Page 27 of The Pumpkin Bride

Bram winced as she laughed.

“Are you always this jumpy?” she asked. “You quailed like Fuzzle at a bath. What happened? I heard you—”

He followed her blue gaze to the linen. Red blossomed on the ivory. As his vision went gray at the edges, he swayed on his feet. Fresh blood was his Achilles’ heel. A knight of the realm should be able to stomach it, but he’d never mastered his aversion. Good thing he hadn’t eaten, or he’d have lost his breakfast.

“That’s not nothing.” Quicker than a squirrel, she dashed into the byre and returned with the milking stool. “Sit.”

The legs scraped the fieldstones as he slammed onto the stool. “I’m fine.”

“Liar.” Gently, she lifted his hand above his head.

Her touch sizzled through him, lighting up long dormant parts of him. His heart, his hips, his . . . This was bad. So, so bad. Her fingers possessed the same soft, strong skill that had roamed Bram’s body in their secret meeting places in Thornwick. His very soul awoke, and he might never lull it to sleep again.

“Orcs bleed red,” she murmured as though to herself.

“Of course we bleed red. We’re mammals.”

“Right.” She shook her head. “That was stupid of me. Keep your hand above your head. I’ll be right back.”

She disappeared into the cottage. He stayed upright through sheer force of will. Barnaby, ever curious, meandered toward him.

“Barnaby, don’t do it.”

The rooster lifted his head high, then puffed his chest.

“If you know what’s good for you, Barn—”

Blood and bones, the Battle of Three Fords hadn’t been as loud as this rooster. On the bright side, he was no longer about to keel over. The jolt might’ve cost him his hearing, but he’d take it if Marigold wouldn’t find him indignantly sprawled in the courtyard.

“I’m here!” She crashed back through the door carrying a leather satchel, linen, and several bottles cradled in her arms’ crook. Her footsteps were soft and sure as she crossed the courtyard.

“And I’m still fine.”

“Sure you are.” She set everything on the ground.

As she knelt in front of him and spread a clean linen square next to her, his vision cleared. To have Princess Marigold of Thornwick on her knees before him sent a dangerous amount of blood to other parts of his body. Although, for the sake of his hand, that was likely for the best.

“Hand, please.”

“Princess, I—”

“Marigold.” She held out her hand. “Please . . . let me help you.”

Reluctantly, he lowered his hand. As she peeled the soiled linen away, she raised her russet eyebrows. He kept his eyes trained on her. He was no longer worried about fainting, but vomit was still a concern. He wasn’t sure which was the greater indignity.

“Is it bad?” he asked.

“I’ve seen worse.”

When had she seen worse?

“The bleeding’s stopped.” She withdrew pincers from the roll, then held his hand firmly. “For anything that hurts, I’m sorry. For anything that heals, you’re welcome. I’ll try not to dig too much as I remove the splinters.”

“Have at it.” His voice was braver than he felt.

With great precision, she ferreted out bits of wood. As she worked, a gaggle of honking geese flew overhead. By the time he’d turned his direction to them, then back to Marigold’s hair, she’d set her pincers on the linen.

“These next parts won’t be as pleasant,” she said. “I need to clean it with vinegar, and you’ll need a few stitches.”