Chapter 3
Bram tossed another log onto the fire.
Outside, Barnaby the rooster greeted dawn like a long-lost friend. As well timed as the shriek was, the rooster did not reserve
it for sunrise. Midday, midnight—the actual clock mattered not to Barnaby. This past night, however, Bram hadn’t minded. Had
he not been awake, he might not have felt the shivers that signaled someone crossing the borders of Grimroot Farm.
Did the autumn sprite know that the same magic that restricted Bram to this large patch of land also warned him of trespassers?
Since the wheel of the year had turned again to autumn, he could hike over to the Lantern Oak and ask the sprite, but he preferred
not to twist this curse further.
No, he’d stay right here on the farm proper.
Most trespassers ran off at the mere sight of his immense green body and under tusks. The only person who hadn’t been frightened
off in the three years since “Jask” arrived was Alfred the Carter. The wizened delivery man claimed to have seen it all, wasn’t
bothered by orcs, and they’d struck up an amiable acquaintanceship.
Bram missed people, but he didn’t relish people screaming in fear.
Thus, he’d learned to keep his own company well.
The fresh log popped in the hearth. Hmph, must not have dried that properly. More pops and—wait—that wasn’t the log. Someone was knocking at his door. He’d ignore it. It was too early for screams.
The divan he’d built for himself protested as he flopped onto it.
The knocking continued. Persistent wretch, whoever it was. Bram set his feet on the trunk next to his carving knife and the
menagerie of forest creatures he’d carved, then sipped his chicory. Though he preferred coffee, a beverage he’d enjoyed on
a journey with Crispin, it was hard to come by out here in the hinterlands. So, chicory it was. Bitter and brown as the earth
it sprang from, the beverage was smoky on the tongue.
Saints, could the person knocking not take a hint?
The last thing he wanted to do was frighten another poor soul, but he was running out of options. Mustering his best, deepest,
dangerous orc voice, he yelled, “Go away!”
The knocking stopped.
“No?” The woodpeckerish knocking redoubled. “I will not.”
He raked his hand down his face and set his mug on the crate. As he stomped toward his sizable door, the floorboards rattled
under his feet. Through the wood, he growled, “Go away if you know what’s good for you.”
“Please, sir, I have nowhere to go.”
The sir was a nice assumption. An ill-informed one, though. Likely naivete, because, based on the voice, either a woman or child
stood on the other side of the door. Bram pressed his forehead to the oak. Dammit. No matter his intentions, he’d frighten them off. He’d open the door, they’d scream or faint, and once again he’d be reminded
of the monster he’d become.
Might as well rip off the bandage.
“Not my problem.” With a mighty heave, he raised the bar, then whipped open the door. “Leave, or I’ll—”
On a gasp, Bram’s knees buckled.
His sweet Marigold.
Behind her, the rising sun gilded the furrowed farmland that spread like a chessboard from the cottage. That same sun sent
a strategic beam directly to his porch. Though she was pale, dawn blessed her with an angelic glow. The mischievous smile
that curved her lips, however, belied the halo.
“Or you’ll what?” she asked.
He caught the doorframe to hold himself upright. It couldn’t be her. He must have fallen asleep after all, and dreams tortured him yet again. That was the only explanation. But this
Marigold did not match his memory. Instead of the silks that were her custom, she wore an ordinary homespun dress and cloak.
Both revealed a scandalous amount of the ankles he’d caressed and massaged after she’d spent an uncomfortable day in fine
new shoes.
He glanced at his hand, the one that threatened to splinter the frame.
Still green. This was no dream.
Another shiver rolled through him, making him tremble. If it was the magic that signaled a trespasser or a desire to sweep
this woman into his arms, he couldn’t say. But he kept his grip on the solid wood to stay his determined hands. He imagined
Marigold’s reaction at being unexpectedly embraced by an enormous orc. Terror would be the only logical response, and the
last thing he wanted was to terrorize his true love.
“Are you all right?” She reached toward his shoulder, but he jerked away. Her touch would be too much to bear.
“Leave off,” he growled. Air refused to come in the amount he wanted, so he was forced to gulp like a fish that had flung
itself on shore.
She glanced over her shoulder. “Will you invite me in?”
Saints, her melodic voice was a balm to his soul. In his time here, he worried he’d forgotten her particular timbre. He had not. Honey and fizz by day; whiskey at night when she was overcome with desire. Which he should not think about.
“Kind sir?” She locked her blue gaze on his. “Seeing as how you haven’t objected to my request, I’ll take that as a yes.”
She ducked under his arm and pushed her way to the middle of the cottage. He swooned a second time as her scent, like a breeze
through an orchard, carried him back to their days in Thornwick. As children, romping in the paddocks and meadows. Then, as
they grew older and the seeds of their childhood affection blossomed, sneaking off into hideaways that would allow them to
love each other.
Chivalrously, of course.
Even before he was a knight, he was unfailingly courteous. After the curse turned him, he’d tried to remain the same. As strangers
rambled across Grimroot Farm, he’d attempt a pleasant exchange, but they scampered away in fear. With his additional foot
of height, thickened proportions, pointy ears, tusks, and deep green skin, they assumed him a murderous barbarian. Eventually,
he decided to play the role. Much easier to live down to people’s expectations than set himself up for disappointment.
But Marigold hadn’t run.
Ironic, that. She was the one person in the five kingdoms that should keep her distance.
The secret of his identity stuck in his throat. All he wanted to do was shout that he was her Bram, returned to her after
too many torturous years. But the curse meant the truth would kill her. He’d lost much in this life already—his name, his
form, his place in the world. He’d lost Marigold as well, but because of the curse, she was not safe with him.
She must go.
“You can’t come in,” he growled.
“I already have.” Marigold popped her hands onto her hips. “It seems we’re at an impasse.”
Even on his moodiest days, the juicy curve of her lips could magic a smile from him. He was a sunflower to her sun, basking
in her levity. For her sake, though, he would glower and shout and stomp and scare her into leaving. Even if the playful sparks
in her eye made him want to fall to his knees and beg for mercy.
“Go.” He jabbed at the door. “Now.”
“Oh, honestly, good sir, would you turn a princess out into the wild?” She pressed her palm to her chest. “I’ve traveled all
night and am dead on my feet. I won’t be a bother. Is your wife at home? Perhaps she and I can speak.”
Marigold scanned the room as she rotated on her heel, presumably looking for another more reasonable person to charm. What
did she see as she turned from where he stood in front of the door? With a hummingbird’s speed, her gaze alit on the kitchen,
then the dining area tucked under the loft, the stairs, the back door, and the hearth around which he’d arranged the divan,
a rocking chair, and large, soft reading chair.
Her silence chafed like poison ivy between his shoulder blades.
What did she think of his humble home? Half the furniture was built by his hands; the rest he’d found here and since repaired.
To his eye, it was quaint and rustic. The Marigold he’d known would think the same. But perhaps she’d changed in the last
five years, and now she’d consider it shabby? Marigold remained silent, tapping her chin, as she ventured toward the shelves
lining the wall on either side of the fireplace.
He should’ve guessed the books would attract her attention first.
“I have no wife,” he grumbled to the woman to whom he’d pledged undying love.
“But you have so many books.” Marigold ran her index finger along the spines.
Through Alfred, his lifeline to the markets of Harvest Hollow, he’d arranged with Brumet’s Books to deliver a fresh tale each
week. Along with his other hobbies, reading helped stave off boredom during the past three years he’d been chained to Grimroot
Farm.
“What do books have to do with a wife?”
“In my experience, more women read for pleasure. Were these a collection of instruction manuals or atlases or religious texts,
that would be one thing. But they are all novels, poems, and philosophies.”
As she tipped her head back to read the titles among the stacked shelves, her hood fell back. His chest tightened as his past
cannonballed into his present. Marigold fashioned her hair in a long braid tucked into a bun, the same style she preferred
when they adventured in the woods as children. But her rebellious curls, the ones he’d spent hours running his fingers through,
would not be tamed. They leapt free and framed her face.
In much the same way he’d like to with his hands.
“Oh, this is a good one.” She pulled a volume from the shelf, flipped through it, then returned it. “The lack of a wife explains
the mess,” she remarked, looking around the room.
“What mess?” He’d done the dishes and tidied up after supper.
“I mean . . .” She circled her hands as she revolved on her heel. “Your home is charming, I’ll grant you. Especially the outside,
with the intricately carved jack-o’-lanterns. They were a beacon to the stairs. But inside? Every surface is cluttered. The
chest is covered in wooden carvings, the chair possesses a library’s worth of reading material, the kitchen table is full
of farming tools, and the counters are stacked with bakeware.”