Page 26 of The Pumpkin Bride

During his three years here, he’d cycled through the fruitless feelings of shock, anger, and melancholy, and finally landed on acceptance. Then, with one knock on his door, Marigold upended his resolve. Hard-won peace with his situation evaporated. To be near her without her knowing him would drive him mad. He needed distance—feet, fields, forests—between them.

Much as she might protest, her departure must be today.

After a long, slow blink, he pivoted toward Paloma’s sty. Even with his eyes focused elsewhere, his awareness of Marigold’s location prickled his spine. She was the sun, and he was her sunflower, tracking her movements around the farm.

A farm where she’d never put down roots.

No, while he was stuck here, she could have a big, beautiful life wherever and with whomever she chose. A nobler knight would wish her well, but it stung worse than a fury of hornets that she’d forgotten about him and accepted a marriage proposal from another.

Bram let the churlish feelings flow.

If he didn’t, they’d out in less productive ways. Like drowning his sorrows in cider or losing a battle of fisticuffs with one of his apple trees. Two opposing things could be true—he could wish Marigold every happiness, which might entail marriage to another, and he could want to drive a nail into the skull of any man she married other than him.

Bram grunted as he paused at the fractured rail.

But how had she been drawn in by Crispin? He spat bile into the dirt. Had the prince’s good looks mesmerized her? Or was it his crown and the life of ease it promised? The would-be king playacted at gravitas, and Marigold had mocked such men ruthlessly in their youth. Had she changed so radically in the five years since they parted? No, not his carefree Marigold. Look at her over there, singing a courtly lament to the chickens.

With a snort, he drew his hammer from his belt.

The why of it all didn’t matter. She was not, in fact, his Marigold, and she had clearly moved on. To him, a century seemed like a more respectable period of mourning for true love. Perhaps their love had not been true after all and he’d risked everything for a fantasy. Bram grunted. These fractious, prickly feelings were unwelcome.

The sooner Marigold left Grimroot Farm, the better.

As he readied his hammer, Bram plotted how to send Marigold away. Evicting her from the farm would protect her from the curse and preserve his fragile sanity. The hitch was he wanted to see her safely on her journey. Starvation, cold, knaves, wolves, spoiled food, cliffs—all would easily kill an untrained person traveling on her own.

He raked his hand through his hair.

Clearly, releasing her to the hinterlands alone was reckless. Minimancy wouldn’t save her. At a diminished size, she’d be a target for more predators. A falcon could scoop her up for a tasty snack in two heartbeats. He’d seen their speed with his own eyes. Garrick, Harvest Hollow’s royal falconer, had trained birds to swoop faster than a meteor strike.

Bram’s throat thickened as he pulled a nail from his work belt.

Ah, hell. Garrick.

While Marigold had been Bram’s deepest loss since he’d been cursed, his best friend was a close second. Bram longed for the nights at the Laughing Gourd while he and the falconer attempted to best Laurent the tailor and Martin the haberdasher at the tavern’s Riddle Night. He was sure Garrick would’ve been game to help Sir Bram Duncan in his time of need.

Jask Bone-Cracker, however, could take his noise elsewhere.

There was no denying it. He personally could not see Marigold safely to Thornwick. His last resort was to ask Alfred to find a respectable, decent guide to take her safely home to her family. The carter was such a gossip that looping him in might bring the palace guard back to his doorstep, but the risk might be worth it.

The sooner she was gone, the better.

Because if his bitter heart didn’t kill him, his attraction to her would.

The constellation of freckles sprinkled on her cheeks, the delicate shell of her ear, the way her kirtle hugged her curves . . . He’d slay a dragon to explore the ways she’d bloomed since they last knew each other. All the more reason to avoid eye contact. He was sure she’d read desire on his green face and be horrified. To avoid that scenario, all last night and this morning he focused his disrespectful eyes above her head or turned his back to her. Common beliefs about orcs’ rudeness gave him some cover, but these tactics wouldn’t last forever.

As she sauntered back toward the cottage, she bowed to Barnaby. “Alas, my love, that you should own a heart of wanton vanity . . .”

Saints, she was distracting.

Back to the fence and the mind-numbing focus it required. The rail’s crack was in an awkward spot, requiring him to hammer with his left hand and hold the board with his right. Bram pounded the nail, drowning out Marigold’s singing. Was today too soon to ask Alfred to find a discreet guide? Her absence was the only way to quell the vexing desire that had roared back to life the moment he clapped eyes on her.

But they could never—

He hissed as a sharp sting tore across his right palm. The nail had slipped and gouged his flesh. Blood welled from the jagged wound and trickled to the earth. Rough splinters pricked the cut like nettles. Curse his clumsiness. He yanked a handkerchief from his breeches and pressed the linen to the fresh gash.

“What happened?” Marigold appeared next to him.

He jerked back in surprise. “Nothing. You should wear a bell.”