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.
Saints, he was undone.
She shifted until she straddled his lap, her lips still pressed to his. As she cradled his head, she swept her lightly calloused
thumbs along his cheekbones. He allowed his hands to roam the length of her thighs, her waist, her back. Heavens help him,
he ached for her breasts, but his control was already at a breaking point. He had to stop this—he’d truly kissed her to pull
her back to herself. Not press an advantage. This was going too far.
“Marigold—”
“Yes, Jask?” she whispered. He recognized the whiskey in her voice, knew that meant she was on the verge of melting in his
hands.
She revived the kiss he sought to end.
He held her face. “Marigold, please.”
The picture she made in the dithering light of the candle stole his breath. Hooded eyes black with desire, chest heaving,
mouth swollen . . . for Jask.
“Please what?” she asked. “Please you? Because I’d like to.”
Saints fucking preserve him.
“You don’t mean that.” His eyes pleaded with hers. “I can’t . . .”
“Liar.” She rolled her hips against his length. “There’s evidence to the contrary.”
Aching, insistent evidence. His only release since he departed Thornwick had been self-pleasure, and every time he’d pictured
this woman. To have her in his arms, wanting him was both a dream and a nightmare. But he couldn’t have her. Not like this, when
she was using him to distract her from the storm.
His fault, because he started it.
That said, he didn’t have to finish it.
He pressed his forehead to hers. “I meant I can’t because I respect you.”
The arch in her back deflated. She sat back and drifted her hands from his hair. “Do you not respect women after you’ve loved
them?”
“Of course I do. What I mean is today has been a lot and the storm has made you anxious.” He tucked a rebellious curl behind
her ear. “You’re being rash, and you may have regrets in the morning. I don’t want you to . . . regret me.”
She still mourned Bram. How could she not compare a new lover to her true love? Tomorrow she’d wake up next to his large green
frame and wonder what the hell she’d done.
Fire entered her eyes. “Do you think you know my mind better than I do?”
Not better, but almost as well as he knew his own. And anger was a tried-and-true antidote to her fear. Desire was more pleasant
for all the obvious reasons, but anger would do.
“Yes,” he said.
She slid from his lap. The heat in her eyes twisted and intensified. Ah, balls. He’d gone straight past anger to fury.
“How dare you.” She clenched her hands into fists.
He held up his hands in peace. “Marigold, I—”
“Hush.” She drew herself to her full height, and her curls waved like a gorgon’s snakes. “For my entire life I have been managed by people who thought they knew what was best for me regardless of what I wanted. My parents, my lady’s companion, my teachers.
Even my true love left me, against my wishes, to make himself worthy, whatever the hell that means. And it cost us both our
happiness in this lifetime.”
Her words were darts to his heart.
Flawlessly, painfully true darts. Anyone on the periphery of the Thornwick court understood they’d use Marigold to stitch
their kingdom to another and, in so doing, strengthen their hold on their own throne. Cold perhaps, but strategic. There was
no advantage to be gained if they’d allowed her to marry a lowly Thornwick knight, unless they counted the swoony legends
that might arise and stir the hearts of their people.
But swoony legends did not strengthen Thornwick’s defenses.
Bram folded his arms but remained seated. Now was not the time to intimidate her with his size. “Because he had to, did he
not? To win your parents’ favor?”
“Now you dare to speak for him?” Her skirts whirled as she flounced toward the stairs. “You are too bold. I shared my past with you so you could understand
me, not use it against me. For the record, the only favor he ever needed to concern himself with was mine.”
“I’m merely offering a different perspective.”
“To what end? To convince me I should not feel the way I feel about what he did? I’m not stupid, Jask. I understand the logic
of his choices. But I do not—and will never—understand why we couldn’t try speaking forthrightly to my parents and, if that
hadn’t succeeded, running away with me instead of leaving me behind.”
The candlelight caused the tracks of her tears to glisten.
Cold moved through his chest. Marigold would have gone on the run with him. This he knew in his bones. But his pride had been
so great, he wanted to show her parents, perhaps show himself, that he was exceptional.
And yes, worthy.
But her opinion should’ve been the only one that mattered. Not her parents, not the court. If Marigold deemed him deserving
of her love, that should’ve been enough.
Above them, the storm ceased.
He rose from the divan. “From the depths of my soul, I am sorry.”
She couldn’t know his apology extended all the way back to when he’d disappeared from Thornwick. That, if she’d let him, he’d
make it up to her every day of his life.
She searched his eyes. “What did you say to me?”
The silence between them was louder than the thunder had been.
“That I’m sorry.”
“No, before—” She held up a hand. “Never mind. I am tired. Good night.”
She took the candle with her, leaving him in the dark.