Page 72 of The Pumpkin Bride

Chapter 19

Bram emerged from Coldpress Lake, shivering. He’d awoken lusty and frustrated. Lusty because he’d had a realistic dream of Marigold riding him like she was atop a galloping stallion. Frustrated because when he opened his eyes, all he held was a pillow.

He could not spend another cozy morning with her, not when his libido raged. Best to spend the day elsewhere on the farm, away from her and temptation. When he left the cottage before dawn, the chill had frosted the ground.

Winter would come soon.

Hopefully it would quench the fire that ran through his veins for Marigold. Last night, he should’ve worded things better. Her blood was already up, and he’d made it worse. Early this morning, before starting his journey to the far ends of Grimroot Farm, he snipped a few sunflowers as an apology. Luckily, she was still abed, so he left her a note, the flowers, and oats on the stove.

Cowardly? Yes, but the flowers were more eloquent than he.

Quietly, he packed food and washed linens into a haversack. Within the byre, he scratched Queen between the eyes and fixed his tool belt to his hips. With a deep breath that plumed in the chill, he set out to review and repair the integrity of the fences surrounding all forty hectares of the farm. He hoped the spine-breaking mundanity would quell his lust.

Those hopes were dashed.

The monotony allowed his memory to run wild, replaying Marigold hot against his hips while the storm raged. Then imagination took over. As he reset rails that had come loose, he pictured himself peeling her clothing free, laying her down, teasing and stroking her flesh until she fell apart in his arms.

In this body. With this form.

They wouldn’t fit together as they had before. He wasn’t mythically huge, more like the size of an intimidating soldier, and his member was proportional. With preparation, they’d be possible. Love play was a joy with Marigold, and he knew how to soften her petals.

Bram leaned his forehead against the rail in frustration.

A day spent working out the mechanics of making love to Marigold had resulted in the cold dip in the lake. He couldn’t return to the cottage with his trousers tented like an adolescent.

At the lake’s edge, the distorted visage of Jask Bone-Cracker rippled in the water’s surface. In her eyes, he wasn’t a monster. Not once had Marigold flinched from him. No, from the first moment she showed up on his porch, she’d smiled.

Maybe he wasn’t the monster he thought himself to be.

His ears twitched. A lone horse clopped nearby. He’d fastened his belt when a lone man dismounted, then approached. If the shiver that signaled someone crossing the boundary had been triggered, he’d mixed it up with the one caused by the cold lake. A possibly fatal mistake since the knight bore Crispin’s crest.

His heart thudded like a galloping horse.

Marigold was alone.

“Hold.” He growled—might as well lean into the monster bit. “Keep your distance if you know what’s good for you.”

“I, uh—” the knight stammered. “Sir Bram?”

Bram narrowed his gaze. Who was this? And how did he know he was—oh, shite. The knight’s bright eyes and dark hair with the spark of silver gave him away.

“Coby?” He yanked on his shirt. “Is that you, lad?”

Coby broke into a smile. “It is. I was knighted last month.”

Bram searched the boy turned man from top to toe. Coby did not seem to suffer any ill effects from the curse. The sprite had said death was instant if he revealed himself. But . . . Coby had been there that night and already knew his identity. The young knight called him Bram, and yet here he stood, hale and hearty. And last night, Marigold deduced that a curse prevented him from leaving Grimroot Farm, also with no ill effects.

Was there a loophole to the loophole?

The sprite hadn’t said as much . . . then again, sprites weren’t known for being forthright. Crispin was the only other person who’d visited the farm and knew his true identity. But the slippery eel had never used Bram’s name.

“Congratulations.” Bram bound his wet hair with a thong. “Does Crispin know you’ve ventured this way? Or your captain?”

“You mean Sir Kevin?”

Bram snorted. “Saints, Crispin made that lunkhead captain of the palace guard?”

“Yes, he’s captain.” Coby grinned. “But I can’t say he’s a lunkhead.”