Chapter 3 #3
“The deal was pie, then you hit the road.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Nothing but crumbs on your plate, and the
door’s that way.”
Unfazed, Marigold sipped her chicory, frowned, then put it down again. “No, the deal was I’d consider leaving. After careful consideration, I decided I will not. How lucky are you?”
From the yard, Barnaby crowed at the early-morning sun.
“You can’t stay.” Maybe if he said it enough, she’d believe it.
She set her fork down, then folded her hands. “I must. Not for long—I swear it. I have a good plan, but I need a moment to
regroup. Allow me to stay while I sort out my next step. I promise I won’t be a bother. You won’t even notice I’m here.”
Oh, he’d notice. “No.”
“No?” She knit her russet brows in confusion. “No one’s ever . . . Look, I hate to pull the sovereign card, but I am a princess, and you’re duty-bound to chivalrously protect me.”
In Thornwick, she’d quizzed him on the chivalric code to help him study. What she’d quoted was true. However . . .
“Only knights must be chivalrous. As you can see, I’m a humble pumpkin farmer. Therefore, exempt from the code. And you need
to go.”
“But you—”
Dogs brayed outside.
Her fork clattered against her plate. She whipped her gaze toward the door, eyes widened. Anger sizzled through Bram. Not
at her—never at her—but the person responsible for her fear.
He squeezed his fists at his sides. Allowing Marigold to stay was impossible.
She’d be safer with the villain on the other side of the door than here with him.
Protecting her had always been his top priority, even if it meant protecting her from himself.
In a whirl of homespun cotton, she hid behind his chair. “Help me. Please.”
The please twisted his heart. He should not do this.
And yet.
“Will you leave me be afterward?”
She nodded. “Yes, I swear on my father’s crown.”
“Hide.”
With a grunt he buckled himself into his boots, then opened the door. The chill air on the porch was welcome against his heated
skin. Unwelcome, on the other hand, were the braying dogs and half dozen knights on horseback who bore a crest he’d once worn
but now loathed. A tall, well-dressed blond man dismounted.
Prince Crispin.
He was Marigold’s betrothed?
Blood and bones, no. Not him. Anyone but him. Bram would lay down his life to stop her from marrying this evil, preening pumpkin-skull. He shut the door behind
him, unwilling to take the chance that Marigold could overhear any part of this long overdue conversation.
The knights surrounded his porch. The gold hoops in Bram’s left ear jingled as he twitched it. The slide of steel from sheath
was unmistakable. Even with his augmented strength, he was outnumbered. Still, he flexed his fingers.
Crispin dismounted, then approached with wide-open arms and a wolfish grin. “Jask, my old friend! How do you fare this morning?”
Bram leaned against the porch pillar. “Full of piss and vinegar. You?”
“Distressed.” Crispin pouted. “My betrothed has lost her way in the Windfall Wood.”
Bram would bet his boulder-sized pumpkin Crispin practiced his expressions in the looking glass.
“Oh?” He inspected his fingernails. “Too bad, though I’d choose dangers of the wood over marrying you if I were her.”
The prince glared. “Where is she, orc?”
“How should I know?” Bram shrugged.
“Liar.” Crispin pointed to the dogs bounding over the pumpkins in the patch. “My hounds have traced Princess Marigold’s scent
here. To you.”
He dropped his jaw in false surprise. “My Marigold?”
Please let him buy this. Bram was no actor, but he’d wager Crispin was unpracticed at reading an orc’s reactions.
“Correction,” Crispin said. “My Marigold. The banns have been announced.”
Bram dramatically closed his eyes and punched the pillar. Something cracked in his knuckles. Huh, he thought orc strength
would’ve splintered the pillar. Also—ow. But his bloodied knuckles reminded him of a plausible reason Crispin’s best-in-class dogs tracked Marigold here. From his
pocket, he withdrew a cotton handkerchief edged with lace. In the corner, Marigold had embroidered her initials and family
crest in Thornwick’s violet hue.
He waved it like a white flag.
“Of course they traced her here. You’ve stolen my life and my love.” He growled more than spoke. Might as well give them the
real orc show. “Now you want to steal my last memento of her? She gave me this favor during my last tournament in Thornwick.”
Crispin, a predictably petty bully, snatched it from him, then held it to his nose.
“It carries her scent,” the prince said.
Bram hated parting with it, but if it encouraged Crispin to leave, it was a worthy sacrifice.
“But . . .” Crispin tucked the kerchief into his brigandine’s sleeve. “It does not explain the trail the hounds picked up
in the woods. Men, search the house.”
The knights knocked Bram aside and streamed into the cottage. Much as he wanted to clap their skulls together with a satisfying
thwack, he kept his hands at his sides. Anything else would raise Crispin’s suspicion.
Please let Marigold be as good at hiding as she’d been as a child.