws are what endears us to people? I always felt like I was privileged to see and know the things he tried to keep from the world. It’s in the knowing that true love blossoms.”

Hmph.

She might’ve had a point. The fashionable princess with the shining crown was beautiful, but this kind of quiet moment—Marigold bedraggled from the bath and sipping homemade cider—was where he’d fallen most deeply in love with her. Why shouldn’t she have fallen for the less-than-perfect version of Bram?

“Do you truly believe that?” he asked.

She sighed and ate an apricot. “I truly, truly do.”

He’d tried so hard to be the perfect knight. Skills and strength and courtly manners. Appearance mattered, too. Carefully brushed teeth and hair, frequent visits to the barber for shaves and haircuts, polished boots and armor—all of it designed to prove that he, a foundling fostered by Sir Patrick Duncan, was worthy of a princess.

Worthy, full stop.

But here was sweet Marigold, reminding him that none of the artifice had been necessary for her. She’d seen Bram, truly and well, and had loved him. He’d been too thick to realize it at the time, had convinced himself that she wanted only the handsome knight, not the rough boy within.

“I’m sure he would’ve loved to know you felt that way.” He reached for another apple.

“I told him.” She slapped the divan, making the remaining bits of food on the cutting board bounce. “Many times. But he didn’t believe me. This is what I meant earlier about him thinking I don’t know how the world works. I do. Our society constrains women, but the system does a huge disservice to men, too. The daily message to them is their value is in how much coin they earn and how well they protect their people. As though we only love men for what they can do for us. That it’s impossible to simply love a man for who he is and delight in sharing a table, a hearth, and a home with him.”

This was, in fact, a familiar complaint of hers.

“Come now,” he scoffed. “You’d be content to be partnered with a weak pauper who couldn’t support you?”

She laid her hand atop his, then tipped back more cider. “See how far-reaching that backward philosophy is? It’s gotten to you, too, all the way out here on Lonely Hermit Farm.”

Ouch. In vino veritas. Or, in this case—in cider, certainty.

“It’s called Grimroot Farm,” he mumbled.

“And yes, I do believe it. That men are for more than money—they are for comfort, conversation, and love. My mother’s family is of the merchant class, and the women have as many business responsibilities as the men. If a husband takes ill and needs to stay home, it’s fine because his wife is as well versed in the work.” Her volume increased, as did the reach of her gestures. “Also, if a man wants to protect the home, he should do laundry.”

Saints, he’d missed Marigold rants.

Bram hid his laugh as he turned his hand underneath hers. Palm to palm, but without lacing fingers. That would be a step too far. “The cider’s gone to your head.”

She shook her head in the slow dramatic way of someone who’s crossed over to tipsy. “Bess told me about it. The laundry. Physicians have noticed disease springs up in clusters, like your pumpkins.” The cider sloshed as she gestured toward the door. “But less so in places with robust laundry services and scrubbing routines. Disease kills more than war or raids. So, if men wanted to protect the family, they’d do laundry.”

The tankard slipped from her grip.

Jask caught it before the last drops spilled. “I do laundry.”