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.”
“I can,” Bram said. “Do they know you’re here?”
“They’ve sent a half dozen of us into the hinterlands to search for Princess Marigold, which I can say since the guard already
told you as much that first night. The others don’t know I’m in this specific part, though. I’m the only one on your farm.”
Though Bram was glad to have this intelligence, he’d taught the boy better than to reveal he was alone.
A lesson that others should’ve reinforced.
Once again, the lax protocols of Harvest Hollow would kill knights.
If Bram wanted, he could rend this young man limb from limb and toss the pieces into the deep of the lake.
Lucky for the boy, he was not a murderous monster.
He hooked his damp linen on his haversack. “Why have you ventured this way?”
“I’ve been following you, sir.”
“Call me Jask, in case ears are about.” Bram folded his arms. “I’m impressed. I didn’t detect you, even with my superior hearing.”
He couldn’t help but be proud of the young man. Coby was also a foundling who’d been made a squire in the prince’s guard.
Given their similar circumstances, he’d taken a shine to the boy and taught him much in the time they’d served together.
Color rose in the young knight’s cheeks. “Thank you, sir.”
“Can we return to the point at hand? Why are you following me?”
“To apologize.” Coby’s lips formed a grim slash. “For what happened three years ago.”
A heaviness settled on Bram’s sternum. Saints, had Coby carried the weight of the curse on his shoulders? It always seemed
the people least responsible bore the most guilt.
“Lad, no.” Bram clapped a hand on Coby’s pauldron. “You have nothing to apologize for. ’Twas my hubris that put me in that
situation, and it was Crispin’s fault for invoking the curse. You are innocent of any misdeed.”
The young knight’s brows knitted. “But—”
“No, I won’t hear it. What could you have done? Argued with the prince? He would’ve had the sprite curse you as well.”
The young knight’s shoulders shuddered with a deep breath. “Thank you, sir. I mean Jask. And I want you to know—it was me
who delivered the notice about . . . about Bram . . . to the princess. She, well, if you don’t mind me saying so, she was
devastated. Her lady’s companion had to catch her to keep her from falling to the floor.”
Bram’s heart ached at the image. “I’m grateful it was you. But tell me, have you risked your station to apologize when you should be part of a search party?”
“Yes. I mean, no.” Coby scratched the back of his neck. “The person we’re searching for—it’s Princess Marigold. Besides the
prince, her lady’s companion, and six of his knights including me, no one in Harvest Hollow knows she’s gone missing.”
“I hardly believe that, Coby. Surely you know if eight people are in on a secret, at least one of them has leaked it to others.
My gold would be on Kevin.”
Coby’s lips twitched in a smile. “A safe bet, I agree. But I wanted to warn you that Grimroot Farms has been mentioned several
times, for obvious reasons. The initial inspection the night she disappeared tempered the prince’s suspicions, and the search
goes on elsewhere. I’m loyal to the kingdom, sir, but the prince . . . he’s not honorable, and in this, I do not wish to help
him. So, I had an idea. If you had something of Princess Marigold’s, I could deposit it elsewhere in the kingdom. Perhaps
nearer the Marches, to throw off the scent, so to speak.”
Bram shifted his weight as he considered the knight before him.
Coby had been a delightful squire. Absorbed lessons like a sponge, respectful, early to bed, early to rise, and skilled with
blades and lances. He saw much of himself in the young man, including his ambition. Much as he wanted to trust Coby, giving
him an item of Marigold’s would be a confession that she was on Grimroot Farm. There was a chance the young knight might leverage
Marigold’s . . . recovery . . . to raise his station within Crispin’s circle.
So, he would not agree to it.
“A strategic plan,” Bram said. “Alas, I’ve nothing to offer. I’ve not seen Princess Marigold since our days in Thornwick.”
“Are you certain?” Coby searched his face.
Bram kept his features firm. “Yes.”
Coby nodded, then stepped back. “I need to return to avoid suspicion. The offer stands. If you change your mind, my patrol
takes me here on this day every week, though usually in the morning. Farewell for now.”
Stones crunched under Coby’s feet as he departed to mount his horse.
With all the restraint he could muster, Bram pulled on his boots at a normal pace. Herons glided overhead, calling to each
other, but the rapid pulse thumping in his ears drowned them out. Marigold was at the cottage, alone, because of his messy
feelings.
What had he been thinking, spending the day away from her?
Her safety was, would always be, his priority.
As he walked away from the rocky shore and visible to unknown eyes, he kept his steps unhurried. The moment he was under the
forest’s cover, he ran. The earth rumbled under his footfall, the fallen logs crouched in fear as he leapt over them, until
finally, finally, his cottage lay ahead. Windows aglow, chimney puffing warm smoke.
He slammed the door open, then closed and latched it.
The warm scent of fresh bread greeted him, along with something savory. The sandglass trickled the cook time of whatever was
in the oven. He tossed his bag and tools onto the bench, then swiveled his gaze, but the cottage was empty.
Not in the kitchen, the dining area, or before the fire.
“Marigold!” he called. “Where are you?”
No answer. Fear shot through him as he tore through the back door. She’d tidied the yard and set the laundry for tomorrow’s