Page 14 of The Pumpkin Bride

Prince Crispin.

He was Marigold’s betrothed?

Blood and bones, no. Not him. Anyone but him. Bram would lay down his life to stop her from marrying this evil, preening pumpkin-skull. He shut the door behind him, unwilling to take the chance that Marigold could overhear any part of this long overdue conversation.

The knights surrounded his porch. The gold hoops in Bram’s left ear jingled as he twitched it. The slide of steel from sheath was unmistakable. Even with his augmented strength, he was outnumbered. Still, he flexed his fingers.

Crispin dismounted, then approached with wide-open arms and a wolfish grin. “Jask, my old friend! How do you fare this morning?”

Bram leaned against the porch pillar. “Full of piss and vinegar. You?”

“Distressed.” Crispin pouted. “My betrothed has lost her way in the Windfall Wood.”

Bram would bet his boulder-sized pumpkin Crispin practiced his expressions in the looking glass.

“Oh?” He inspected his fingernails. “Too bad, though I’d choose dangers of the wood over marrying you if I were her.”

The prince glared. “Where is she, orc?”

“How should I know?” Bram shrugged.

“Liar.” Crispin pointed to the dogs bounding over the pumpkins in the patch. “My hounds have traced Princess Marigold’s scent here. To you.”

He dropped his jaw in false surprise. “My Marigold?”

Please let him buy this. Bram was no actor, but he’d wager Crispin was unpracticed at reading an orc’s reactions.

“Correction,” Crispin said. “My Marigold. The banns have been announced.”

Bram dramatically closed his eyes and punched the pillar. Something cracked in his knuckles. Huh, he thought orc strength would’ve splintered the pillar. Also—ow. But his bloodied knuckles reminded him of a plausible reason Crispin’s best-in-class dogs tracked Marigold here. From his pocket, he withdrew a cotton handkerchief edged with lace. In the corner, Marigold had embroidered her initials and family crest in Thornwick’s violet hue.

He waved it like a white flag.

“Of course they traced her here. You’ve stolen my life and my love.” He growled more than spoke. Might as well give them the real orc show. “Now you want to steal my last memento of her? She gave me this favor during my last tournament in Thornwick.”

Crispin, a predictably petty bully, snatched it from him, then held it to his nose.

“It carries her scent,” the prince said.

Bram hated parting with it, but if it encouraged Crispin to leave, it was a worthy sacrifice.

“But . . .” Crispin tucked the kerchief into his brigandine’s sleeve. “It does not explain the trail the hounds picked up in the woods. Men, search the house.”

The knights knocked Bram aside and streamed into the cottage. Much as he wanted to clap their skulls together with a satisfying thwack, he kept his hands at his sides. Anything else would raise Crispin’s suspicion.

Please let Marigold be as good at hiding as she’d been as a child.

Chapter 4

From her vantage point behind the darning basket, the ransacking knights looked huge. Well, they were huge. Compared to her anyway. Right after jamming her feet back into her turn shoes, she’d snapped herself down to squirrel size. Fuzzle had wakened, and in his double-shrunken state, she was able to satisfy him with a cheese crumb she’d found next to the chair.

This grumpy orc really could use a few housekeeping lessons.

“Shh,” she whispered to Fuzzle. “We must be patient.”

For ten minutes, she held her breath behind the collection of shirts and hose that needed to be mended while the knights thrashed and tossed the orc’s belongings. She brought this upon him like a diseased blanket. Had she bypassed his cottage, had she not strong-armed him into feeding her, he’d be out picking pumpkins and tending his animals. Not watching the prince’s personal guard ransack his home.

She fisted her hands in apologetic anger.