The town of Clipston
Warwickshire, England, Late August, 1192
Adjusting her grip on the reins of her white mare, Rosetta raised her veiled head, smiled, and waved to the cheering crowds on either side of the town street. The musicians, walking ahead of her and her six armed guards, played a merry melody on flutes, pipes, and a tabor as they led her toward the stone church in the town square.
There, Ash would be waiting for her.
There, they would be joined in holy matrimony, with Justin, Herta, her parents, and dear friends as witnesses. Afterward, the guests would be carted to Damsley Keep for a sumptuous feast, dancing, and boisterous celebration that would carry on long into the night.
Excitement tingled through Rosetta as she smoothed the folds of her mother’s sumptuous blue cloak. The shimmering pale gold of her new wedding gown, specially made by a local tailor, peeked from underneath. She’d chosen gold because the color reminded her of the buried treasure, of love, and of sunlight, including the afternoon sunshine in which she’d first seen Ash’s damaged hands—and that had warmed her and Ash as they’d professed their undying love for one another.
How she loved him, with every bit of her heart and soul.
“Milady! Milady.” Peasant children ran alongside her mare and offered her bouquets of wildflowers. Murmuring her thanks, she took them and tucked them under the front of her saddle, beside the ribbon-wrapped bouquet of wild roses that she’d found in her chamber at Millenstowe Keep, where she had lived while counting down the days until she married Ash. She knew without doubt that he had sent the flowers to her, and she hadn’t wanted to leave them behind, especially when they matched the crown of wild rose blooms holding her veil in place.
She continued to smile and wave as the procession continued through the streets, until at last, the church came into view. As she rode toward the portico, a shiver ran through her, for she felt so many expectant gazes upon her.
Ash, resplendent in an embroidered dark blue tunic, hose, and black knee-high boots, stood on the portico beside the priest who was holding a leather-bound book. Justin was a few steps away. The boy’s hair was remarkably tidy, and his garments were clean and new. Her heart warmed, for she could imagine the effort it had taken Ash to get the boy to look so groomed.
As she and Ash locked gazes across the short distance that separated them, delicious heat trailed through her, for tonight, she would lie with him and finally be his, as she’d always dreamed.
He grinned in that roguish, lop-sided way that made her stomach somersault, and she smiled back.
Rosetta’s parents were near the portico, too. Her mother, wearing an exquisite green gown, smiled and wiped her eyes with a handkerchief; she might be of fierce Norman heritage, but she cried at every wedding. Rosetta’s father stepped forward to take the mare’s reins and help her dismount.
She took the rose bouquet from her saddle and walked to the portico.
Ash winked at her. “Good day, Wife.”
“Good day, Husband.”
“What lovely flowers.”
“They are. My husband is a very thoughtful man.”
He smiled and slipped his fingers into hers. He hadn’t worn gloves since he’d taken them off at the stone circle, and she was glad.
As they took their places before the priest, her garments rustled, the sound akin to the wind whispering past the towering stones of the ancient monument. Her love for Ash had come full circle. She reveled in the joy that filled her heart, for no hidden riches could ever bring such happiness.
Indeed, the greatest treasure in her life was, and always would be, Ash.