Page 54 of Rose
“You are turning green,” Philip said, quietly at her side.
She grabbed the quarter master’s arm and pulled him aside. “I cannot do this. I have lived my life in huts. I sleep on a pallet. I’ve never been inside a castle. I simply won’t know what to do or say.” She gripped his arm tighter. “Philip, this is all yer idea. Ye must help me.”
He smiled at her calmly. “You will be the most beautiful and worthy woman ever to grace the halls of Birch Heights.”
Her eyes widened further. “His home has a name?”
“It is named so because of the white stone that fills the courtyard,” he explained. “Anyway, a castle and a hut are not so very different. They are places where lives unfold.”
“This isn’t funny,” she cried.
He put out a placating hand. “I wasn’t trying to be funny.” He gently clasped her hands in his. “Listen to me, Rose. When you enter the home of Owen Thatcher, you will be judged on your merit, not the humbleness of your birth.”
She shook her head. “That’s not true. Tristan’s father wanted him to marry a noblewoman.”
“A notion that runs contrary to everything Owen Thatcher believes,” he insisted. “His senses will return when he meets you, and he will know that his son has married the woman God intended for him.”
She grabbed his arm. “But that’s just it,” she hissed. “We’re not married, remember?”
He shrugged. “A technicality—nothing more. We didn’t find you on the ocean by accident. If I hadn’t believed in the Divine already, pulling you from the sea would have converted my thinking.”
She threw her hands up. “What is that supposed to mean?”
He shrugged. “You will see, my dear.” Then he turned on his heel and headed down to the lower deck.
