Page 54 of The Pumpkin Bride

She maneuvered herself between him and the chopping block. “A few more days won’t doom us. And orcs run hot, right? If I get cold at night, I’ll sit near you.”

As he tilted his head and raised an eyebrow, tingling swept up her nape and across her cheeks, as though every one of her freckles had caught fire. What in blighted blazes had she said?

She must change the subject—now.

“I need herbs. Mint, rosemary, sage, and comfrey specifically, but I’d like to see what else is out there,” she babbled. “Despite the mist, midmorning’s the best time since the dew will have dried. Will you come with me?”

He shifted his gaze betwixt the axe and her, then sighed. “Fine, we’ll forage. I know a few mint patches.” He glanced skyward, sniffed, then pivoted toward the cottage. “Wait here while I get the herb basket.”

Where else would she go?

Within moments, he returned with a wide, shallow basket in one hand and her cloak in the other. As he draped it around her shoulders, his heat warmed her back.

“The rain’ll hold off,” he said, his rumbling voice tickling her ears. “But the darkened wood feels like winter.”

“Thank you.” With nervous hands, she fastened the cloak’s clasp.

As they set off down the path, Jask handed her the basket. “While we’re in the wood, Princess, stay close. Dangers lurk within.”

She remembered well the night of her escape. The eyes, scurrying, the spiders. Especially the spiders.

She slung the handle over her arm’s crook. “I promise.”

As they entered the forest beyond the pumpkin fields, the loamy chill against her cheeks was welcome. Ten minutes ago, she babbled about snuggling with Jask at night. Now she couldn’t divine a single topic of conversation. The weather? Saints, how boring if she could only speak of the weather.

She sniffed the air. “Is that mint?”

Marigold closed her eyes. Amazing. Her conversation skills were as dull as one of Master Alaric’s penmanship lessons.

“Beneath the ferns.” Jask leaned against a white birch, the scrape of his large back releasing the cinnamon scent.

On her knees, Marigold readied her pruning knife. After digging up a small section to plant at the cottage, she sawed a clump of the delicate herbs free for tomorrow’s tisane of mint and meadowsweet. The movement unleashed its sweet green scent, which provided her with a conversation topic at long last.

As she tied the stems with a ribbon, she said, “Did you know mint accents pea soup well, too?”

He held up his hand. “Impossible. I love all things green, but that sounds horrid.”

“I swear it’s delicious. During a visit to my aunt at Mareval, it was a banquet course. I’ll make it, and I promise you’ll eat your words.”

“I’d rather eat my words than minty pea soup.”

She laughed, then tucked her knife back into her belt. As he had often done since her first bath, he offered her a hand. She’d grown accustomed to his calloused grip, and his assistance meant she practically defied gravity as she rose to her feet.

“What else were you looking for?”

The truth of who Jask Bone-Cracker was.

“Parsley and sage,” she said instead.

Their feet swished through fallen leaves that littered the trail like wrinkled butterflies. When she escaped Brambleton Castle, she’d thought the forest her enemy, tripping and scratching her at every turn. Today, with Jask, was different. He said danger lurked within, and she believed him, but she felt safe in his company. The ancient trees’ golden leaves glowed like beacons in the mist.

What would these trees say, if they could?

Ahead, a fallen tree blocked their path. Before it, Jask knelt like he was about to declare his undying love. As he reached his hand toward her, Marigold’s heart hammered in her chest.

“Step on my knee to climb over. I’ll steady you.”

The hammering stopped.