Page 6 of The Pumpkin Bride

As though she were a broodmare, selected to contribute height and magic?

The firelight flickered in Crispin’s beautiful eyes. Had she never met Bram, she might have been held in thrall by the prince’s green gaze, his boyish grin, or the dimple that punctured his left cheek. But she had met Bram and knew all too well what sincere interest and admiration looked like. They were absent from Crispin’s face.

“That’s wonderfully tolerant of you, but I have no magic.” She circled her gaze around the board to avoid his inspection and evaluated her gameplay options. Ah—there. With a fluid motion, she moved her queen into position. “Checkmate.”

Satisfaction coiled through her. She might not love the game, but saints, she loved to win.

Crispin’s gaze dropped to the board. “I haven’t lost in years. Are you a master?”

“Hardly.” Marigold lifted a shoulder. “My brothers like to play.”

His laugh didn’t reach his eyes. “My wife-to-be is clever, then. Good to know. At the risk of sounding indelicate, there’s another rumor to discuss.”

Another thing she missed about Bram—he’d always said what he meant, plainly. No hints or dramatic half statements. Innuendo especially prickled her skin, and she’d taken to bluntness to avoid misunderstandings.

“Oh?” She sorted the pieces into their appropriate places in the velvet-lined chess box, starting with the pawns. “And what might that be?”

From inside his jerkin, he withdrew a silver chain. “This. Found at the Lantern Oak, deep in the forest. A knight who died in my service several years ago wore it. Your knight, I believe? He spoke highly of your beauty, wit, and faithfulness. His worshipful adoration is what drew my attention to you, Princess. When my squire brought word of his demise, I did not send this with him. I thought to keep the affection a secret, to protect your modesty.”

He dribbled the links onto the chessboard. As her younger face smiled up at her from the open locket, Marigold’s chest pinched. With much difficulty, she schooled her features. She shouldn’t appear too eager to gather the necklace in front of her fiancé.

With the queen clenched in her fist, she said, “Thank you.”

“I’ve said nothing about it. So, you see, I can keep a secret, if you can learn to trust me.” The normally well-mannered prince shoved back abruptly from the gaming table. “Rest well, Princess Marigold. I enjoyed our match and look forward to your arrival at Brambleton Castle.”

Wordlessly, she nodded.

Was he showing kindness? Or dominance?

A thought she’d pondered often as they’d packed her trousseau for her move to his home, where she’d learn the management of Brambleton Castle as their wedding date approached. During these last few weeks in Harvest Hollow, however, it became clearer than the waters of Amberglen Lake that Prince Crispin was obsessed with perfection, beauty, and her family’s holdings—especially Thornwick’s mineral-rich northern territories.

Missing from that list?

Her.

Opportunity abounded for Crispin to learn about her. Despite his endless talking, he asked her few questions. At first, she was grateful he let the topic of her rumored magical ability rest. Then, as their conversations droned on, she realized he asked her nothing about her upbringing, her thoughts on current affairs, her philosophies on life. No, his questions centered on when the dowry might arrive and if she needed a more fashionable hairdresser.

Clearly, his woo-pitching game needed work.

One of many examples—upon her arrival, he’d invited her to a candlelight supper. A good start, she’d thought. But as the evening wore on, it became clear his idea of conversation was enumerating his accomplishments as regent and pausing at the appropriate moments to allow her to swoon. Instead, she was tempted to swallow thorns to keep herself awake.

“It’s as though he’s never had to earn someone’s interest,” she’d complained to her companion, Bess. The older woman had initially served as her nursemaid but had become more of a chaperone since Marigold came of age.

“Give it time,” Bess counseled as she turned down Marigold’s bed. “He’s a handsome fellow, isn’t he? All those gold curls?”

“Yes,” she’d agreed. Bram had been fair as well, but his flaxen hair had been long and thick, with the most enviable swoop at the ends. “But there’s something vacant in his eyes. When he’s looking at me, it’s as though he’s appraising me.”

“You ponder much, child.” Bess had blown out the bedside candle. “Tomorrow’s another day to find common ground and learn to love him. You’ll get there.”

Bess could not have been more wrong, and what Marigold had overheard last evening proved it.

Which was why she was in the forest at the equinox’s witching hour.

Spiders and mysterious cracklings aside, Windfall Woods possessed an ethereal beauty she hadn’t appreciated in the first hours of her mad scramble. Fragmented moonlight scattered on the forest’s floor like wish coins, and the trees’ silvered bark served as signposts. In the distance, though it was not the right season for fireflies, golden orbs bobbed, beckoning to her as though the forest itself was determined to guide her through to safety.

Onward.

The duration of her travels was impossible to know, but her legs screamed at her to stop and take a break. Instead, she climbed over a fallen log and splashed in a mud puddle on the other side. Tired, hungry, and anxious as she was, she giggled as an unbidden memory popped into mind. During their first breakfast together, Crispin had asked her a personal question.