Page 50 of The Pumpkin Bride

It was all the truth, though she’d never see herself in it.

“What a churl! Who’d have so little sense to choose any orc over you?” Blue sparks rained on the ladder, and it shot up the trunk. “How did you find out?”

When she showed up on my doorstep ten days ago.

Instead, he wagged his finger. “Our deal was for one thing, and you must honor it. Ready to harvest? I’ll hold the ladder.”

He gripped a stile with his bandaged hand. The wound had healed cleanly—she’d snipped the stitches this morning. To protect the fresh skin, she insisted he wear a bandage for anything that rubbed his palm aggressively.

Marigold glanced upward. “I could shrink the tree.”

“Please don’t. It might disturb the root system and cause it to collapse.” He removed the picking bag and handed it to her. “Fill this, and we’ll have enough for pies and a firkin of cider.”

“And apple fritters?” She looped the strap around her neck, then fussed with the sleeves of her dress, cursing them under her breath. “Apple fritters were my favorite at the Thornwick fall festival. Do they have them at the Goldenmoon Festival?”

“Possibly.” He held the ladder steady as she climbed, but if she fell, he’d catch her.

“Crispin shouldn’t cancel it,” she called down the ladder.

“Because of apple fritters?”

“No, because of joy. If people are well fed and have entertainment, the kingdom holds strong. I—”

Her shriek dragged his gaze upward. Right up her kirtle. Blood and bones, he did not yet need yet another tantalizing glimpse of Marigold to stoke him further. He flung himself into Coldpress Lake daily to chill his ardor.

With eyes closed, he asked, “What is it?”

“A wasp.” The ladder wiggled as she fidgeted. “Several, in fact. Can you do anything about them?”

“No. They prefer overripe fruit. Ignore them, and they’ll fly to more attractive food.”

“Easy for you to say.” The leaves rustled as she snapped the apple from its branch. “What’s this breed of apple? They smell sweet.”

“Hollowsnap Reds, famous for their sweet crisp flesh.”

The fruit crunched as she bit into it. “Mercy, these are good. You should send your apples to market, too.”

“Can’t. The royal family also has an orchard, and all farmers are restricted from selling their apples. Apple products are fine, like pies and cider, but the apples themselves are not.”

“They restrict commerce, too?” She took another bite. “My parents would never. Free trade and friendly competition suits the customer and lets the best merchant win. But I can see why they’re worried. I could eat a dozen of these apples.”

“Legend has it if you eat too many, your cheeks carry their color.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” She held the apple between her lips as she plucked more to fill the bag’s large front pocket.

Above them, clouds scudded through the blue sky. He shielded his eyes to inspect it. They were puffy and white, which didn’t bode well for rain. Shite, that was too bad. The pumpkins were thirsty.

Soon, Marigold descended, her picking sack full and making her look like a ripe fruit herself. The sight weakened his knees. Many’s the time he imagined Marigold as the mother of his children, but they’d agreed that they weren’t ready when they were both in Thornwick.

But they were quite ready to love each other.

Fortunately, her herbal concoctions prevented conception. For that, he was grateful. Fathering a babe when he was on the brink of leaving would have been unfair to both Marigold and the child. Unlike his own early upbringing, he’d intended for his babes to know the full force of his love. They’d beg him to go away, he’d be so far into their affairs.

But he’d never imagined children with anyone but this woman.

Not that she’d have him.

“Jask? Did you hear me?” Marigold’s cheeks were flushed, and she twisted her curls into a bun.