Page 62 of The Pumpkin Bride

“Ah,” he said. “Shall I brew you some willow bark?”

Blood and bones, he was the sweetest, kindest person. “No, I’ll be fine. You can go back to the firewood. Felt a bit chilly while we were doing laundry, and we’re almost out.”

He threaded his fingers together. “If you’re sure?”

Embarrassment wasn’t a mortal wound, or she’d have died many times over in her life.

“I’m sure,” she said.

“May I help you up?”

She doubted he’d leave until he saw her up and off the floor.

“Yes.” She took his hands. His warm, large, calloused . . .

Stop that.

“Thank you,” she said. “Sorry to interrupt your work.”

“Never a bother. I’ll stack the wood on the porch, then tend to the animals. You can take it easy in here.” He gestured to the bookshelf as he backed toward the door. “Plenty of reading, though I can’t say it’s all good.”

After the door closed, she pressed her palm to her forehead.

Thank the saints Jask was gracious, or that could have been much more mortifying. She reached for the herb basket. Grimroot Farm taught her that rough and prickly feelings were best sorted through talk, nature, activity, food, or water. If combined, even better.

Outside, she set the basket on the courtyard’s trestle table. She shaded her eyes to peer at the sky—swirling gray meant rain. This job wouldn’t take long. Under the lean-to, she found several small gardening pots and a trowel.

As the chickens murmured contentedly, she scooped rich earth from the nearby vegetable bed into the pots. At the table, she transferred the clumps of mint, rosemary, and thyme into their new homes, then patted the soil. If they embraced the pots and root shock didn’t set in, these plants would thrive year-round. Assuming they were cared for properly.

Her stomach squeezed. Who would care for them?

Inside the cottage, she set the lot on the hearthside window, which enjoyed full sun in the morning. At the fireplace, she ran her fingers over the shorn bundles of herbs that she’d hung yesterday. The scents lingered on her hands, married together in sharp green harmony.

All that remained in the basket now was the yarrow that she’d found alongside the rosemary. Its soft feathery leaves were a contrast to the sturdier stalks of the aromatic herb, and she’d happily cut a fistful to bring to the cottage.

Her stomach fizzed as she glanced at Jask’s pillow.

Vera, the cunning woman who’d taught her to control her magical gift, had also educated her on herbs’ various usages. Some were best used as flavoring; some possessed medicinal qualities. Still others, such as yarrow, could be used for divination. When slipped under a pillow, yarrow caused a person to dream of their true love, Vera said. Bram had visited her frequently while sleeping, always out of reach. She twirled the herb between her fingertips. But these recent yearnings for Jask . . .

If they were just physical, surely she wouldn’t feel this guilty?

And how was she to know if he felt the same? His touch, while always respectful, had begun to linger longer than strictly necessary. His gaze as well—she’d catch him tracking her as she moved about the house and the yard. Plausibly, he might say he was checking that she was performing a task correctly. But she’d bet the tiara she left in Harvest Hollow that there was more to it.

Maybe he needed a sprig of yarrow in his pillow, too.

She tucked her nose into the cluster of tiny yellow blossoms. Subtle, slightly bitter. Jask’s sense of smell was keen, but he might not detect it among the other herbs tucked in his pillow’s down. After she worked the yarrow into the feathers, she caught another glimpse of Jask stacking firewood on the log rack.

There was nothing for it—she needed to walk off the desire boiling within her.

After dropping the pillow onto the divan, she swirled her cloak around her shoulders and grabbed the apple-picking bag. She wrenched open the door. “I’m off to the orchard!” she called. “We’re running low.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“Don’t be silly. I’ll be back before you finish.”

This was an ill-thought-out adventure, but it was better than watching him flex and wonder what it would feel like to be pinned under all that strength. The heat blooming in her cheeks drizzled down her chest, through her stomach and pooled between her thighs. She jogged more than walked the distance to the orchard, grateful for the distraction of her burning lungs.

Without the ladder, she was forced to pick the low-hanging fruit.