Page 53 of The Pumpkin Bride

Marigold clapped her hands over her ears. “I hate that word.”

With his back turned, he snort-laughed. He knew she hated moist. Along with slurp, squirt, crevice, and mucus. Perhaps he could find a way to work several of them into future conversations?

“I’ll take the keeve to the root cellar. In a few days, the barm should form, and in a few weeks, we’ll have your cider.”

“That long?” she asked. “I might be gone by then.”

His injured palm screamed as he clenched the keeve. “Might you?”

“Possibly?” she said. “I doubt Crispin will call off the wedding and will continue to pretend I’m ill to stave off suspicion. So, it all depends on how quickly Rowan arrives. You must be glad that you won’t have to put up with me much longer.”

With a flat voice, he said, “Very.”

With all the power his orc body could muster, he pushed himself toward the root cellar so he could take a knee in private.

Chapter 14

After feeding the chickens, Marigold turned to find Jask contemplating the chopping block across the courtyard. It lay beyond Paloma’s pit in a nook. Shadows marbled the white of his shirt as he clapped loudly to scare off the fox that peeped at him in curiosity.

Hmph. Jask Bone-Cracker contradicted every stereotype.

Fairy-tale books all described orcs as dull, mean-spirited creatures with a single-minded focus on questing, treasure, and inflicting damage. But Jask refused to leave Grimroot Farm. Did he possess a treasure hoard? Not unless you counted his trove of books. As for damage, she had no doubt he could defend them with that axe, but the maces and flails typically wielded by orcs weren’t to be found in the cottage. An elegant sword hung on brackets above the fireplace, as though more of a decoration than practical.

His demeanor didn’t fit the mold, either. Although gruff and grumpy to be sure, Jask possessed more self-control than knights and learned clerics alike. And he spoke so lovingly to the animals that she wondered if they weren’t his cursed siblings, like in “The Six Swans.” She’d looked through his chests and cabinets but found no evidence he was weaving nettle shirts.

Still, something was off about him.

Had she been less caught up in her own drama, she would’ve noticed it from the moment she arrived on his doorstep. But these last two weeks, as the farm’s daily rhythms helped her soul and muscles unclench for the first time since Bram died, Jask’s quirks came in greater focus.

Inexplicable coincidences cropped up, too.

That line he’d quoted when they were baking—my everlasting pleasure—sent a shiver through her. Could he have read it in a book? At night, as they sat before the fire, she read while he carved miniature animals. She was on her fifteenth tale and still had not come across that phrase. And sometimes when he looked at her, he shook his head, like he couldn’t believe a runaway princess was in his presence. Well, that last part was reasonable, but something in his eyes was familiar.

There was a mystery here—she was sure of it.

She picked up Bluebell. “What do you think, Blue? Have Jask and I met before? I’m sure I would’ve remembered a tall, broad, handsome orc with kind eyes. Or perhaps he’s the long-lost son of an orc king, doomed not to remember his place in the world?”

As she cuddled the chicken, the rooster scratched his way around the corner. Barnaby raised his head when he noticed Bluebell in Marigold’s arms, then puffed his chest.

“Barnaby, don’t do it. I’m serious. If you—”

Barnaby screeched, and Bluebell startled from her arms and flapped to the hay-covered earth. With high-stepping feet, she bustled into the coop and away from the rooster.

Marigold sneezed in the cloud of dust and feathers, then chuckled. She didn’t blame the hen for running away. After she let herself out of the chicken yard, she stretched her arms. Her muscles no longer ached like they had the first week. She’d nearly used up her supply of comfrey in her baths, but it helped her become accustomed to the demands of the work.

Carefully, she crept closer to Jask.

From behind the golden-and-red maple, she watched him. Today’s breeze held a bite and played with her blue skirts. It did the same with Jask’s shining mane of black hair. He tied a leather thong around it at his nape. The gathered tail hung past his shoulder blades, neatly bisecting the back of his ivory shirt.

Jask reached for the axe.

She cupped her hands around her mouth. “Don’t you dare.”

He yanked his arm back like he’d been stung. “Blood and bones, Marigold. There’s work to do, and I’m healed. Stop sneaking up on me.”

“I’m not sneaking.” She had been, but sneaking wasn’t dignified, so she’d never admit to it. “And you’re barely healed. I’d like very much for you not to split the seam like you’re a cheap flour sack.”

“Saints, you paint an image.” He gestured to the tree rounds. “We need firewood. We’ve gone through more logs in two and a half weeks than I do in a month. We’ll run out at this rate.”