Page 45 of The Pumpkin Bride

“Good night, Marigold.”

The floorboards creaked under his feet. Downstairs, he thumped onto the divan and tucked his arm behind his head and trained his gaze on the loft railing. In two full days, he hadn’t come close to confessing his true name to Princess Marigold of Thornwick. Bram, in her mind, was well and truly dead. She’d never loved Crispin, but her openness . . . the way she talked to Jask . . . touched him . . . Might she might be able to love him as Jask? No, that was ludicrous.

That was too ambitious, even for him.

Chapter 12

For all of Marigold’s education and etiquette, “Ow” was the most cogent response she could muster to the shards of pain drifting through her skull. She pressed her palms to her eyes to block out the sunlight suffusing the curtains.

Wait, full sun. She’d missed morning chores.

She sniffed the air, picking up a delicious scent against which her stomach rebelled. Had Jask cooked? And with his hand . . . He was probably out there right now, working and risking further injury. She hurried into her homespun, washed her face, neck, and under her arms, then brushed her teeth in the ewer—had Jask replaced the water while she was asleep? She hurried down the stairs to the bench by the door.

Unbelievable. Day three and she was already acting like a spoiled princess. Abed until midmorning because of excesses the night before, missing chores, not helping.

She yanked on a boot. Her thumbnail snagged and split to the quick. “Dammit,” she grumbled as she shook out her hand.

“Princesses curse?”

She startled and stood upright, the pressed her hand to her sternum. Jask hunched at the table tucked behind the stairs, watching her. How long had he been there?

“You scared me,” she said.

“Mmph,” he grunted, then scraped his fork against his plate with the last of his meal.

“Not because you’re an orc,” she clarified. “Because you were silent as a ghost.”

“I’ll be louder.” Jask gestured toward her place at the table. “There’s breakfast.”

A sour taste rose to the back of her throat. She pressed her fingertips to her mouth to hold in a noxious belch. “No, thank you.”

“Eat.” He gestured toward her place again. “You were in your cups—this’ll help. And I want to talk to you about something.”

In all of history, has any good conversation started that way? Cautiously, she approached the table. He’d set out a wedge of savory tart, a mug, and the kettle sat on a trivet on the table.

Gingerly, she sat. Saints, it was as though her body were made of Venetian glass. One sudden move and she’d shatter. Jask poured the kettle’s contents into her mug.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“Willow bark. For your head.” He swirled in a spoonful of honey and a dash of cinnamon, as she liked it, then pushed it toward her. “Barnaby didn’t wake you?”

“I’m as surprised as you are.” With her fingertips pressed to her temples, she asked, “What was in that cider? A curse?”

As his scowl ridged his forehead, he set his forearms on the table. “Just apples and yeast. But it’s aged—I forgot it would be strong for a slight person such as yourself.”

She sipped the willow bark and grimaced. This was worse than the chicory. “I’m quite tall and hearty, I’ll have you know.”

“Comparatively—” he gestured between them, then pushed the plate toward her “—you are small. Eat the tart. It’ll quell your stomach.”

“I doubt that very much, but I’m desperate.” She lifted a bite. Queasy though she might be, she sighed with appreciation. Egg, brie, onion, and an explosion of herbs. Delicious. Flaky, buttery, with the right amount of chew to it.

Jask raised an eyebrow. “You moan when you eat. It’s troubling.”

“I only moan when the food is this good. Epic poems should be written about this tart.” She dabbed her lips with her napkin. “Will you show me how to make it?”

“We need to talk, Princess.”

Again, suspicious phrasing. Fear swirled through her, and she set down her fork. Was he about to tell her to leave this oasis of a farm? Something worse?