Page 69 of The Pumpkin Bride

“I’m merely offering a different perspective.”

“To what end? To convince me I should not feel the way I feel about what he did? I’m not stupid, Jask. I understand the logic of his choices. But I do not—and will never—understand why we couldn’t try speaking forthrightly to my parents and, if that hadn’t succeeded, running away with me instead of leaving me behind.”

The candlelight caused the tracks of her tears to glisten.

Cold moved through his chest. Marigold would have gone on the run with him. This he knew in his bones. But his pride had been so great, he wanted to show her parents, perhaps show himself, that he was exceptional.

And yes, worthy.

But her opinion should’ve been the only one that mattered. Not her parents, not the court. If Marigold deemed him deserving of her love, that should’ve been enough.

Above them, the storm ceased.

He rose from the divan. “From the depths of my soul, I am sorry.”

She couldn’t know his apology extended all the way back to when he’d disappeared from Thornwick. That, if she’d let him, he’d make it up to her every day of his life.

She searched his eyes. “What did you say to me?”

The silence between them was louder than the thunder had been.

“That I’m sorry.”

“No, before—” She held up a hand. “Never mind. I am tired. Good night.”

She took the candle with her, leaving him in the dark.

Chapter 18

Marigold’s emotions thundered harder than that storm. Upstairs, in the low glow of the candlelight, she prepared for bed. Before removing her kirtle, she checked her pockets. Yarrow. She stuffed the flower into her pillow. The herb shouldn’t go to waste, especially when she was confused about Jask.

He’d kissed her, and it had lit an inferno in her.

Then he’d apologized, from the depths of his soul.

Which was exactly how Bram apologized when he blundered grievously. For missing a secret assignation in the hayloft because he could not evade his chores when squired to Sir Patrick . . . forgetting her birthday . . . assuming all the chocolate biscuits were for him.

She’d never heard anyone apologize like that, before or since.

It could be a coincidence. Bram leveraged rhetorical flourish to lend weight to his apologies. Terse as Jask usually was, she would’ve expected a quick Sorry,” then silence.

Still, she might’ve written it off as a coincidence.

Then she’d looked into his eyes.

Truly, deeply. Perhaps madly.

In them, she saw Bram. Because she wanted to? The shape was different and devoid of a hedge of lashes envied by young women all over Thornwick. But the flecks of gold were there, and the soul beyond them bore an undeniable resemblance to her true love.

She gathered her hair in her fist and squeezed.

Wishful thinking.

Another instance of her wanting something to be true that was impossible. After the squire delivered the message about Bram, she dreamed of him often. In those dreams, he hadn’t died. She sensed he was alive and well but unable to come to her. Bess told her to keep these dreams to herself, lest her parents call for the surgeon to balance her humors.

The world was not always as it seemed, however. Her magic was evidence of that. As she paced, she allowed herself to consider the possibility that Jask Bone-Cracker, orc of Grimroot Farm, was Sir Bram Duncan of Thornwick and Harvest Hollow.

Why would he not simply say who he was?