Page 34 of The Pumpkin Bride

In truth, it had taken every ounce of his control to stop himself from sweeping her into his arms. He’d done that dozens of times in Thornwick. Here, though, she’d run screaming from the cottage if an orc attempted the same.

Fuzzle appeared around the corner.

“Go away, cat,” he said.

In two leaps, the tabby was on his lap.

Bram rolled his neck. “You have as much respect for personal boundaries as your mistress.”

She’d followed him all afternoon, stuck to him like a burr and demanded instructions for the farm’s daily chores. Once she caught the rhythm of each job, she was surprisingly capable. Even the deeply unpleasant stuff, like mucking out Queen’s stall. He’d thought the dung would send Marigold running, but she’d snatched the pitchfork from him and set to separating the soiled straw from the clean.

He might have been more surprised than the cow.

In Thornwick, she’d carried a pomander of cinnamon to ward off foul stenches. In cities, they were plentiful. Out here, well beyond the cramped buildings, the odors were less concentrated and more earthy. The constant breeze through the pines helped, too.

He took another bittersweet sip.

The Marigold in his memory was proving to be different than the woman who’d showed up on his doorstep—saints, only two days ago? Absorbed as he’d been in his own chrysalis, he hadn’t considered she had five years of new experiences without him.

As he set the cup down, the familiar squeak and roll of a cart perked his orc ears. He shielded his eye, then groaned. Yes, there was Alfred, coming back this way exactly as they’d agreed yesterday.

And Bram still hadn’t harvested the pumpkins.

He rolled his neck. He couldn’t afford it, but he’d need to send the carter away with nothing. Harvesting wasn’t a one-handed job. Though Marigold was strong and likely willing, it was too much for one human.

“Shoo.” He brushed Fuzzle from his lap.

The chair creaked as he stood.

“Ho there, Alfred.” His footsteps thudded against the porch stairs. As he strolled over to the cart, he waved with his bandaged hand.

“You’re having a rough go of it, Jask. What happened there?”

“A nail got the better of me,” he said.

“Didn’t think anything pierced orc—” Alfred’s eyes widened. “Jask, did you get a wife since yesterday?”

Shite. Sweat broke out on Bram’s forehead. Marigold had appeared on the porch. What the hell? Had they not agreed that for the duration of her stay, she’d remain indoors when strangers were around? Alfred was a gentle soul, but he was the worst at keeping secrets.

“She’s a childhood friend.” Bram clutched the side of the cart. “She needs a place to stay. Discreetly. Her life is at risk, Alfred. So please—keep this to yourself.”

He searched the older man’s wrinkled eyes, pleading. Trust didn’t come easily to Bram since the night Crispin betrayed him, but he had no choice.

“Say no more.” Alfred tapped his nose to signal an agreement.

He believed Alfred, but the quiver in Bram’s stomach was hard to settle. All that stood between Marigold and discovery was the willpower of a notorious gossip.

“Hello!” Marigold beamed and held out mugs to him and Alfred. “Care for a blackberry-leaf tisane? It’s refreshing.”

“Can’t turn down an offer like that, miss.” His smile revealed his scant collection of teeth. “Name’s Alfred. And who might you be?”

Bram held his breath as he sipped. Please let her not be so naive as to give her real name.

Without hesitation, she said, “Meg.”

He choked. Meg was the alias she used to run around Thornwick’s city center unnoticed.

“Everything okay, Jask?” she asked.