Page 115 of The Pumpkin Bride

“Stop!” She picked up her skirt and dashed toward the two before either of them could seriously injure the other. She tugged at Bram’s arm before he could pummel her brother. “Bram, it’s Rowan.”

She tugged again. It was much like tugging on a pillar. Capable though Rowan was in battle, at his core, her older brother was a scholar, not a warrior.

“Rowan? Sorry, friend. I mistook you for one of Crispin’s flunkeys.” With a grunt, he raised himself from the pale Rowan, then held out his hand to help her brother rise.

Rowan brushed off the offer and pushed himself upright. With his hand on his hilt, he locked his gaze on Bram. “Twice she called you Bram.”

Marigold rested her hand on Bram’s shoulder. “Because that’s his name.”

“What are the odds . . .” Rowan shifted his gaze to her, but his grip remained on his sword. “You’d meet another by that name?”

She blew out her lips. For a scholar, Rowan lacked imagination. Which could explain his failed alchemical experiments. Delighted as she was to see her rescuer and grateful as he might be that Bram had kept her safe from Crispin, he might not be the picture of happiness that she’d taken up with a commoner . . . who was now an orc.

This required a plainspoken explanation. And that required privacy. While she was fairly confident there were no spies about, she’d rather not tempt fate.

“Let’s discuss it inside over hot cider.” She climbed the porch steps and opened the cottage’s front door. “Rowan, sit on the divan. Bram, take the rocking chair.”

Because people were less intimidating in a rocking chair. Even orcs. Especially when a tabby cat leapt onto their lap and made biscuits on their broad chest until the orc relented and scratched the cat’s chin.

“Feel free to chatter!” she trilled.

They did not. She filled the kettle with cider and set it on the stove. The quiet was unsettling. Credit to Rowan for not staring at Bram, but his gaze flitted about the cottage. Instead of the quaint love nest she’d come to adore, she was seeing it through his luxury-tainted eyes. The frayed upholstery, the slightly uneven mantel, the homespun curtains.

No. She wouldn’t allow her family’s upturned nose to spoil this.

She dropped cloves and cinnamon sticks into the tankards, then added the steaming cider. The aroma soothed her rough nerves. Simple pleasures were the only pleasures she cared to have for the rest of her days. Which included, above all, Bram.

Who was indeed a pleasure but definitely not simple.

In her pursuit of a life with him, she could use an ally.

On a tray she carried the tankards, along with comfited pumpkin seeds and last night’s dessert wafers, then set them on the crate in front of the divan. She handed Rowan the unchipped mug, Bram another, then took the third and sat on the squashy chair she preferred for reading.

“So,” she said.

“So?” Rowan answered.

“Rowan, at long last, I have found Sir Bram Duncan.” She gestured across the space to Bram. “He’s been cursed by an autumn sprite these last three years.”

Bram pinched the bridge of his nose. “Marigold, I’m not supposed to tell anyone, or the curse will kill them.”

Rowan stiffened.

“Relax, Ro.” She sipped her cider. “Loophole. He can’t tell anyone—” she gestured to Bram “—but if someone figures it out on their own, like me, or if I share the information, it’s fine.”

“How many experiments have you run to test this?” Rowan asked.

“Including you and me?” She made a big show of counting in her head. “Two.”

Rowan blanched. “Sister, are you sure you haven’t been deceived? What proof—”

“For a future king, you need more spine,” Bram grumbled.

“Is that necessary?” Marigold asked.

Cider sloshed from Rowan’s cup as he slammed it on the table.

“It is you.” Rowan’s bright eyes sharpened. He rose and held his arms wide. “Come here, you crafty rogue. I thought I’d never see you again in this lifetime.”