“Aye,” her cousin, Emma Callanach, agreed with mischief dancing across her blue eyes. “Many adventures with many handsome, young men.”
Rose’s belly did a little flip with excitement. She was twenty years, considered too old for marriage by many. She didn’t care what others thought. She didn’t think she would ever marry anyway, so why should it concern her?
Her house had been burned down with her in it when she was eight. Six years later, her mother and Jonetta, Rose’s friend and kitchen servant, were murdered in the family carriage on their way to Lockerbie, their bodies burned beyond recognition.
Afraid that someone was out to kill his family, Rose’s father had locked up the gates of the Callanach Castle and kept Rose inside, hidden from the world. He had an enemy who showed himself by his affinity for lighting his victims on fire.
Her father wanted whoever was guilty of killing his wife to believe Rose had been traveling with her mother and was the other dead body. No one was to know she lived. No one was trusted, save for her father’s closest guards.
Most of the servants were released of duty and sent away. All of her father’s guards, save fourteen of his men were released, as well.
She hadn’t met anyone new since she was fourteen. No one, save those men and her uncle knew she was alive. No visitors were allowed through the gates.
Rose’s life was very lonely. She lived mostly through books. Her father bought her every kind of writing he could find, including a lavishly illuminated psalter from East Anglia. She studied poetry and fantastical worlds, among many other things. She knew how to play chess and how to play seven different instruments. She could shoot an arrow with precision—like her father, write, sew, and more. She had no friends, no siblings. Just her father, his fourteen guards, less than a handful of servants, and a teacher here and there.
Rose’s father had assured her many times that the only peers available for marriage were widowers twice her age, round, and red-nosed. Some of his soldiers were only a handful of years older than her, but they were all married.
Her father trusted no one to protect her and convinced her that if she had suitors, all they would do was slobber on her and make quiet crass remarks if they found themselves alone with her. They would profess their love after an hour or two, not to win her favor, but her father’s.
Rose believed what she was told. She didn’t want a husband like any of the men her father described. Besides, she would never want any man to look upon her scarred legs.
She hadn’t minded the idea of never marrying, but then Emma began to visit with Rose’s Uncle Richard and brought with her stories of young, virile men and stolen kisses behind the stables.
Emma had spoken about an endless forest where faeries were rumored to live and endless fields of bluebells and other colorful flowers. Rose would be happy with however the landscape looked. For it would be different from anything she’d seen in a long time.
It wasn’t until her father’s brother arrived from Hamilton with Emma last month that a spark of hope was ignited that she might finally break free of her walls.
After much begging and crying from her and Emma and promises from her uncle that no danger would befall her, her father had agreed to let her go to Hamilton for the winter, which was almost upon them.
They’d heard much about the Black Death ravaging England. Her uncle’s reckoning was that since Hamilton was farther north than Dumfries, she would be even safer from it.
As far as safety while traveling went, her father sent ten of his most fearsome men to travel with her. Her uncle was the Governor of Hamilton and traveled with twenty of his own men who hadn’t been allowed entry through the heavy gate, and awaited them in the town.
Now, on the second day of her journey, she and Emma rode in the center of thirty-one men, well protected should any thieves think to attack.
Rose’s only regret was that her father had not come with them, but he rarely traveled. None were surprised that he would not be joining them. He hated letting her go. Rose knew it. She could see it in his tormented gaze. He was afraid for her, but this was what she wanted and because of that, he had agreed. She prayed for his safety while she was away with most of his guard, and that the pestilence would not come near him.
“Do you think we might sleep at an inn tonight?” she asked her cousin now. “I have never—”
“Oh, no,” Emma told her. “My father had to keep twenty men fed while they traveled to Dumfries to escort us home. He is not that wealthy, Rose. Besides, we will be home by tonight.”
She moved her horse closer to Rose’s horse. “Let us continue our discussion about what you are looking for in a husband.”
Rose lifted her hand to her lips and laughed. She and Emma had spoken on this topic often over the last month. “My father will not let me marry, Emma. Have you forgotten so soon?”
“No, but he let you travel, did he not? ’Tis evidence that he can be swayed.”
Rose didn’t dare hope, especially for a young, handsome husband. But she had her fancies. “I would like a man who is genuine and joyful, kindhearted and compassionate, perhaps a bit playful. Not vulgar and arrogant like some others I have met. I would prefer a man who is a bit more refined. As far as his appearance, dark hair and pretty eyes, not dull brown, like mine.”
Emma snorted, “My dearest, there is
