Page 94 of The Pumpkin Bride

“Do you have a smaller knife?” she asked. “I need it for your earrings.”

“In my whittling box,” he said.

She ventured to the fireplace and knelt to where he kept the box. Its hinges creaked as she opened it. Inside, a dozen knives were slotted into the velvet-covered rack. Various figures in progress were jumbled in the kit’s well. She grabbed a small knife from the end but couldn’t resist inspecting figures. More of Jask’s skilled handiwork. These thumb-sized creatures were adorable. Here was a bear, there a squirrel, and there, under a few others, a . . .

A unicorn. Rough, much less skillfully crafted than the others.

Her blood pounded, and her vision clouded at the edges. She stood, though she wasn’t sure her legs would continue to hold her.

“Marigold?” Jask stood behind her. “Did you find what you needed?”

Slowly, she turned with the figure in her palm. “Is . . . is this my unicorn?”

Green though he was, he paled.

Marigold’s mind reeled back to the night before her true love departed Thornwick to seek his fortune. They’d met in the hayloft at the witching hour, and she’d given him the rough-hewn charm, half of their locket, and her handkerchief.

All on loan so he could keep her close.

Not to worry, Marigold. A confident smile played upon lips she’d kissed a thousand times. I’ll be back with a fortune and, with any luck, a title. I’ll ask for your hand, and we’ll have our happily-ever-after. Like the people in your fairy tales.

Cradled against his steady heart, she’d believed him.

What if . . . what if he had come back to her?

She rubbed the figure’s mane with her thumb, the way she always had. With her gaze trained on Jask, she squinted. Tilted her head, then squinted again and looked at him, her mind whirring.

The gold flecks in his eyes . . . the expression, private jokes from their past . . . the gentle teasing . . . and the skilled pleasing in his bed. Saints, how had she not seen it before? Felt the tug on her heartstring?

She laid a hand on his face. “Bram? Is it you?”

“What? I— What, Marigold?” He stepped backward, his leg knocking into his chest, making him stumble and thud onto the divan.

The panicked set to his features confirmed it. Any time she’d caught him in a half-truth, this was the expression he wore. Certainty settled on her shoulders like a cloak.

“You’re Sir Bram Duncan of Thornwick, my childhood best friend, sweetheart, and true love.”

His grin was more of a grimace. “Did you get into my cider?”

“Don’t you joke with me.” She thrust the precious unicorn into her pocket, then knelt before him. “This is not the time.”

“I’m not him.” Panic laced his voice. “You must believe me.”

She grabbed his left hand. There, at the base of his thumb, was the scar from the deep self-inflicted wound from when he carved the unicorn for her eighth birthday.

Tenderly, she kissed the scar. “It is you.”

Not a question, a statement.

“I won’t let anything happen to you.” Anguish carved lines in his face as he pulled her onto his lap.

“I know that.” His embrace squashed her nose to his chest. “But I need to breathe.”

“Oh, sorry.” He released her. “But wait. You’re all right. You’re all right? You’re not dying?”

“Sweet mercy, no. I’m fine.” She leaned back from him. “I’m well. Are you well?”

His glistening eyes searched hers.