Page 10 of The Pumpkin Bride

The air screamed in her lungs as she ran.

She would not be caught, not by a man like him, and not when her brothers’ lives were at risk. The longer she stayed out of Crispin’s grasp, the better.

Abruptly, the woods ended in a meadow. She picked up her skirts and sprinted across the flat green field bordered by a blaze of sunflowers. Beyond those tall happy yellow blossoms lay a collection of tidy pumpkin fields. In the cool morning air, the rich scent of the gourds and . . . apples, maybe? . . . graced the wind.

Were she not the subject of a hunt, she’d stop to appreciate the adorable farm.

Instead, Marigold focused her attention on the cottage beyond the fields. Its windows glowed with cozy firelight. Whoever lived there was home and hopefully awake enough to answer the door.

“Please be sympathetic to a damsel in distress,” she whispered.

With the dogs wilding in the distance, Marigold ran toward her salvation.

Chapter 3

Bram tossed another log onto the fire.

Outside, Barnaby the rooster greeted dawn like a long-lost friend. As well timed as the shriek was, the rooster did not reserve it for sunrise. Midday, midnight—the actual clock mattered not to Barnaby. This past night, however, Bram hadn’t minded. Had he not been awake, he might not have felt the shivers that signaled someone crossing the borders of Grimroot Farm.

Did the autumn sprite know that the same magic that restricted Bram to this large patch of land also warned him of trespassers? Since the wheel of the year had turned again to autumn, he could hike over to the Lantern Oak and ask the sprite, but he preferred not to twist this curse further.

No, he’d stay right here on the farm proper.

Most trespassers ran off at the mere sight of his immense green body and under tusks. The only person who hadn’t been frightened off in the three years since “Jask” arrived was Alfred the Carter. The wizened delivery man claimed to have seen it all, wasn’t bothered by orcs, and they’d struck up an amiable acquaintanceship.

Bram missed people, but he didn’t relish people screaming in fear.

Thus, he’d learned to keep his own company well.

The fresh log popped in the hearth. Hmph, must not have dried that properly. More pops and—wait—that wasn’t the log. Someone was knocking at his door. He’d ignore it. It was too early for screams.

The divan he’d built for himself protested as he flopped onto it.

The knocking continued. Persistent wretch, whoever it was. Bram set his feet on the trunk next to his carving knife and the menagerie of forest creatures he’d carved, then sipped his chicory. Though he preferred coffee, a beverage he’d enjoyed on a journey with Crispin, it was hard to come by out here in the hinterlands. So, chicory it was. Bitter and brown as the earth it sprang from, the beverage was smoky on the tongue.

Saints, could the person knocking not take a hint?

The last thing he wanted to do was frighten another poor soul, but he was running out of options. Mustering his best, deepest, dangerous orc voice, he yelled, “Go away!”

The knocking stopped.

“No?” The woodpeckerish knocking redoubled. “I will not.”

He raked his hand down his face and set his mug on the crate. As he stomped toward his sizable door, the floorboards rattled under his feet. Through the wood, he growled, “Go away if you know what’s good for you.”

“Please, sir, I have nowhere to go.”

The sir was a nice assumption. An ill-informed one, though. Likely naivete, because, based on the voice, either a woman or child stood on the other side of the door. Bram pressed his forehead to the oak. Dammit. No matter his intentions, he’d frighten them off. He’d open the door, they’d scream or faint, and once again he’d be reminded of the monster he’d become.

Might as well rip off the bandage.

“Not my problem.” With a mighty heave, he raised the bar, then whipped open the door. “Leave, or I’ll—”

On a gasp, Bram’s knees buckled.

His sweet Marigold.

Behind her, the rising sun gilded the furrowed farmland that spread like a chessboard from the cottage. That same sun sent a strategic beam directly to his porch. Though she was pale, dawn blessed her with an angelic glow. The mischievous smile that curved her lips, however, belied the halo.