Chapter 11 #2
Worthy, full stop.
But here was sweet Marigold, reminding him that none of the artifice had been necessary for her. She’d seen Bram, truly and
well, and had loved him. He’d been too thick to realize it at the time, had convinced himself that she wanted only the handsome
knight, not the rough boy within.
“I’m sure he would’ve loved to know you felt that way.” He reached for another apple.
“I told him.” She slapped the divan, making the remaining bits of food on the cutting board bounce. “Many times. But he didn’t believe
me. This is what I meant earlier about him thinking I don’t know how the world works. I do. Our society constrains women, but the system does a huge disservice to men, too. The daily message to them is their value
is in how much coin they earn and how well they protect their people. As though we only love men for what they can do for
us. That it’s impossible to simply love a man for who he is and delight in sharing a table, a hearth, and a home with him.”
This was, in fact, a familiar complaint of hers.
“Come now,” he scoffed. “You’d be content to be partnered with a weak pauper who couldn’t support you?”
She laid her hand atop his, then tipped back more cider. “See how far-reaching that backward philosophy is? It’s gotten to
you, too, all the way out here on Lonely Hermit Farm.”
Ouch. In vino veritas. Or, in this case—in cider, certainty.
“It’s called Grimroot Farm,” he mumbled.
“And yes, I do believe it. That men are for more than money—they are for comfort, conversation, and love. My mother’s family
is of the merchant class, and the women have as many business responsibilities as the men. If a husband takes ill and needs
to stay home, it’s fine because his wife is as well versed in the work.” Her volume increased, as did the reach of her gestures.
“Also, if a man wants to protect the home, he should do laundry.”
Saints, he’d missed Marigold rants.
Bram hid his laugh as he turned his hand underneath hers. Palm to palm, but without lacing fingers. That would be a step too
far. “The cider’s gone to your head.”
She shook her head in the slow dramatic way of someone who’s crossed over to tipsy. “Bess told me about it. The laundry. Physicians
have noticed disease springs up in clusters, like your pumpkins.” The cider sloshed as she gestured toward the door. “But
less so in places with robust laundry services and scrubbing routines. Disease kills more than war or raids. So, if men wanted
to protect the family, they’d do laundry.”
The tankard slipped from her grip.
Jask caught it before the last drops spilled. “I do laundry.”
“I knew you were a good one.” She clapped, then pressed her fingertips to her forehead. “Oh. The world is swirly. Can we trade bunks
tonight? I’ll sleep here. You take the loft.”
She flopped back down on the divan, then burrowed under the quilts. This would not do. He grasped the logic of her laundry
argument, but his protective instincts demanded she take the less vulnerable loft. If Crispin and his knights returned, Bram
wanted Marigold upstairs and tucked into his bed, leaving him down here, ready to fight.
“Come on.” He tugged at her hand. “I’ll help you up the stairs.”
She giggled as she slipped from his grip. “I can’t possibly make it.”
Her bones were as limp as stewed pears. He agreed she couldn’t climb under her own power. Luckily, as an orc, he had power
for days.
“Then I’ll carry you.” With nary a grunt, and careful of his wound, he lifted her. As Bram, he’d capably carried her, but
in Jask’s arms, she was light as a butterfly.
“Put me down.” She batted at his chest. “You’ll pop a stitch.”
He could feel his pulse in each of those five stitches, but there was no strain in his palm. “I’ll be fine.”
“You’ll get all wet.” Marigold laid her head against his shoulder. “Wow, orcs really do run hot, don’t they?”
He grunted in response. She didn’t know the half of it. At the stairwell, he turned sideways. Fuzzle followed, the evil beast
twisting himself around Bram’s ankles.
“Do you want us to break our necks, cat? Shoo.”
Marigold glanced up at him with her huge blue eyes. “You pretend to be all surly, but you’re a big marshmallow, aren’t you?”
“No.” He turned at the landing.
“Okay, not a marshmallow. But definitely marchpane.” She held his chin and squeezed. “Squishable.”
“Stop that,” he sighed. “You’re the only person on the planet with the audacity to put her hand near an orc’s mouth.”
“Because you won’t hurt me.” She patted his chest. “I know it.”
Saints, but this was a test of his willpower.
At the top of the stairs, he turned, then ducked under the slanted beam as he crossed to his neatly made bed. With ease, he
kneeled on the bed’s edge, then deposited her gently.
“Thank you.” She fluttered her eyes open, then tilted her head. “You remind me of him.”
The scant light up here was from the moon and the ambient light that crept upstairs from the fireplace. Both worked together to lend her an angelic glow.
“Him who?” He held the bed’s post.
“Bram. Something in the way you carry yourself. And you always seem to know what to do.” She sat upright and loosely gestured
toward her trunk. “Can you get me a fresh shift? There’s nothing better than falling asleep after a bath in clean clothes
and a comfy bed.”
With a hard gulp, he pivoted.
On some deep level, Marigold recognized him. Despite everything—the changed form, color, voice, eyes—she sensed something
familiar under his skin she could trust, and she didn’t need to fear him. She couldn’t allow herself to consider he might
be Bram. Who could?
But she liked the orc—that much was clear. And that would need to be enough.
He sorted through her trunk, ignoring her undergarments. As he pulled a soft linen shift from among her dresses, a handheld
looking glass tumbled out with it. He’d long rid the cottage of these to avoid his reflection.
Today the orc didn’t frighten him as it once had.
After tossing the glass in her trunk, he took the shift to Marigold. “Here.”
She flashed him a beautiful, muzzy-faced grin. “What would I do without you, Jask?”
Probably have been captured and dragged back to Brambleton Castle. His insides slithered with the thought.
“Good night, Marigold.”
The floorboards creaked under his feet. Downstairs, he thumped onto the divan and tucked his arm behind his head and trained his gaze on the loft railing.
In two full days, he hadn’t come close to confessing his true name to Princess Marigold of Thornwick.
Bram, in her mind, was well and truly dead.
She’d never loved Crispin, but her openness .
. . the way she talked to Jask . . . touched him .
. . Might she might be able to love him as Jask? No, that was ludicrous.
That was too ambitious, even for him.