Chapter 10
“Tell me about this brilliant idea for a bath.” Marigold walked through the door Jask held open. Inside the cottage, she toed
off her shoes, then asked, “Do you need help with your boots?”
“No, I’ll manage.” He sat on the bench by the door.
With his left hand, he managed to coax one boot halfway off before cursing under his breath. She pressed her fist to her mouth
to suppress a giggle. Men were always so reluctant to ask for help, as though the world didn’t operate on mutual support networks.
“Are you sure?” She pumped water onto her hands and washed up with the pine-scented soap.
“I’m fine.”
His grunts said otherwise, but she respected his determination. At the stove, she stirred the pottage. They’d left it on a
low heat so it would be warm for supper, and its heavenly aroma made her stomach rumble.
There was great satisfaction in eating a savory meal after a long day of honest work. The kitchen staff at Thornwick and Brambleton
dished out delicious, intricate recipes, but she’d take this simple fare over elaborate meals any day. She ladled portions
into waiting crocks, then set them on the table. Spoons, knives, butter, and hunks of bread. Next, two mugs of spring water.
“Supper’s ready,” she said.
Jask, finally free of his boots, pumped spring water onto his uninjured hand. Before she could offer to help him wash, he lathered by rotating the soap in his palm. Ingenious, but part of her wished he didn’t feel like he needed to be quite so independent.
At the table, he sat across from her. “Sorry. ’Bout earlier. ’Twas rude.”
Apologies were hard for Jask apparently. The words came out like a bull through a buttonhole. She just wished she knew what
he was apologizing for.
Marigold raised an eyebrow. “Why?”
“I said little when I should have been thanking you for preparing the midday meal.” He dipped his spoon in the bowl. “Thank
you for then, and now. It turned out well.”
His words made her feel taller, somehow.
“Thank you. I like it, too.” She dragged her bottom lip between her teeth. “And thank you for the apology, but there’s honestly
no need. You ripped a hole in your palm. I assumed you were in pain and grumpy.”
He sipped his drink. “That’s generous of you.”
“I’m nothing if not a benevolent ruler.” She spooned another bite of the vegetable, barley, and bean stew that tasted more
delicious for having made it herself. “Now back to my bath?”
“I’m thick for not thinking of it earlier, but you could use the laundry tub. Not as nice as a royal copper, I’m sure, but
it’s large enough and worn smooth.”
“Jask, I will bathe in a rusty bucket if it comes down to it.” She pushed back from the table. “I’ll put a kettle on to boil
for the bath.”
“This’ll take more than a kettle—the two large pots are better. Before you do that, though . . .” He topped her hand with
his. “I need your help.”
Delight sizzled through her. At his touch or his admission, she wasn’t sure. No, she was sure—it was both. But mostly the large, warm touching.
“I’m at your service.”
“Can you minimize yourself and the tub? I’m leery of magic, but it’ll save water and you have command of your power, so it
seems safe. And I shouldn’t carry anything that heavy.”
She might melt with all these compliments.
“It’s safe, I swear.” She clapped. “But I’d prefer not to minimize myself. It gives me the heaves. A reasonable trade in an
emergency, but for a bath, not so much.”
He held up his hand. “I didn’t realize. Full-size, then.”
“I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to this.”
He tore the bread and dredged it through the last of his pottage. “I thought you might. We’ll fetch the tub after supper.”
She shoveled food into her mouth, tossing her robust etiquette training out the window. The sooner they finished their meal,
the sooner she could set up a bath. This morning’s basic washing and change of linens was nowhere near enough to remove the
grime she’d accumulated during her trek through the darkened wood. After the fastest meal of her life, she put the pots on
to boil while Jask lit a lantern.
“It’s so nice out,” Marigold said as she opened the back door to the cool night. No cloak required yet, but the bite in the
air was sharper than it had been during the day. “Ooh, the fox!”
The small creature’s paws blurred as it skittered across the courtyard. He paused to look at them, then sniffed the air. Oh,
sweet mercy, he was the most adorable thing.
“Clear out!” Jask roared, making both Marigold and the fox jump.
The fox disappeared into the shadows, and her heart threatened to burst through her ribs. “That was unnecessary.”
“Unnecessary till you find a pile of feathers instead of Primrose, Heather, Daffodil, or Bluebell.”
“Did you . . .” Her laugh caught Barnaby’s attention. “Did you name your chickens after flowers?”
Jask checked the latches on the chicken yard. “I like flower names.”
“So, you like my name?” She bumped her shoulder against his biceps.
After a beat, he said, “It’s a nice name.”
“I may swoon. Thank you, Jask Bone-Cracker. So is yours.” She sniffed. “Does the air smell like cinnamon? Or am I imagining
that?”
“That’ll be the birch trees.” He held the lantern up and led her behind the byre. “The inner bark smells like wintergreen
and cinnamon. When bucks scrape their antlers against the trunk, the bark peels and it releases the scent.”
The sun had sunk behind the tree line, and the first stars popped on like freshly lit candles in the purpling sky. She sighed
deeply. If she lived here, much like the hooting owls, she’d never remain indoors at night.
“There,” Jask said. “The bucking tub’s under the lean-to.”
Beneath the lean-to’s canted roof stood a neatly organized collection of equipment. Amid the plow, a device with a crank,
ladders, and a laundry pot dangling from its three-legged stand, stood a bucking tub the size of her trousseau trunk.
“It’s perfect.” Her blue sparks shrank it to the size of a shoe. After tucking the tub under her arm, she skipped back to
the house. Inside, she slipped out of her shoes and moved the crate from the center of the bearskin rug.
“I’ll manage the water,” Jask said.
With great reverence, she centered the tub in front of the hearth. Her blue-sparked snap returned it to full size. As Jask
poured the soup pot of boiling water into the tub, Fuzzle scampered up the stairs.
“It’s not for you, cat,” she called after his tail.
When she turned her attention back to the tub, only three fingers of water rippled within. That was barely enough to wet her ass.
She pursed her lips. “This’ll take a lot of boiling.”
“Which is why I bathe in the lake.” He refilled the pot and returned it to the stove. “It’s cold but gets the job done.”
“I was told that’s not an option for me.”
“I stand by that.” He folded his arms across his chest, which caused his forearms to bulge. “Too many prying eyes out there.”
“Whose? It’s you, me, and the animals.”
“Ramblers cross these borders all the time, Princess,” he said. “And there’s Alfred.”
“Alfred? He’s half my height and width. He’s harmless.”
“No one in the hinterlands is harmless. Can we please agree that you’ll bathe inside the cottage as long as you’re here?”
She pressed her hands to her heart. “I swear on my father’s crown I will not attempt to bathe in the out-of-doors.”
“You do that a lot—swear on your father’s crown.”
“Do I?” She pursed her lips. “I suppose it’s because I wouldn’t be sad if he lost it and Rowan, Beckett, and I lost ours along
with him. It would make life a lot safer. Easier, too.”
He shouldered the support pillar under the loft. “For you.”
“Yes, for me.” She sifted through her herbal kit, searching for ingredients that matched Jask’s scent. “Do you have pine resin?”
“Yes.” He retrieved a bottle from the drawer above the kitchen’s corner cabinet, then handed it to her. “Tell me, Princess,
about this need for a safer and easier life. Do your diamond shoes hurt as well? The tragedy of clean sheets and regular meals
must be horrible.”
Jask’s tone was friendly. Well, friendly for an orc. But the angle of his argument set her teeth on edge.
“Ha ha. Obviously, there are advantages. But overall, I don’t want them. My father’s position makes targets of us all and prevents me from living the life I want. Royalty complicates my freedom to choose things for myself.”
His gaze was as focused as an archer. “What weren’t you free to choose?”
She licked her lips. Why dodge the answer? She’d been more honest with Jask in two days than anyone else in her life for the
past five years.
Rot it, she’d tell him the plain truth.
“My father’s crown distressed Bram. Even before Papa took the throne, Bram thought my parents would deem him unworthy of me.
Beneath my station. Good enough to fight under their banner, but not good enough for their daughter. Which is—was—ridiculous.
He was so self-confident about a great many things, but he refused to believe me when I said they’d accept him. They would
have, I swear it, because he was expert in what they considered the most important predictor for a good, loving match.”
After a pause, Jask turned from the stove. “What was that?”
“Bram saw me.” She turned toward the bath with aromatic herbs in her fists. “As a person, not a princess. And he loved me for my quirks,
not despite them. My laugh that cuts through walls, my inability to dance, that I curse without hesitation and mix medicine
as well as any apothecary. I don’t care a flipping fig for court intrigues and am besotted with the moon.”
Jask poured more steaming water to the tub, then rolled his neck like he was weighing his words. “That’s romantic, I’ll grant
you. But surely a princess deserves to be cared for and to—”
“Stop right there. Ugh, you sound like Bram.” As she shook dried cloves and juniper berries into the tub, the near-boiling
water released their calming fragrance. “It was the one vexing thing about him.”
“Just one?” Jask returned the pot to the stove.
“Yes, but it was a big one. He thought he knew how the world worked better than me and intimated my hopeful nature is rooted
in naivety. Hope is a choice—a hard choice—but I make it every day. And I did my best to learn exactly how the world worked by slipping the palace guard at every turn. I longed for the day I’d prove him wrong. But then . . .
he died.”
She truly believed tears were healthy, but Marigold would not cry in front of Jask twice in one day. Blinking faster than a hummingbird flapped its wings, she probably looked like a demon
clutched her soul, but she’d accept that risk.
“And you . . .” Jask’s cleared his throat. “Lost your chance.”
“I didn’t lose it. My chance—my true love—was ripped from me and left a gaping gash behind. As much as loving him hurt in the end, I’d do
it again without hesitation. Some go a lifetime without love like that. I was blessed to have it.”
If she wasn’t mistaken, pity filled the orc’s eyes.
Unable to face him, Marigold poured the final pot of heated water into the tub. It had not yet boiled, but that was fine.
As much as she ached for a hot bath, she preferred not to cook herself.
“I respect you for that.” Jask slipped back into his house shoes. “I’ll wait outside while you bathe. Let me know when you’ve
finished?”
“Wait—soap?” she asked.
“Oh, sorry.” From under the bench by the door, he grabbed his kit, then thrust it at her. “Here.”
From the kit, she extracted the soap. Yes, this was the source of the addictive scent that had bedeviled her last night.
“Cedarwood,” she said. “And, if I’m not mistaken, geranium and . . . bergamot?”
“And birch bark.” He folded his forearms. “Do you not like it? I can get you something else. Perhaps the pine from the kitchen?”
Marigold widened her eyes. “The opposite. I like it very much. Why would you assume I didn’t?”
His brown eyes searched hers. “Because you noticed it. To be noticed is to be targeted. Why would you comment on it if you
weren’t criticizing it?”
Her hands were full, or else she’d settle a reassuring one on his arm. “Recognition can mean admiration, too.”
As he backed away, he said, “Not in my experience, Princess. But you have a nice bath.”
With the door firmly shut, Marigold shifted her weight. He’d hinted at something—what? The uneasy undercurrent to their exchange
could be a ripple or a riptide. Impossible to know what he meant, but the longer she stayed here, the greater the chance she’d
find out.
As she shed her clothes, her skin pebbled with exposure to the cool air. Slowly, clad only in her bathing shift, she dipped
her foot into the water to test its temperature. Ah, perfection. With a sigh, she slipped the rest of her body into the steaming bath. Surrounded by Jask’s scent, she closed her eyes in
the relaxing water and plotted her next move.
Journey to Mareval as soon as possible?
Or write another letter to Rowan and bring him here?
Both had their advantages. She sighed. If only she’d been allowed to study Machiavelli’s The Prince or Caesar’s Gallic Wars with Rowan and Beckett. Perhaps that wasn’t necessary, though. The gamesmanship of who was courting whom among the house staff
could be just as complicated, and she was well-versed in that.
She’d walk through it in her mind, step by step.
For the journey option . . . Crispin’s men might yet be about, which was a concern.
Jask would protect her from both the palace guard and whatever befell them in the Shivering Dales.
But he was wounded, and on foot, travel would take at least two days in one direction.
With no one to tend the animals, Paloma, Queen, and the chickens would suffer.
Letters to Rowan it was.
With the decision made, her muscles unclenched. Tomorrow, she’d write to Rowan, find reliable carriers, wait here for a response,
and help a grumpy orc whether he wanted it or not.