Page 41 of The Pumpkin Bride

Letters to Rowan it was.

With the decision made, her muscles unclenched. Tomorrow, she’d write to Rowan, find reliable carriers, wait here for a response, and help a grumpy orc whether he wanted it or not.

Chapter 11

Bram sat on the front porch, forehead braced by the palm of his good hand, very much trying to ignore the fact that Marigold was bathing on the other side of the door.

Nope, nothing for it. Despite his throbbing hand, he needed to whittle something, anything, to occupy his jumpy mind. She hadn’t fallen in love with Crispin. Ever. The joy that bolted through him when she confessed her dislike for the prince suffused every inch of his body, had turned up the brightness on his world.

Hence the need to distract himself. He circled to the back of the house and entered the byre. He kept his tools in the stall next to Queen, who mooed as he entered.

“Go to sleep, girl,” he said. “Big day tomorrow. Marigold will milk you.”

Her tail flicked as he scratched between her eyes.

From the next stall, he collected his carving knife. Instead of heading back to the porch he delved into the root cellar and dipped a cider from the barrel within.

An hour later—saints, how long did it take to bathe?—he was nearly finished the miniature orc carving and well into his second cider. The beverage was welcome and tasty. It had taken many tries to get to a decent formula. His first attempt, when he was fresh to his orcness and hungered for oblivion, had produced a barrel of fizzy apple juice.

This year’s batch was less sweet, crisp, and potent.

His ear twitched. Another difference when he’d been re-skinned as an orc—his hearing was sharp. Noises blended into a pleasant background hum of life in the hinterlands had caused him alarm when he’d first turned. With practice, he’d learned to ignore the scratch of a squirrel or the clattering thwip of a locust.

But novel sounds demanded his attention.

Like Marigold’s soft sigh an hour ago as she’d settled in the bath’s steaming embrace. Or the splash and trickle as she washed herself. Curse his memory and his fertile imagination. In the years since he’d last held her, her body had ripened further. The plains of young womanhood had been replaced by curves he ached to explore.

Not that she’d have him like this.

Nor would he expect her to.

Maybe he should grab a third cider? Before he rose from his rocking chair, Sir Patrick’s voice echoed in his mind: Drink never solved anything better than a frank conversation. The old man had sayings about everything, and damn, if they weren’t wise.

Inside the house, the sound of water cascaded. Must’ve been Marigold rising from the bath, and mercy, he shouldn’t have imagined that picture. He focused on the pumpkin patch in front of him and tried to call any vision to mind that would help him ignore the sound of her sloshing as she stepped over the side of the basin.

And a grunt and a thump as she slipped and fell.

He dropped his knife and burst into the cottage. “Marigold?”

“Over here.” She raised an arm from where she lay betwixt the divan and basin.

Mid-stride, he paused. “Are you decent?”

“Enough. But I’m okay.” The arm disappeared, and the sound of shifting cloth sounded from her spot. “Correction. I am tangled.”

Sensitive to her modesty, he asked, “May I approach?”

As Bram, he’d seen, caressed, and tasted all of her. But Marigold thought he was Jask. The orc did not have her consent to see her in a state of undress, and she might scream if he pounded toward her without permission.

“I may permanently reside on the floor if you don’t. Your linens have become an epic Gordian knot.”

Because personal injury was the time to trot out Greek mythology.

He found her on the floor, swaddled in damp linen and her bathing shift. Though they remained opaque, the linens molded to her and did not hide the luscious hills and valleys of her body. Which, as a courtly gentleman, he should do his best not to see as he lifted her to the divan. This was another benefit to his orc body—even with a damaged hand, he possessed the strength of three men.

“Are you hurt?” he asked.

“Mortified, but otherwise hearty.” In the firelight, her typical pale skin had whitened further. “The water stayed quite hot. Or maybe it was the fire? Either way, I stood up too fast.”