Page 13 of The Pumpkin Bride

Her low, satisfied moan stirred him. He held tight to the counter and tried not to stare at her luscious mouth. Another problem with this orc body—in it, his temper flared hotter, as did his passions.

“Saints, that’s perfection. Just like the apple pie from home.” She pounded a delicate fist on the table. “Are you a baker?”

He grunted without answering, though warmth spread through his chest. After the first six months of barely leaving his bed, he’d thrown himself into his hobbies. It helped. After tending the farm and his animals, those hobbies—whittling, reading, and baking—occupied most nights. It had taken him ages to figure out the Thornwick recipe.

“You should sell these at the market.” She cut another bite from the apple wedge, then sampled the pumpkin pie. Her low moan returned, this time accompanied by a dramatic swoon. “That may be better than the apple. What do I taste in the pumpkin? It has a warm, herbal backbone.”

Everything in him wanted to boast that he’d infused the cream with bay leaf to balance the sweetness—another Thornwick-style trick. But if he spilled that secret, who knew what else she’d ask and where he’d stop? Much better to keep up with the grunting.

“I’m going to assume your grunting is grudging agreement with my appreciation of your culinary skills.” She sipped her chicory, then pulled a face. “Unlike the pies, this is vile. Did you brew it from the hearth’s ashes?”

“It’s chicory,” he answered. Alfred had recommended it, and Bram also thought it vile when he’d first tried it. “It’s an acquired taste.”

“It tastes like a skunk’s ass.”

He turned his snort-laugh into another grunt.

“Don’t worry, though,” she said. “My herbal blends will change your life. I’ll make one for breakfast tomorrow.”

His mouth turned to cotton. As much as he wanted her at his side until the end of time, the temptation to reveal his identity would be too great. One slipup would be fatal to her. No, he couldn’t chance it. She had to go.

“The deal was pie, then you hit the road.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Nothing but crumbs on your plate, and the door’s that way.”

Unfazed, Marigold sipped her chicory, frowned, then put it down again. “No, the deal was I’d consider leaving. After careful consideration, I decided I will not. How lucky are you?”

From the yard, Barnaby crowed at the early-morning sun.

“You can’t stay.” Maybe if he said it enough, she’d believe it.

She set her fork down, then folded her hands. “I must. Not for long—I swear it. I have a good plan, but I need a moment to regroup. Allow me to stay while I sort out my next step. I promise I won’t be a bother. You won’t even notice I’m here.”

Oh, he’d notice. “No.”

“No?” She knit her russet brows in confusion. “No one’s ever . . . Look, I hate to pull the sovereign card, but I am a princess, and you’re duty-bound to chivalrously protect me.”

In Thornwick, she’d quizzed him on the chivalric code to help him study. What she’d quoted was true. However . . .

“Only knights must be chivalrous. As you can see, I’m a humble pumpkin farmer. Therefore, exempt from the code. And you need to go.”

“But you—”

Dogs brayed outside.

Her fork clattered against her plate. She whipped her gaze toward the door, eyes widened. Anger sizzled through Bram. Not at her—never at her—but the person responsible for her fear. He squeezed his fists at his sides. Allowing Marigold to stay was impossible. She’d be safer with the villain on the other side of the door than here with him. Protecting her had always been his top priority, even if it meant protecting her from himself.

In a whirl of homespun cotton, she hid behind his chair. “Help me. Please.”

The please twisted his heart. He should not do this.

And yet.

“Will you leave me be afterward?”

She nodded. “Yes, I swear on my father’s crown.”

“Hide.”

With a grunt he buckled himself into his boots, then opened the door. The chill air on the porch was welcome against his heated skin. Unwelcome, on the other hand, were the braying dogs and half dozen knights on horseback who bore a crest he’d once worn but now loathed. A tall, well-dressed blond man dismounted.