Page 11 of The Pumpkin Bride

“Or you’ll what?” she asked.

He caught the doorframe to hold himself upright. It couldn’t be her. He must have fallen asleep after all, and dreams tortured him yet again. That was the only explanation. But this Marigold did not match his memory. Instead of the silks that were her custom, she wore an ordinary homespun dress and cloak. Both revealed a scandalous amount of the ankles he’d caressed and massaged after she’d spent an uncomfortable day in fine new shoes.

He glanced at his hand, the one that threatened to splinter the frame.

Still green. This was no dream.

Another shiver rolled through him, making him tremble. If it was the magic that signaled a trespasser or a desire to sweep this woman into his arms, he couldn’t say. But he kept his grip on the solid wood to stay his determined hands. He imagined Marigold’s reaction at being unexpectedly embraced by an enormous orc. Terror would be the only logical response, and the last thing he wanted was to terrorize his true love.

“Are you all right?” She reached toward his shoulder, but he jerked away. Her touch would be too much to bear.

“Leave off,” he growled. Air refused to come in the amount he wanted, so he was forced to gulp like a fish that had flung itself on shore.

She glanced over her shoulder. “Will you invite me in?”

Saints, her melodic voice was a balm to his soul. In his time here, he worried he’d forgotten her particular timbre. He had not. Honey and fizz by day; whiskey at night when she was overcome with desire. Which he should not think about.

“Kind sir?” She locked her blue gaze on his. “Seeing as how you haven’t objected to my request, I’ll take that as a yes.”

She ducked under his arm and pushed her way to the middle of the cottage. He swooned a second time as her scent, like a breeze through an orchard, carried him back to their days in Thornwick. As children, romping in the paddocks and meadows. Then, as they grew older and the seeds of their childhood affection blossomed, sneaking off into hideaways that would allow them to love each other.

Chivalrously, of course.

Even before he was a knight, he was unfailingly courteous. After the curse turned him, he’d tried to remain the same. As strangers rambled across Grimroot Farm, he’d attempt a pleasant exchange, but they scampered away in fear. With his additional foot of height, thickened proportions, pointy ears, tusks, and deep green skin, they assumed him a murderous barbarian. Eventually, he decided to play the role. Much easier to live down to people’s expectations than set himself up for disappointment.

But Marigold hadn’t run.

Ironic, that. She was the one person in the five kingdoms that should keep her distance.

The secret of his identity stuck in his throat. All he wanted to do was shout that he was her Bram, returned to her after too many torturous years. But the curse meant the truth would kill her. He’d lost much in this life already—his name, his form, his place in the world. He’d lost Marigold as well, but because of the curse, she was not safe with him.

She must go.

“You can’t come in,” he growled.

“I already have.” Marigold popped her hands onto her hips. “It seems we’re at an impasse.”

Even on his moodiest days, the juicy curve of her lips could magic a smile from him. He was a sunflower to her sun, basking in her levity. For her sake, though, he would glower and shout and stomp and scare her into leaving. Even if the playful sparks in her eye made him want to fall to his knees and beg for mercy.

“Go.” He jabbed at the door. “Now.”

“Oh, honestly, good sir, would you turn a princess out into the wild?” She pressed her palm to her chest. “I’ve traveled all night and am dead on my feet. I won’t be a bother. Is your wife at home? Perhaps she and I can speak.”

Marigold scanned the room as she rotated on her heel, presumably looking for another more reasonable person to charm. What did she see as she turned from where he stood in front of the door? With a hummingbird’s speed, her gaze alit on the kitchen, then the dining area tucked under the loft, the stairs, the back door, and the hearth around which he’d arranged the divan, a rocking chair, and large, soft reading chair.

Her silence chafed like poison ivy between his shoulder blades.

What did she think of his humble home? Half the furniture was built by his hands; the rest he’d found here and since repaired. To his eye, it was quaint and rustic. The Marigold he’d known would think the same. But perhaps she’d changed in the last five years, and now she’d consider it shabby? Marigold remained silent, tapping her chin, as she ventured toward the shelves lining the wall on either side of the fireplace.

He should’ve guessed the books would attract her attention first.

“I have no wife,” he grumbled to the woman to whom he’d pledged undying love.

“But you have so many books.” Marigold ran her index finger along the spines.

Through Alfred, his lifeline to the markets of Harvest Hollow, he’d arranged with Brumet’s Books to deliver a fresh tale each week. Along with his other hobbies, reading helped stave off boredom during the past three years he’d been chained to Grimroot Farm.

“What do books have to do with a wife?”