Page 58 of The Pumpkin Bride

Wordlessly, she nodded and rose to collect her nerves along with the pitcher from the counter. Crispin would often dispatch him and the other knights to gather information through casual conversation at the Laughing Gourd, Brumet’s Books, and around the Harvest Herald newsstand. This would be no different.

“Are others talking?” Bram pressed. “Do they say anything of her demeanor? It would be wonderful if Harvest Hollow had a future queen with a charitable heart to balance the prince’s mean spirit.”

Marigold snorted as she refilled his mug with spring water.

“Mostly the guard, at least within my hearing. There was one other—an older woman. Tall, slate-gray fringe, a face that looks like it’s made of blades, and the sharpest mouth in Harvest Hollow.”

Bess. Bram’s throat dried.

She was not to be trifled with—whip-smart and nimble, she’d nearly caught him with Marigold mid-tumble more times than he could count. Bess would want to find Marigold too—as a lady’s companion, her job was to keep tabs on the princess. But why would she be working with the palace guard?

Bram drummed his fingers on the table. “A royal wedding is exciting, but I’m sure it causes headaches throughout the kingdom.”

“Believe it,” Alfred said. “The delay didn’t help. Inns are already full from here to the Marches, so people are forced to pay a premium they can ill afford. Truth be told, Jask, you could pocket some decent coin by hosting a lesser noble or two, though that’d mean you sleeping in the byre. Since the pumpkin trade’s down, want me to put out the word for you?”

He grunted. “I’d rather remove my tusks with pliers.”

Alfred laughed through his last bite of lunch, then dabbed his mouth with a napkin. “No need for dramatics. Just thought it worth mentioning. That was as fine a dinner as I’ve ever had, Miss Meg. I’m much obliged.”

“Happy to have you, Alfred. Were it not for your appetite, the remainder would’ve gone to the chickens.”

Alfred scooted back from the table. “Anything you need for next week ’sides the usual?”

Nothing he’d share in Marigold’s hearing. Bram threaded his hands together. “No, we’re well stocked. Meg? Anything you need?”

“Not at present, but—”

“Plague take it!” Alfred exclaimed, clapping a hand to his forehead. “I nearly forgot, Miss Meg. Must’ve indulged in a few too many dreamleaf buds.”

From inside his jerkin, he withdrew a folded piece of parchment. “This came in fresh to Elenor Brewster’s tavern this morning.”

Bram’s eyes widened. A letter.

“Already?” With shaking fingers, Marigold lifted the letter. “I’d hoped for a fast return, but I thought a few more days . . .”

“I’m as surprised as you,” Alfred said. “I popped into the Laughing Gourd for a bite before my morning deliveries, and there it was.”

The seal was cracked—someone had read the letter already. The Laughing Gourd’s patrons were generally good people, but there was money to be made trading information. The lack of an attempt to conceal the violated privacy pointed to a petty criminal, not the palace guard.

Still, thank the heavens she and her brother had a code.

Marigold’s russet brows knit in concentration as she read the letter’s contents.

“What does it say?” Bram asked.

“I’m to stay here until my brother arrives.” She folded the note and tucked it into her pocket.

“How long?” Bram’s cage of ribs was two sizes too small for his thumping heart.

“Undetermined.” She shrugged. “But he was very clear I’m to remain here. I doubt it will be overly soon. Consequently, Alfred, I amend my earlier statement. I’ll need a rug for the loft. The floors are cold in the morning, and my new house shoes do naught to stave the chill.”

Undetermined, she’d said.

So much joy and dread in one word. The last two and a half weeks with Marigold had been a gift, one he did not take for granted. He’d made his peace with offering her protection in the calm oasis of Grimroot Farm for as long as fate determined. But this afternoon’s foraging adventure made it plain his rebellious, greedy hands would find ways to touch her.

And, saints preserve him, with each touch, he wanted more.

This was how things had started between them all those years ago—innocent brushes of flesh, caught hands, lingering hoists onto horses. Would he be able to dance on that razor’s edge of chivalric help without losing his mind? She liked Jask—that much was clear. But the fondness with which she spoke of Bram might drive him mad.