Blackthorn Bargain

The carriage rocked on its wheels, yet somehow stayed upright. Rosamund did all she could to avoid spilling the contents of her stomach onto her father, who sat across from her. What sort of person had they put in charge of driving? She was not one to complain, but each jolt flinging her about left her thinking only that the driver needed a real lesson. She raised the curtain and looked out at the village they were entering. The instant she did, she wished she had not. What manner of man was she meant to marry? The little shacks lining the road were falling apart. Their roofs sagged, and some had holes big enough for a large dog to pass through. How did these people live with cold slipping into their homes? How did they stay dry when rain beat through the gaps scarring their roofs? The villagers' houses were not her only worry. She also could not ignore the children running about in filthy clothes, their cheeks hollow from malnourishment. Rosamund prayed the man was not some bloated fool who let his people starve while he feasted on the finest meats. There was one sort of man she could not abide: a selfish, greedy one. She had known too many of those in her day, and if she had not needed to leave so abruptly, she would likely have been married to one. Her father had easily more than enough men lined up for her. There were men with money, men with looks, and men with both, yet Rosamund needed to leave the home she had loved so much. There was no appeal in living among people who treated you differently because of rumors. People had used every bit of their power to make Rosamund's life miserable. So she packed her trunks, climbed into the carriage, and let her father bring her to this pitiful little village. She had heard countless tales about the man who lived there. None of them were certain, though, and Rosamund had learned the hard way not to heed rumors, no matter how near the truth they sounded. Of course, she had been told he was surly. That he scarcely ever left his manor, though that could not really be true, could it? Surely he had to go out at times and inspect his lands. To learn what the villagers required. She bit her lip as she thought, aware that she was judging the man before they had even met; still, she could not keep her mind from forming conclusions. Judging by the villagers, she could believe they had been neglected. She wanted to lift the drape again, but she feared what might be waiting outside. One thing she would see to, after setting the village right, was the road. Never before had she knocked her head against the top of a carriage. As she rubbed the sore spot, she glared up at the roof. This was hardly how she had meant to begin her journey. She had not imagined that visiting the village would feel like a life-threatening adventure. A longing swept through her. Why could this place not be more like home? London's streets felt infinitely kinder than this rutted road. The carriage began to halt, and she released a relieved breath. She waited for someone to help her down, then stepped out with all the bearing of a queen. It was only her due. Being so near the queen, she had been thought of as a duchess for quite some time. No, she did not possess the title of duchess; it was merely her name. Whenever people saw her pass, they stopped to admire her before saying, "Good morrow, Duchess." That was why she was here; too many people back home knew exactly who she was, and too many of them believed the rumors spreading through town. The carriage door slammed shut, making her jump and jerking her out of her thoughts. Her curly blonde hair, once tamed and pinned at the nape of her neck, had come loose. She tried to push it from her face, but the unruly curls had minds of their own and bounced straight back into place. Trying once more to make herself presentable, she caught up a handful and fought to pin it down. With a soft huff of indignation, she realized nothing she did would bend it to her will.