Chapter 16
As Jask set about his afternoon chores, Marigold collected eggs from the coop. She’d skipped the chore earlier in favor of
laundry, then put it off till after lunch as they’d laughed over pumpkin soup and fresh cheese sandwiches fried in butter.
For all the banquets she’d attended, she’d never tasted a meal so fine.
Marigold transferred the eggs to the counter basket.
Over the weeks since she’d arrived, she’d grown to identify which chickens laid which color—Primrose’s were an off-white;
Heather’s were slightly pink; Daffodil’s showed a yellowish hue; and Bluebell’s were, of course, blue. Tonight she’d make
a dish featuring eggs, mushrooms, and caramelized onions, topped with fresh chopped parsley.
Ambitious, maybe. But she’d learned a lifetime’s worth of lessons from Jask and Grimroot Farm. Odd, how her training had taught
her to care for a kingdom, but it wasn’t until she’d arrived here that she learned to care for a person. After washing up,
she reached for the linen that hung under the nearby cabinet. As she dried her soap-roughed hands, she glanced through the
window.
Shock dissolved her knees.
Jask Bone-Cracker was shirtless.
A lady would look away, but she was incapable.
The landscape of his body warranted careful study.
He was all boulders and mountains, muscles that rippled with each thwack of the axe.
The furrows of his midsection clenched as he swung the blade, once, twice, and the round split.
After kicking half of the round away, he split the remaining half until they’d reduced to wedges sized properly for the hearth.
Marigold blew out her lips. Saints, he was beautiful.
Round after round fell apart under his might. The hands raining destruction on the wood had rendered nothing but tender care
to her. Picking her up when she fell after the bath, putting her to bed, helping her over dead trees and down ladders. All
too easily, she pictured herself leaping into the safe harbor of his thick arms, letting him twirl her until she was dizzy
and laughing. Carry her inside.
Then carry her upstairs.
She twisted the dishrag. In his large and luxurious bed, this gorgeous person would peel her clothing free, caressing her
body, climbing on top of her, nudging her knees apart and—
Jask glanced up from his work, then locked gazes with her.
She dropped from sight.
Why, oh why, had she done that? She sat on the floor. With her arms wrapped around her bent legs, she rested her head on her knees. Since Bram died, she
hadn’t given another man a second glance. Even when her parents accepted Crispin’s proposal, she’d only considered that it
would have been her duty to bear Crispin’s children.
But the prince of Harvest Hollow never made her heart hum.
Or the flesh between her legs throb.
Bram had unlocked both, and here she was, feeling this way for another. Jask, with his reliable, helpful, patient presence
had, without her knowing it, done the same. She felt for the locket, comforted by the small lump under her kirtle. Was this
unfaithfulness?
The front door creaked.
“Marigold?” Jask asked. “Are you all right?”
“Fine,” she said into her knees. “Just having a moment.”
Without looking, from his heat, she knew he squatted next to her. Still shirtless?
“Anything I can help with?” he asked.
Shirted, actually—he’d thrown the linen on. Damn. She lifted her chin and dragged her gaze from his collarbones to his eyes. So familiar were they after these weeks, she felt
like she’d been staring into their deep, gold-flecked brown for a lifetime.
“No. I . . .” Absolutely could not tell him the truth. “. . . needed to sit for a moment.”
“On the floor?” He tilted his head. “Though multiple chairs are within reach.”
“Jask, it’s fine. I’m fine. It’s . . .” She hated this lie, but it was honestly the only one that caused men to back off and
leave her alone. “My courses.”
“Ah,” he said. “Shall I brew you some willow bark?”
Blood and bones, he was the sweetest, kindest person. “No, I’ll be fine. You can go back to the firewood. Felt a bit chilly
while we were doing laundry, and we’re almost out.”
He threaded his fingers together. “If you’re sure?”
Embarrassment wasn’t a mortal wound, or she’d have died many times over in her life.
“I’m sure,” she said.
“May I help you up?”
She doubted he’d leave until he saw her up and off the floor.
“Yes.” She took his hands. His warm, large, calloused . . .
Stop that.
“Thank you,” she said. “Sorry to interrupt your work.”
“Never a bother. I’ll stack the wood on the porch, then tend to the animals. You can take it easy in here.” He gestured to
the bookshelf as he backed toward the door. “Plenty of reading, though I can’t say it’s all good.”
After the door closed, she pressed her palm to her forehead.
Thank the saints Jask was gracious, or that could have been much more mortifying. She reached for the herb basket. Grimroot
Farm taught her that rough and prickly feelings were best sorted through talk, nature, activity, food, or water. If combined,
even better.
Outside, she set the basket on the courtyard’s trestle table. She shaded her eyes to peer at the sky—swirling gray meant rain.
This job wouldn’t take long. Under the lean-to, she found several small gardening pots and a trowel.
As the chickens murmured contentedly, she scooped rich earth from the nearby vegetable bed into the pots. At the table, she
transferred the clumps of mint, rosemary, and thyme into their new homes, then patted the soil. If they embraced the pots
and root shock didn’t set in, these plants would thrive year-round. Assuming they were cared for properly.
Her stomach squeezed. Who would care for them?
Inside the cottage, she set the lot on the hearthside window, which enjoyed full sun in the morning. At the fireplace, she
ran her fingers over the shorn bundles of herbs that she’d hung yesterday. The scents lingered on her hands, married together
in sharp green harmony.
All that remained in the basket now was the yarrow that she’d found alongside the rosemary. Its soft feathery leaves were
a contrast to the sturdier stalks of the aromatic herb, and she’d happily cut a fistful to bring to the cottage.
Her stomach fizzed as she glanced at Jask’s pillow.
Vera, the cunning woman who’d taught her to control her magical gift, had also educated her on herbs’ various usages.
Some were best used as flavoring; some possessed medicinal qualities.
Still others, such as yarrow, could be used for divination.
When slipped under a pillow, yarrow caused a person to dream of their true love, Vera said.
Bram had visited her frequently while sleeping, always out of reach.
She twirled the herb between her fingertips.
But these recent yearnings for Jask . . .
If they were just physical, surely she wouldn’t feel this guilty?
And how was she to know if he felt the same? His touch, while always respectful, had begun to linger longer than strictly
necessary. His gaze as well—she’d catch him tracking her as she moved about the house and the yard. Plausibly, he might say
he was checking that she was performing a task correctly. But she’d bet the tiara she left in Harvest Hollow that there was
more to it.
Maybe he needed a sprig of yarrow in his pillow, too.
She tucked her nose into the cluster of tiny yellow blossoms. Subtle, slightly bitter. Jask’s sense of smell was keen, but
he might not detect it among the other herbs tucked in his pillow’s down. After she worked the yarrow into the feathers, she
caught another glimpse of Jask stacking firewood on the log rack.
There was nothing for it—she needed to walk off the desire boiling within her.
After dropping the pillow onto the divan, she swirled her cloak around her shoulders and grabbed the apple-picking bag. She
wrenched open the door. “I’m off to the orchard!” she called. “We’re running low.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“Don’t be silly. I’ll be back before you finish.”
This was an ill-thought-out adventure, but it was better than watching him flex and wonder what it would feel like to be pinned
under all that strength. The heat blooming in her cheeks drizzled down her chest, through her stomach and pooled between her
thighs. She jogged more than walked the distance to the orchard, grateful for the distraction of her burning lungs.
Without the ladder, she was forced to pick the low-hanging fruit.
Luckily, the wasps had cleared. Unusual, but she would not look a gift horse in the mouth.
The fizzing desire had calmed as she worked, but only slightly.
If she knew the direction of Coldpress Lake, she could fling herself into its chilly embrace and cool this attraction.
Yes, a nice long swim in frigid water would—
A branch snapped nearby.
“Paloma?” she called.
No happy huffs or snorts in reply. Instead, laughter seemingly without source ricocheted among the trees. The hairs raised
on her nape as Marigold swiveled her gaze around the orchard. The sky above was bruised with the clouds that had rolled over
the farm. No one was here besides— No, wait. She squinted. There, beyond the orchard’s edges.
A shadow. A man’s shadow.
With her heart banging against her ribs, she called, “Hello there. Are you lost?”
The man stepped forward, still half in shadow, but revealed enough to make her gasp. Rowan. She dashed across the distance, hopped over the brook, and leapt into his arms, crushing dozens of apples between them.
Tears sprang to her eyes as she laid her head against his chest. He must have journeyed long—he smelled of clinging cold and
damp earth, the kind of scent found only in the deep forest.
“I can’t believe you’re here.” She sniffled. Unladylike, but Rowan had seen her in far worse states. “I’ve been so worried.
How did you get here so quickly? Why didn’t you come directly to the cottage? I’m eager for you to meet my orc friend, Jask.”
Her brother said nothing as his arms tightened around her beyond the point of comfort, and her feet lost contact with the
earth.