Page 67 of The Pumpkin Bride

He smiled indulgently, the ass. “Obviously.”

She shoved the game in the cabinet and slammed the door to hide her shakiness. Perhaps food would help calm her. The scent of earthy onion, mushroom, and eggs filled the cottage. A glance at the sandglass confirmed what her nose told her.

“Supper’s ready. Slice the bread, please?”

She grabbed the long-handled peel and slid the flat paddle under the dish. Tamping down her unease, lest she upend their meal, she slowly turned and deposited the hot dish onto the butcher’s block. Jask sliced the last of the bread and set them on plates as Marigold preferred. She spooned the egg concoction onto each trencher, and they carried them to the table. The hearth light did not reach this corner of the kitchen, so Jask lit a candle and set it between them.

Were it not for the screaming winds and pounding rain, she might have thought this romantic. A cozy cottage and a candlelit meal after a hard day’s work and dramatic rescue from a giant tree creature. Really, what more could any woman ask for?

Touch, a voice said.

Quiet, she responded. She’d ask Jask a neutral question, something about his childhood, to squash her thoughts of him in rain-slicked linens or coming to her aid while wielding an axe. Nothing about his sweetheart, true love, or the knave who’d stolen her from him. Or why he couldn’t leave Grimroot Farm. Hmph. That narrowed topics down to the point of silence.

“This is delicious,” Jask said. “A recipe from Thornwick?”

“No.” She blew on a steaming bite. “One of my own devising. It seemed the flavors would blend well. Since I’ve cooked you a delicious dinner, will you indulge me by answering a personal question?”

He raised an eyebrow. “One.”

“It’s very personal and sure to rattle you.”

“I can handle it.”

“Where did you grow up? And no answering vaguely, like ‘far, far away.’”

As the smile died on his face, he drew his brows together.

“Please, Marigold.” He backed away from the table. “I can’t answer that. I fear you know me well enough to detect a lie, but I cannot tell you the truth.”

“Yes, you can, Jask. You can trust—”

With a great, thunderous crack above, air blasted through the chimney. The fire in the hearth went out, plunging them into darkness.

Chapter 17

Marigold’s terrified yelp spiked through his chest. This poor woman. What else was she expected to go through today? A near kidnapping by the Leshy, and now her biggest irrational fear was playing out in the sky above them. She scrambled toward him and clung like she’d been cast overboard from a ship and he was a buoyant barrel.

He slipped his arm under her legs, then carried her to the divan. When he tried to set her down, she refused to let him go.

“I’m sorry. I—” Her breathing shallowed. “I can’t . . . the lightning . . . Will you sit with me? I can’t . . . catch . . . my breath.”

He sat with her in his lap, smoothing his hand over her curls. They were softer under his palm than he remembered and smelled more like pine than apples. “I’m here. I’ll stay.”

This had happened before.

The first time was ten years ago. On a bright fall day, they shirked classes and duties at Moonfall River to skip stones and catch fish. Not long after arriving, an unexpected thunderstorm rolled in, and Marigold lost her shite. She explained the only place she felt safe in a storm was deep in the bowels of the castle.

Out here in the hinterlands, he was fresh out of castles, so all he could do was hold her. He took deep breaths, hoping to transfer his calm to her. There was something else he could do, the thing that had been effective when they’d been by the lake. The thing that had kindled their affection into a full-blown love affair.

But that was a last resort.

In his arms, she trembled, shivering until her teeth chattered.

He pulled his quilt over her. “I’ve got you, Marigold. You’re safe.”

“No one’s safe!” she fretted. She shook her head violently and tried to push away. “Not me, not you, not—”

Looked like it was time for the last resort. He twisted toward her and, saints help him, pressed his lips to hers. Gentle, chaste. Meant to shock her senses. He prepared for her to leap from him. Instead, his sweet Marigold stilled, then sighed with pleasure, like when she ate fresh-baked bread slathered in butter and black-raspberry jam.