Page 5 of The Pumpkin Bride

He twisted onto his knees to retch. The sprite’s orange glow hovered nearby. He was talking—something about true love and a list—before nausea overtook Bram again.

“Avoid my boots, please.” Crispin crouched next to him. “I wish it hadn’t come to this, but you pushed too much, too fast. I surround myself with beautiful people, yes, but I refuse to be outshone. At our last tournament, the cheers for you nearly met the volume of mine.”

“They were louder,” Bram growled.

Saints, this voice was more animal than man.

“Agree to disagree.” Crispin tore the locket from Bram’s neck. “Never fear. We’ll be sure to tell your woman of your demise. Marigold is further evidence of your delusions of grandeur. As if a princess would marry a common fool like you. Kevin, the haversack.”

As Kevin scooped up the gold-stuffed pack, Bram struggled to rise to his feet, then collapsed back to his knees. The metamorphosis rendered him as helpless as a newborn fawn. Fatigued him to the point of passing out.

“I’m not dead,” Bram said as the stars spun above him.

“Might as well be.” Crispin shook his head as he tsked. “Remember the condition of your curse—you can’t reveal your identity to anyone, or they will die. From this point on, you are tethered to this plot of land. You’ll live out your days on Grimroot Farm’s forty hectares, known only as Jask Bone-Cracker. Sir Bram Duncan is no more.”

Chapter 2

Three years later

Princess Marigold Ashford of Thornwick ducked under a low-hanging branch. Pthht. She spit out the pine needles that rained down on her and brushed away a speckling of sap.

Saints, she hated it out here.

Conceptually, forests were lovely. In practice they were riddled with bugs, monsters, and mud. She was more of an herb garden and hedgerow maze kind of naturalist. Horticulture was a refined, nature-adjacent activity which she vastly preferred to tramping through the deep forest on a moonless night.

The ghost of a cobweb slithered over her face.

“Ew, ew, ew,” escaped her as she raked it away.

Revulsion pooled at the back of her throat. She refused to ponder the size of the spider that spun this drawbridge-sized trap. With clenched teeth, she bit back the shriek bubbling in her chest. Letting it rip would give away her location. The sound of nearby crackling meant she wasn’t alone. She stilled, and the crunching grew quieter as whatever it was moved away.

The pounding of her heart threatened her ribs, but she walked on. At least there were no thunderstorms, which meant no death by lightning. Still, there was a chance she’d die out here. But she’d rather risk a fight with Windfall Woods’ wildest creatures on her journey to the sanctuary in Mareval than march down the Briarveil Cathedral’s aisle in three weeks’ time.

Where Prince Crispin of Harvest Hollow would wait at the altar.

No, thank you. She liked him . . . not.

Despite her better instincts, she’d talked herself into accepting his proposal for the sake of her home kingdom of Thornwick. For three years after Bram died, she’d withdrawn from public life and immersed in the comfort of books. Until the day in the library where she, tucked in a quiet nook, overheard her parents’ frustration that she wasn’t doing her part to serve Thornwick. The mountain sprites were gaining northern territory, and both her brothers, Rowan and Beckett, were battling them on the frontier. The once-wealthy kingdom of Thornwick was hobbled as it devoted resources to the expensive war on the northern borders.

Then Crispin made his offer of marriage.

A union between them would be more than a familial alliance—it would be political, too. Crispin pledged defense support as well as food security and reserves. Harvest Hollow, known as the breadbasket for the five kingdoms of the Lunara Peninsula, could protect and feed Thornwick as it defended itself against the mountain sprites.

So, with one simple yes, she’d finally done her part to protect the kingdom.

During Prince Crispin’s brief visit to Thornwick to finalize the financial and political terms of their marriage with her advisors, Marigold granted him a private audience. Not too private, mind. Her former nursemaid, now companion, Bess, waited outside the door. While their representatives negotiated the remaining details of the dower, succession rights of any children they produced, and her responsibilities once she joined his household, they commenced their first private conversation. All very pleasant and polite. Lacking sizzle, but tolerable.

Until, over a glass of claret, he said, “There’s a rumor you possess a magical gift.”

A rumor, if acknowledged, would land her in an oubliette. Though her hand trembled, her training kept a smile on her face. Thornwick banned magic fifty years ago, after a collective of wielders banded together in a secret plot to usurp her grandfather’s crown. So it was most inconvenient when she, second in line to the throne, manifested a magical ability five years ago. In all the Lunara Peninsula, two people knew her secret—Bess, who’d never betray her, and Vera, the cunning woman who’d taught her to control the magic.

Unless . . . were spies in Thornwick Castle?

“Rumors are often false,” she said. “Tell me more about your last hunt.”

He set his empty glass on the table between them, then moved his king on the chessboard. The game was his suggestion, not hers. She much preferred Tables as there was an element of chance. Chess was all strategy, deep thought, and zero fun. Entertainment should not leave you with a tension headache.

“Let’s not be coy, Marigold,” he said smoothly. “The contracts are signed, and the wedding will proceed regardless. Harvest Hollow has a more progressive attitude toward magic than Thornwick. Truly, along with your stature, I hope my future children are charmed.”