Page 83 of The Pumpkin Bride

The air smelled of cinnamon, pine, and his cavernous regret. Holding her to account for how she processed her grief was unfair. She didn’t know, couldn’t know, who he truly was or what it cost him every time she spoke glowingly of Sir Bram Duncan.

He ran his hands through his hair. “I’m sorry. That was thoughtless.”

“It was.” The crackling snap of the firepit filled the air. “That’s the second time you’ve used what I’ve shared about my past to wound me, Jask. Do not do it a third time. Especially when you are so reticent about your own history.”

She whirled on her heel and stomped into the cottage.

Chapter 22

Marigold paced the loft. How dare he say that to her?

Even if . . . she blew out her lips . . . he had a point.

Despite all her academic achievements, she’d never figured out how to mourn Bram properly. She felt like a widow with a forever-altered future, but she wore no black, nor did she receive a folded banner to honor his service. With no public acknowledgment of their relationship, she grieved in solitude for years.

To honor him.

But she had regrets, which was why Jask’s question was like a poke to a sore tooth and sent a painful shock through her body. She didn’t regret the duration of her mourning—never that, because it took as long as it took.

No, she regretted the loneliness.

Without people to lean on, she turned to the grief itself for comfort. Before, she didn’t know who she was without Bram. Now she didn’t know who she was without the grief.

She tangled her fingers together.

Saints, she was a mess. Jask was the first person she’d told the truth about her relationship with Bram. Finally, here was a stranger to whom she could tell her troubles. He didn’t flinch—he listened. Then things changed between them.

Was it possible that people did not, in fact, have a single true love?

The way she felt with Jask was a mirror to what she’d felt with Bram. A sizzling, instant magnetism. But also an easy comfort that allowed her to let her truest self shine around him. Like a flame in her recognized a flame in him, and they called to each other.

Were safe with each other.

“Marigold,” Jask called. “Are you awake?”

She poked her head over the loft rail. “You didn’t run away this time.”

From here, he looked small. Or average sized, at least.

“Are you angry?” he asked.

“No. I’m hurt.”

He placed a foot on the stairs. “That’s worse. May I come up so we can speak properly?”

“No. This works better for me.”

He rested his back against the wall. “I’m sorry.”

She narrowed her eyes. “For?”

“I shouldn’t have said anything about the way you’ve mourned . . .” He swallowed hard. “Bram. You’ve been clear how you felt about him, and grief is complicated.”

“It’s . . . I won’t say it’s fine, but I forgive you. I’m still sorting out my feelings. Part of the grief was that I didn’t know until weeks after it happened. I was convinced we were connected by a heartstring that, if clipped, would tug mine from my body. Do you know what I was doing the day the squire arrived to tell me he’d died?”

Jask shook his head. “Tell me.”

“We were banqueting with my mother’s cousins from Mareval, eating a honeyed pumpkin tart. My lady’s companion, Bess, gestured for me to leave the table and follow her. In the withdrawing room off the great hall, a squire asked if I was Princess Marigold.”