Page 12 of The Pumpkin Bride

“In my experience, more women read for pleasure. Were these a collection of instruction manuals or atlases or religious texts, that would be one thing. But they are all novels, poems, and philosophies.”

As she tipped her head back to read the titles among the stacked shelves, her hood fell back. His chest tightened as his past cannonballed into his present. Marigold fashioned her hair in a long braid tucked into a bun, the same style she preferred when they adventured in the woods as children. But her rebellious curls, the ones he’d spent hours running his fingers through, would not be tamed. They leapt free and framed her face.

In much the same way he’d like to with his hands.

“Oh, this is a good one.” She pulled a volume from the shelf, flipped through it, then returned it. “The lack of a wife explains the mess,” she remarked, looking around the room.

“What mess?” He’d done the dishes and tidied up after supper.

“I mean . . .” She circled her hands as she revolved on her heel. “Your home is charming, I’ll grant you. Especially the outside, with the intricately carved jack-o’-lanterns. They were a beacon to the stairs. But inside? Every surface is cluttered. The chest is covered in wooden carvings, the chair possesses a library’s worth of reading material, the kitchen table is full of farming tools, and the counters are stacked with bakeware.”

“Apologies, Princess. I wasn’t expecting company.” He folded his arms and leaned against a support beam, tracking her movements around the cottage. She moved with grace, more confident than the last time they’d been together.

She lifted a carved squirrel from the surface covered in shavings. After turning it around and inspecting its tail, she set it back down. “My lady’s companion always said a tidy room is the sign of an organized mind.”

That companion, Bess, also often said, Clay does not mix with gold. Implying he and Marigold should not be friends, let alone true loves. So, her advice on that or any other topic wasn’t worth a split pumpkin to him.

“Duly noted. Now leave.”

She must go. The longer she remained, the greater the torture.

“First, kind sir, do I smell pumpkin pie?” She splayed her fingers across her midsection. “Apple as well, if I’m not mistaken. My favorites, and I’m famished after my long journey.”

Her nose was as excellent as ever. “Get out.”

She lifted a shoulder. “Come now, surely you can do better than that for a princess.”

Do not smile. He did his best to exude grumpiness.

“On my honor, I’ll consider leaving if you feed me any morsel you have to spare.” She closed the distance between them, then stuck out her hand. “But first, an introduction. I’m Princess Marigold of Thornwick. And you are?”

He crossed his arms. “Displeased. Go before I eat you.”

“I can’t recommend it. I’m sure I’m gamey. Also, it’s rude to leave me aloft.” She waggled her hand. “Please, let’s be friends.”

If wisdom prevailed, he’d keep his hands neatly tucked under his arms. This body changed the way he interacted with the world, with its sensitive ears and nose and ability to see in the dark. But Bram had never been accused of being wise, and this might be his last chance in this life to touch her. As he wrapped his large warm green hand around her smaller, cooler one, relief flooded him. His memory matched the soft and strong reality of her, like she was steel wrapped in velvet.

With an arched eyebrow, she said, “Now that we’re friends, about that pie . . .”

That was his Marigold. Large of appetite, especially for sweets. She’d once destroyed an entire pumpkin loaf he’d purchased after winning a purse at his first knight’s tournament. Feeding her would go faster than arguing with her, but he’d make it unpleasant.

“We’re not friends.” He dished out a slice of each while she sat in his rocking chair. “But I’ll trade food for information. How did you end up on this farm?”

“That’s a long story.” She unlaced her boots. “May I have a drink as well? I’m parched.”

Hmph. Removing shoes was not a sign of someone expecting to depart after breakfast. In her stockinged feet, she padded into the kitchen. After two heaves of the spring water pump he’d installed in the kitchen, she washed her hands in the basin.

He poured a mug of chicory, then set it next to her plate. “Tell it, fast.”

“Curious, aren’t you?” She elegantly sat on the stool at the butcher’s block. “Well, congratulations. You’re the first person to learn I’ve run away from my betrothed.”

Her betrothed? Bram’s guts twisted like he’d eaten rotten meat. His under tusks pressed sharply into his lip as he clamped his mouth shut. Only a fool would expect her to be enduringly faithful to a ghost. Wait, though—she said she was running away.

So maybe she hadn’t found true love again?

“Who is he?” Stupid of him to ask. He truly did not want to know who’d made a play for the heart of his sweet Marigold.

“I’ll keep that to myself—thank you.” She closed her eyes as she sampled the apple pie.