Chapter 3 #2
“Apologies, Princess. I wasn’t expecting company.” He folded his arms and leaned against a support beam, tracking her movements around the cottage. She moved with grace, more confident than the last time they’d been together.
She lifted a carved squirrel from the surface covered in shavings. After turning it around and inspecting its tail, she set
it back down. “My lady’s companion always said a tidy room is the sign of an organized mind.”
That companion, Bess, also often said, Clay does not mix with gold. Implying he and Marigold should not be friends, let alone true loves. So, her advice on that or any other topic wasn’t worth
a split pumpkin to him.
“Duly noted. Now leave.”
She must go. The longer she remained, the greater the torture.
“First, kind sir, do I smell pumpkin pie?” She splayed her fingers across her midsection. “Apple as well, if I’m not mistaken.
My favorites, and I’m famished after my long journey.”
Her nose was as excellent as ever. “Get out.”
She lifted a shoulder. “Come now, surely you can do better than that for a princess.”
Do not smile. He did his best to exude grumpiness.
“On my honor, I’ll consider leaving if you feed me any morsel you have to spare.” She closed the distance between them, then
stuck out her hand. “But first, an introduction. I’m Princess Marigold of Thornwick. And you are?”
He crossed his arms. “Displeased. Go before I eat you.”
“I can’t recommend it. I’m sure I’m gamey. Also, it’s rude to leave me aloft.” She waggled her hand. “Please, let’s be friends.”
If wisdom prevailed, he’d keep his hands neatly tucked under his arms. This body changed the way he interacted with the world, with its sensitive ears and nose and ability to see in the dark.
But Bram had never been accused of being wise, and this might be his last chance in this life to touch her.
As he wrapped his large warm green hand around her smaller, cooler one, relief flooded him.
His memory matched the soft and strong reality of her, like she was steel wrapped in velvet.
With an arched eyebrow, she said, “Now that we’re friends, about that pie . . .”
That was his Marigold. Large of appetite, especially for sweets. She’d once destroyed an entire pumpkin loaf he’d purchased
after winning a purse at his first knight’s tournament. Feeding her would go faster than arguing with her, but he’d make it
unpleasant.
“We’re not friends.” He dished out a slice of each while she sat in his rocking chair. “But I’ll trade food for information.
How did you end up on this farm?”
“That’s a long story.” She unlaced her boots. “May I have a drink as well? I’m parched.”
Hmph. Removing shoes was not a sign of someone expecting to depart after breakfast. In her stockinged feet, she padded into the
kitchen. After two heaves of the spring water pump he’d installed in the kitchen, she washed her hands in the basin.
He poured a mug of chicory, then set it next to her plate. “Tell it, fast.”
“Curious, aren’t you?” She elegantly sat on the stool at the butcher’s block. “Well, congratulations. You’re the first person
to learn I’ve run away from my betrothed.”
Her betrothed? Bram’s guts twisted like he’d eaten rotten meat. His under tusks pressed sharply into his lip as he clamped
his mouth shut. Only a fool would expect her to be enduringly faithful to a ghost. Wait, though—she said she was running away.
So maybe she hadn’t found true love again?
“Who is he?” Stupid of him to ask. He truly did not want to know who’d made a play for the heart of his sweet Marigold.
“I’ll keep that to myself—thank you.” She closed her eyes as she sampled the apple pie.
Her low, satisfied moan stirred him. He held tight to the counter and tried not to stare at her luscious mouth. Another problem
with this orc body—in it, his temper flared hotter, as did his passions.
“Saints, that’s perfection. Just like the apple pie from home.” She pounded a delicate fist on the table. “Are you a baker?”
He grunted without answering, though warmth spread through his chest. After the first six months of barely leaving his bed,
he’d thrown himself into his hobbies. It helped. After tending the farm and his animals, those hobbies—whittling, reading,
and baking—occupied most nights. It had taken him ages to figure out the Thornwick recipe.
“You should sell these at the market.” She cut another bite from the apple wedge, then sampled the pumpkin pie. Her low moan
returned, this time accompanied by a dramatic swoon. “That may be better than the apple. What do I taste in the pumpkin? It
has a warm, herbal backbone.”
Everything in him wanted to boast that he’d infused the cream with bay leaf to balance the sweetness—another Thornwick-style
trick. But if he spilled that secret, who knew what else she’d ask and where he’d stop? Much better to keep up with the grunting.
“I’m going to assume your grunting is grudging agreement with my appreciation of your culinary skills.” She sipped her chicory,
then pulled a face. “Unlike the pies, this is vile. Did you brew it from the hearth’s ashes?”
“It’s chicory,” he answered. Alfred had recommended it, and Bram also thought it vile when he’d first tried it. “It’s an acquired
taste.”
“It tastes like a skunk’s ass.”
He turned his snort-laugh into another grunt.
“Don’t worry, though,” she said. “My herbal blends will change your life. I’ll make one for breakfast tomorrow.”
His mouth turned to cotton. As much as he wanted her at his side until the end of time, the temptation to reveal his identity
would be too great. One slipup would be fatal to her. No, he couldn’t chance it. She had to go.