Chapter 2

Eighteen years later

P rincess Rosamund sat in the sewing circle, holding the embroidery hoop while staring out the window. It was a perfect spring day with a bright blue sky and a few wispy clouds. The twitter of birdsong filtered in through the open casement and somewhere below in the castle gardens, a squirrel emitted an angry chatter. It was followed immediately by the caw of a mockingbird that wanted nothing to do with the squirrel.

Or so she imagined.

It was a picture-perfect day for riding or running through the gardens barefoot with the wind in her hair.

“Rosamund, your sewing,” her mother chastised.

Her mother nudged her with her elbow. With a sigh, she went back to the linen pulled taut in the hoop and stabbed it with the needle, tugging through pale pink thread and pretending she was interested in embroidery. She wasn’t.

All she wanted to do was run through the iron gate in the castle gardens and into the meadow just beyond the walls to freedom. To smell the fragrant blooming flowers and lay under the willow tree in the cool grass. To dance pebbles over the stream and watch them skip.

Instead, she was stuck inside within the sewing circle with her mother, the queen, and her ladies in waiting and all the other courtly women who were busy gossiping about anything and everything. The servants, their husbands, their children, whoever. When they tired of gossip, they turned their conversation to the latest fashions coming out of Rothbridge, the realm to the north. Apparently, there were luxurious silks and velvets that all the ladies were mad to have.

The dressmakers, it seemed, had trouble keeping up with demand.

Rosamund was bored out of her head. She cared not for silks or velvets or the latest fashion in hats.

Though she was a princess, she wasn’t interested in sewing or singing or dancing or anything else that taught her to be the perfect, proper princess. Her parents kept a close eye on her, never letting her out of their sight. And if they weren’t available, then any one of the servants or guards would be her constant companion.

It was exhausting.

Her interest was in riding her favorite horse, a beautiful gray mare. She longed for adventure and excitement and fun. Not sitting inside a drafty castle forever.

As her eighteenth birthday approached, all she needed now was a line of suitors to come knocking on the door to ask for her hand in marriage. She was certain her father was busy trying to make the perfect match for her with one of the nobles. A duke would be his first choice. He’d settle for a marquess or an earl. He’d absolutely refuse a viscount or a baron. She was a princess, after all.

As she stabbed the material once again, the faint sound of a trumpet wafted through the open window on the breeze. Her head snapped up. She glanced at her mother, who seemed not to notice as she continued with her perfect stitches.

The trumpet sounded again. Rosamund dropped her sewing and hurried to the window.

“Did you hear that?”

She stood on tiptoe and leaned out. But there was nothing to see but the castle gardens.

“Ah, yes,” her mother said. She stood with a rustle of skirts. “Our visitors have arrived. Come, Rosamund. We must greet them.”

Rosamund whirled from the window and gaped at her mother. “Who is it?”

Her mother handed off her sewing to one of the ladies and waved for Rosamund to follow her. She didn’t bother to answer her question.

Curious, she followed her out of the room, glad to have the sewing circle behind her. If there were trumpets, then the visitor was of some importance.

They made their way down the curved staircase and to the great hall, where the servants were lined up in perfect order from the door which was open to welcome the visitor. Her father was outside, standing at attention dressed in his finery.

Rosamund glanced down at her simple gown of blue muslin, then over to her mother. She wore a pale lavender gown trimmed in lace and held her hands clasped in front of her, standing rigid and tall.

Her mother’s blonde hair was coiled about her head with ringlets on each side of her comely face. She had a regal look about her with high cheekbones and full lips under a thin, straight nose.

Rosamund straightened and did her best to mimic her mother, but she was not nearly as regal or refined. Her hair hung in waves down her back. Her cheekbones were not nearly as high and her lips were certainly not perfect. The only thing she got from her mother that was perfect was her dark green eyes.

The carriage rumbled up the dusty path heading for the castle. It was not ornate or ostentatious. Just a simple carriage drawn by four trotting horses. Rosamund glanced at her mother who stood still, her keen eyes on the carriage in the distance. Her stoic face was devoid of emotion.

The carriage came to a halt. The footman stepped down to open the door and stand aside. A man emerged. He turned back to the carriage, his hand outstretched to help the woman step down. Her father remained in place as the couple approached. Something about them told Rosamund they were not merely from the nobility. They were more. They were royalty.

But the only royals she knew of were the ones to the north in the kingdom of Woodhaven. As far as she knew, they simply weren’t that friendly with each other. But perhaps something changed.

“Ah, Reginald. It’s good to see you again.” Her father stepped forward, extending his hand.

Reginald took it, gave it a shake. “And you, Stephan. You remember my wife, Adele?”

“Yes, of course. It’s a pleasure to see you again.” He took her hand and kissed it, then turned and motioned to her and her mother. “And you remember my wife, Eleanor, and my daughter, Rosamund.”

Her mother stepped forward, a warm smile on her face. Rosamund followed her lead as questions floated through her mind. Why would the king and queen of Woodhaven come here? Why would her father invite them?

“Nice to see you both again, your majesties,” her mother said, dipping a low curtsy.

Reginald gave a hearty laugh that rumbled deep in his throat and jiggled his ample belly. “No need to stand on ceremony with us.” When he spotted her, he grinned so big, his eyes lit up. “Ah, princess. I haven’t seen you since you were a babe. You’ve grown into a fine young woman, haven’t you?”

She said nothing as she peered at the man she didn’t know. He was short and stocky with a thick middle and a full white beard. His hair was neatly combed under the simple gold crown. He wore a dark blue tunic, black breeches, boots covered in dust, and a cloak around his shoulders clasped with a gold pin.

“Of course, she has,” the queen of Woodhaven said as she shoved aside her husband. She reached for Rosamund’s hand, holding it in her soft one. A small smile creased her lips. “We’re glad to see you, my dear.”

Rosamund didn’t understand what all the fuss was about. She merely granted the woman a smile and dipped a quick curtsy.

The queen was tall and regal and beautiful. Far too beautiful for the stodgy king. Her dark hair was pulled back in one long braid hanging down her back. She wore a matching gold crown on her head and dangling earrings that seemed to accentuate her long neck. Her gown was a deep purple muslin with lace at the elbows and she exuded a calm confidence, much like her mother.

Perhaps that was the requirement to be queen.

“It’s nice to make your acquaintance, your majesty,” Rosamund said, finding her voice at last.

Adele chuckled, then said to her mother, “She’s a darling girl.”

“But where is Phillip?” her father asked, peering into the empty carriage.

Reginald cleared his throat loudly. “Couldn’t make it this trip.”

“What my husband isn’t telling you is he’s off on some hunting expedition.” Adele gave a pinched expression, clearly unhappy with that idea. “He’ll be along in a few days.”

“Pardon me,” Rosamund said, “but who is Phillip?”

“Why, my dear, he’s our son, the prince,” Adele said with a grin. “Your betrothed.”