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The stiff sturdy stems of the stalwart thistles stood as proud sentinels against the murky night on the moor, their prickly purple flowers shimmering silver under the inky midnight mantle sprinkled with sparkling stars. Just like those brave and beautiful, but painfully prickly blooms which found their way to survive amongst the craggy, angry-looking rocks, withstanding wind, gale, snow, and ice, the Lady Rose would have to find her own way to survive within the walls of the black, looming castle perched high atop the bleak mountain of rock.
Had she not been a virtual prisoner, she would have been a shining beacon of light, a pink and yellow blossom, a bloom of dewy youth and vitality living within the ancient decaying walls of Archangel Castle, the ancient home of the old and venerable Saxon family.
But instead, her beautiful, sweet, inner light -- her golden glow of joy -- was on the cusp of being snuffed, for she was the intended, the promised bride of a Lord of this small Kingdom.
But it was a not a marriage of choice. It was an agreement born of necessity, an act of sacrifice and selflessness. For her mother was the widow of the late and tragically deceased landed Baron Peter Tyler, but he had left neither money for which to pay for the grand home, nor jewels. Nor silver nor art nor French furniture. Baron Tyler had left his family only a too-large home, and long-neglected, but rich farmland. And he had sired no son who would have cared for his beloved wife and daughter in their desperate time of need.
And so, in exchange for promises of financial security, physical safety, and a modicum of social stature, the Lady Rose had agreed to the proposals of marriage from the venerable Lord Harold of Saxon in a transaction which would transfer ownership of her family home and lands, and guarantee that her own dear mother would retain her title of Baroness, which would entitle her to be addressed as Lady within society circles.
Lord Saxon’s visage and figure were not displeasing to look upon. Decidedly less handsome men had sought to court the fair English Rose. Tall and proud he stood, back straight, a specimen of manhood emanating power and pride. Slender and sleek. Pearly white, straight teeth. Clothed in the finest broadcloth and silk, the latest London fashion. He wore tall boots atop his tight breeches that gave no small hint that his manhood would be more than able to sire a male heir. His handsome waistcoats and cravats -- she'd never seen him wear the same accoutrement twice -- spoke of his wealth beyond comprehension as gold and silver threads wove through the finest silks and satin from exotic locales beyond the reach of even the most well-travelled and brave explorer. His hair was the colour of wheat ready to be threshed. His eyes, a deep brown framed by well-sculpted brows that were neither too heavy nor too lean.
But there was a distinctive lack of life, love, and kindness within the proud Lord's murky brown orbs. They were cold and hard. The turn of his mouth was devoid of merriment when he did smile. In fact, when his lips turned upward, there was a feral look to his visage. He had a coldness of manner which sent shudders of fear straight up Rose's corseted back when he would aim his smile in Rose's direction, more a weapon than a communication of joy.
Day by day, Rose's regrets had grown. She would pace the luxuriously appointed apartments that she shared with her dear mother. While they lived in the castle, their rooms were far from the man whom she feared the most of all men whom she had ever encountered. Thankfully, the only time she had to suffer his presence was on those rare occasions when she was summoned to dinner in the sumptuous formal dining hall. Along with his written summons that was always delivered by a tall, grey-haired, gaunt butler, the proud man sent a new gown of the finest silk and lace, each progressively more revealing than the next. And this evening, the scarlet gown had been the most blush-inducing garment, more fit for a harlot offering sensual services that only the most-debauched members of the French court would deem pleasurable. Her fine décolleté was pushed painfully upwards, as if her bosom was being served up to her fiancé on a scarlet platter. She feared to breathe lest her pink treasures, pearls of pleasure and future motherhood, should unwillingly escape from the silk and lace corseted prison.
Her ivory breast trembled as she wept in regret, the despised ruby gown immediately cast aside as soon as she had fled from the too-rich dinner. She chose to cover herself in a simple muslin chemise that she had donned in a feeble attempt to cover her feminine attributes from her own eyes, vainly hoping to forget the act of infidelity to her one true love that she feared she would be compelled to commit on the night of her wedding to this man that she did not love.
She regretted her inability to support her dear mother, for a young lady of her social standing had no other direction to turn but marriage to ensure financial security and safety. She regretted her decision to marry Lord Harold of Saxon.
She regretted being convinced by well-meaning, distant relatives, that she had no other choice but to agree to the unholy marriage of convenience, not love.
But most of all, she regretted breaking her promises of love and fidelity to the love of her life, her promises that her rosy, pink, plump lips would remain untouched by all other lips but his. The promise she had made to surrender her maidenhood to him alone on the night of their own holy marriage -- that when they finally came together as one flesh in that pinnacle moment of rapturous bliss, she would be as pure and untouched as the fresh snow alighting upon the downy wing of a white swan.
All of those promises would be broken on the morrow. For tomorrow was her wedding day. And after that would be the wedding feast. And from them on, at his will and pleasure, she would be forced to kiss those thin, meagre, loveless lips of the dastardly demon.
And then, the climactic culmination of her pain and despair would loom before her: the marriage bed that she would be forced to share with a man for whom she held neither love nor affection, nor even a hint of admiration. The bed would be her coffin, the flowers scattered around, petals of pain and despair scattered over the grave, the headboard of the bed looming as a tombstone, for she already felt dead inside. Tomorrow, she would be surrendering her life along with her chastity to a man for whom she held no love within her breast.
There was a knock at her door. The double-rap was followed by the sound of fine paper sliding over cold, wood flooring. She looked down. A letter. And it was sealed. And the sight of that seal caused her to suck in a breath. The air seared her guilty lungs. She wailed in despair as she clung to the letter, pressed it to her chest. Terrified to read the words within for the unbearable pain they would bring to her already tortured heart.
She didn't deserve to breathe the same air that was shared by the man who had written the words still hidden from her eyes. The blue wax seal imprinted with the mark of her lover, the man whom she had at one time believed with every beat of her now-broken heart would be the man with whom she would share her body, her joys, sorrows, her very life. The man to whom she had already given her soul and her heart and her forever.
Her beloved Rogue of the Moors, a man whose true name she did not know even after their numerous rendezvous. But she did not need to know his name. Theirs was a love beyond mere words or names. They did not require such trivial things to speak their love to one another.
He was her Rogue, and she was his Rose.
Their chaste but passionate affair of the heart had started one day whilst on a morning stroll through the modest park on the property of her home, Powell Manor. She had fled her home to escape the heavy, tension-charged atmosphere within the Tudor-styled walls. Her parents were having a heated disagreement over whether or not her father would accept an invitation to become an esteemed member of the London Society of Scientific Advancement, which required a sizable financial investment. Her mother wished for the money to be invested in the farming of the estate, whilst her father believed the future was not in farming, but in scientific advancement and steam-powered invention.
It was the hottest morning of the summer thus far. She had shed her straw sunhat, setting her long golden tresses free of their headache-inducing coif. She had loosened the cording of her tightly-laced bodice so that the top three rows of criss-crossed strings allowed for a modicum of air to kiss the glistening skin of her exposed-to-the sun chest.
She had heard the faintest rustle of leaves even though the air was still and heavy.
"Who's there? My escort is within the sound of my screams for help should you come any closer."
"My good lady, I am not here to ravish you, although you are as luscious as a ripe peach. I am only here to relieve you of your fine jewellery and any other valuable items which you may have on your person."
"I have very little to surrender unless you would like my straw hat."
His laugh had been hearty and full of joy. "I assure you that your chapeau is safe from my thieving hands."
"Thank you, kind thief. I am quite attached to that hat," still not having taken in the face from which the rich and comely voice had emanated.
"Do not turn around, fair Rose Tyler. For if you see my face, I might have to whisk you away for fear that you will reveal my identity to the magistrate. And I would hate to lose my head, for my neck is far too handsome to end up on the chopping block."
Rose had laughed in spite of herself.
"Do you find something humorous, gentle lady?" he had said with melodic mirth in his voice.
"You act the rogue, yet you do not threaten me. Your voice is far too kind, and your hand upon my shoulder is gentle and tender. And you know my name..."
"Of course I know your name, milady. You are the Lady Rose Tyler of the Powell Estate, and I only commit crimes against those who have the least to lose. I would never steal from the poor, for I am a kindhearted and good man. Now close your eyes," he had commanded, and she had complied, and then he had spun her around and had stolen a kiss, but not just any kiss.
The Rogue draped her over his arm, and captured her lips with passion and fire. "Keep your eyes closed," he husked into her mouth before he had sought and was granted permission to lave her mouth with his strong and commanding and plundering yet somehow still gentle tongue.
And with that one kiss, Rose knew she was ruined for anyone else. Forever. His lips had set her body aflame with desires she had never before felt. And she had believed with her whole heart that she would never allow her lips to willingly kiss another pair of lips ever again. Unless they were his lips.
Acting purely upon instinct, moments after he had touched his lips to hers, she had moaned into his mouth and arched her back, still safely draped and cradled by his strong, manly arms. She offered him the soft treasures of her ample, heaving bosom whilst keeping hidden the sensitive twin apexes of her womanly treasures. But oh! She had so desperately and wantonly desired in her lust-addled state for him to unlace the bodice that separated her flesh from his precious lips. She almost begged him, but then he withdrew his affections from her lips, climbed onto his steed, and rode off into the wood. Her hand flew to her neck. Missing was her one precious piece of jewellery, a single gold rosebud on a fine gold chain that had been cradled between her breasts.
Rose's tears now came in earnest as she recalled each and every of their secret trysts — one-by-one - since that passionate day a year before.
The second time that they had met was also by chance. It was sunset when Rose was surprised by the Rogue. She had been standing on a grassy hill above her home, lost in painful and tear-drenched reverie. The tears on her face were lit by the peach, pink, orange, red, and violet-hued sky, which was transforming itself from day to night. Her thoughts were tumbling. Her father was dead. Killed the week before in an accident whilst riding his horse. She felt lost. Alone. Her mother was locked in her room, and refused to speak to anyone except the housekeeper who dutifully brought her tea and toast.
She had felt a gentle hand on her shoulder. “I heard you crying. But please. Don’t turn around. I must protect you from my identity.”
“Is that you, Rogue?” she’d asked.
“Yes, milady. It is I. I could not bear the thought of you in such mourning. I heard of your father’s tragic death. I have been hoping to find you to tell you just how sorry I am. To offer you any comfort that I am able to provide. Just tell me. Do you and your mother lack for anything? I know that your family is not as wealthy as some may believe.”
“We need nothing!” she’d proudly proclaimed.
“I’m sorry if I offended you, dearest Rose,” he had said with a voice as quiet and gentle as the breeze that steals the down of a dandelion, sending it into the sky.
“Oh, Rogue, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to be so cruel to you. I feel so… lost. And alone.”
“But you aren’t alone. You have me. If you want.”
“Please, Rogue, may I see your face? I must know that your eyes as are gentle as your voice and your touch.”
“No. Not yet. But soon…”
And once again, he had escaped her eyes, riding off into the sunset.
The first time she saw his face, she had refused his requests to not look upon him. “I must, Rogue! I must see the man who has kissed my very life away! I can no longer simply stand by, with my eyes closed, as you steal my very breath, and light my body on fire!”
She had whirled around, her fine satin skirts swishing richly. “Oh! Rogue! You are… the most beautiful man I have ever seen. Please kiss me. And this time, I am keeping my eyes open.”
“My wish is your command, milady.”
Each time they had met thereafter was by appointment, no longer by chance. Always under the dark of night. Always in secret. And their stolen moments were filled with kisses and heated touches and moans and sighs. But he remained a gentleman. He would never steal the virtue of his English Rose without a binding covenant of marriage. She was too precious. He would kiss her down the well of her throat, peppering all of her exposed skin with his soft, warm lips. Laving and nipping her, burying his nose into the cleavage between the swells of her soft, quivering breasts.
If the Lord Harold of Saxon could be called handsome, her Rogue demanded to be called exquisite. For not only were his features beautiful -- a noble nose; full lips; a strong, tall, lean physique; hair the colour of the shell of ripe chestnuts; brown eyes that were so deep and rich that they seemed to hold the secrets of eternity within their depths — and how was it possible that his eyes could simultaneously burn with passion, yet glow with compassion? strong arms; lithe legs; a towering stature that shadowed her petite yet curvaceous frame, making her feel safe and protected and shielded from all danger or harm; a smile which outshone the very sun; and a twinkle in his eyes which surpassed the brightest star in the inky blue sky of midnight.
His hands were strong yet tender, with lean, nimble fingers that had the dexterity of the finest clockmaker's tools. His lips were strong — able to massage her breath away — and as soft as a butterfly kissing her bare shoulder, and as plump and pink as the flesh of a ripe, sweet, dripping with juice strawberry.
And in her most intimate moments alone at night in her bed, hidden from eyes and ears, she dreamed of a time when those those fingers would touch her, skimming her pearly skin in places that he had dared not touch protecting her virtue. Just the single graze of his fingertip had the power to set her on fire, whether it was a caress of her blushing cheek, a stroke of her hair, or the gentlest and chaste but bordering on scandalous trace of the scalloped, lacy edge of the bodice of her gown, barely skimming her heaving bosom. And she dreamed of his lips mapping the swells and curves of her body, exploring each and every hidden place, quenching the yet-unfulfilled burning desire that she was keeping for him alone. And in her most private of private moments, she dreamed of his hands and his mouth working in tandem, doing things that she didn’t really know had ever been done before, but she wanted to be done to her.
The memories of her fleeting moments of pure joy with the Rogue had carried her through her darkest hours after the death of her father.
And then she had sold herself to the evil Lord Saxon.
Finally, one week ago tonight, she had bade farewell to her beloved Rogue, to his beautiful face, to his strong and talented lips, his gentle and tactile touch which had brought her to the brink of ecstasy whilst preserving her maidenly virtue.
With quivering hand, she held the letter from her lover. With a shaking fingertip and anticipation threatening to rend her heart in two, she slipped her finger under the wax. Achingly slow, afraid to read the words written in his manly and familiar scrawl, she unfolded the fine paper, one layer at a time...
But then she heard angry footfall out in the hallway. And then a pounding on her door. "Rose! Open this door immediately!"
Rose froze in place, her satin slippers stuck in the mire of the thick, luxurious silk of the Oriental rug.
"I'm... I'm not dressed, Lord Saxon. It is nearly the eleventh hour, and I am about to retire."
"My dearest fiancée, you will open this door without further protestation, or I shall break it down with my bare hands!"
"But my Lord, is it not bad luck to see the bride on the night before the wedding?" Rose said in a moderated, sweet voice, attempting to persuade him with honey rather than vinegar.
"I demand to see my future wife. I wish to sample your sweet treats before I consume the entire feast."
Rose drew in a squeak, but calmed herself. "You saw me not one hour ago at dinner. I know you... You are anticipating... Tomorrow night, but... But you must be patient, my Lord. It... It will be worth... Worth the wait."
Rose heard the shuffling of his boots, and then a foul curse, and finally the sound of glass shattering.
She released the breath she did not even know she had been holding, and collapsed to the floor boneless, the weight of the world heavy on her back, pushing her into the plush carpet.
And then her hand remembered that her shaking fingers were grasping the precious words written by her Rogue. This time, she finished unfolding the paper in haste.
My Fairest Rose, Keeper of the Key to My Heart, tonight my heart is broken. But you have the power to repair it. While I know you have not, nor would you ever willingly give your heart to another, I can not abide with the knowledge that your heart will forever be mine, but that our hearts will never beat as one, that we will forever be separated by a wall of stone and the schemes of such an evil man as Lord Harold of Saxon.
So I have come up with a plan. Tonight. Midnight. Meet me at our own special place, the heart-shaped stone on the cliff above the bay, where you first saw my face, where I first laid my eyes upon you and drank in your beauty with no mask to hide the flushing of my cheeks from the heat building in my heart at the sight of my one and only true love. Bring only what you need for one day and one night. And we will take flight. I will rescue you my love, save you from this fate, and then we will as one.
My dearest love, do not worry about your mother's safety, for I have ensured that she will be safely delivered from her golden cage to a place of safety and comfort. It will not be the place of fashion and sumptuous living to which she is accustomed, but it will be comfortable and warm, and most important, she will be away from the vengeful talons of the wicked Lord Saxon. You must believe me, and I know that you do, for you have never doubted me, not even when you knew not my face, when I say that I have full confidence in the gallant Captain Jack Harkness. On many occasions I have trusted him with my life, and he has never failed me. So too, I entrust the life of your mother in his most capable hands.
Make haste my darling, for tonight we fly to our rapture.
Your Most Ardent and Passionate Lover, Your Rogue
Rose clasped her hands to her breast and sighed, a heavy, deep groaning sigh, from deep down near her heart. "Oh my love, my darling Rogue, I will come to you. I will never marry the evil Lord Harold of Saxon!" she whispered as she looked out the leaded glass window of her boudoir, four stories above the rocky ground.
She knew not the exact time, and she had no timepiece to which she could refer without flying down the hallway and alighting the stairs to the grand entry, in which the grand clock stood. So she looked out the window and saw that the sliver moon had risen to the place that told her it was nigh midnight. The Rogue had taught her how to read the phases of the moon, as well as how to determine the time only using its placement in the sky. She had realised that her precious Rogue was a man of letters, and often pondered why he had turned to a life of secrets and danger in the dead of night, instead of living as a man of the law, the cloth, at a university, or of medicine.
"It is nearing the hour! I must hasten!" She slipped on a simple, yet sumptuous gown of the darkest blue silk, and draped her matching satin travelling cloak over her shoulders, draping the hood over her head, and fastening the gold clasp at her neck, to hide her glowing golden tresses, which she had already loosened from her dinner coiffure, in preparation to retire for what would have been an undoubtedly sleepless night, the night before the dreaded wedding. With a simple Parisian carpet bag filled with just barest of essentials, a silk chemise of the finest, sheerest Parisian silk trimmed with pink satin ribbons and Belgian lace, her silver brush and hand mirror to keep her silken hair soft and shining, the painted cameo of her beloved father, and her favourite gown of rose pink satin, a gown which she had brought from her own home, a gown which was not a gift from the Lord Saxon, Rose fled the castle, slipping past the drunken Lord as he lay collapsed against the wall outside of the door to her boudoir, bottle in hand, and a second in shards on the floor.
As soon as her slippered feet hit the moors, she flew, her satin cloak trailing behind her like the unfurled sail of a corvette of his Majesty's Royal Navy. With only the silver sliver of moonlight to illuminate her path, Rose hastened like a She-Wolf searching for her lupine soul mate.
She saw the love of her life silhouetted against the inky midnight sky, standing on the edge of the cliff, legs firmly planted, head proud, waiting for her. Her legs gained speed, she dropped her bag and held open her arms. He too took to his feet, arms welcoming, running full tilt towards her.
But then she heard a voice biting at her heels. "You dare run away from me? Do you really believe you could escape me? You foolish, foolish girl. And you really believe that I want to marry you for you for your paltry country estate and barren farm? You, with no dowry? No connections? No, Rose Tyler. I don't want you at all for any purpose other than to ruin you for him! To kill his heart! I want him! Your lover! He is my quarry, lovely Rose, not you. You are simply the bait."
Lord Harold of Saxon grasped her from behind!
Rose screamed!
He wrapped his arm around her neck, and dragged her closer to her beloved Rogue, so that she was in full view of the sworn enemy of Lord Harold of Saxon. But still, he remained in the shadows, stopping just short of being able to touch his lover and watching helplessly as his English Rose fruitlessly tugged, and struggled against her assaulter. Her breaths were now coming from shallow within her throat, strangled and laboured.
"My… love…!” she managed weakly, but with all of her might, still kicking and dropping as dead weight within the choking hold of Lord Harold of Saxon’s arm.
"Unhand her, Harry," called a calm but firm voice from out of the darkness. And then a tall, thin man with an unruly, yet luxuriant thatch of hair that defied all scientific laws of nature emerged from the shadows and into full view, dressed in all black, from his long, sweeping black leather coat, down further still to his tight and well-fitted breeches, and finally down to his tall, shiny, fine, black leather boots.
"Hello, John. It has been a long time since we have seen each other face to face."
"Give my Rose to me, Harry. This is a private matter, ours and ours alone, and I will not allow any harm to come to my Rose."
“Oh, that’s where you’re wrong, friend. She is no longer yours. She is mine. Just tonight, I married her. You see, my beautiful and fine English Rose, before you fled in your fruitless attempt to rendezvous with your lover, I executed my Lordly rights, and signed the marital contract in front of the magistrate. The laws of this land stipulate that you need not be present. So you are mine. My chattel. To do with as I please. And after I dispatch your lover, you will come willingly to my bed, although I do hope you put up a bit of a fight before you come to the realization that you have lost your freedom, happiness, and true love, all in one night with the whip of the quill in my hand, and ink to the parchment.”
“No!” she choked out. “I refuse! I refuse! You will never have me. NEVER!”
Lord Harold of Saxon laughed wickedly, his head thrown back, his feral teeth flashing in the crescent moonlight. “Oh, how the mighty have fallen! What a tragic ending for a man so fond of drama! No Greek tragedy rivals this turn of events! This is a play of your own creation… your highness!” he sneered. “You always did love a good dramatic presentation when we were in school, didn't you? Shakespeare, Marlowe, Dickens, Sophocles, Lucius Accius. It didn’t matter who had penned the play. You wanted to be the bright and shining star, the center of the stage, to have the footlights shine up, illuminating your handsome face. Tell me. Do you still love strutting like a vain peacock?”
“I promise, it isn’t vanity that drives my desire for the stage. Only talent, which you obviously still don’t have.” The Rogue smiled with a wry, superior grin, unafraid of his longtime rival for the stage, academic achievement, and other powerful positions of which he was no yet ready to reveal to his precious Rose.
“And still! Here you are! Fanning your fine feathers in a vain attempt to intimidate me with your words. Playing the Rogue is just as dramatic! Still a part, for you know that is not your true self. You are no more a highwayman than I am the mere Lord Harold of Saxon living in a dark, dank castle.”
“Oh, that dreary prison of a house is exactly where you belong, Harry. In fact, you deserve to rot in the bowels of your castle, to wail helplessly and no one will come to your aid, dying in a pit of despair below!”
“Your words wound me, friend. What did I ever do to you?” Harry matched the Rogue’s proud grin with his own evil, tooth-baring, but as always, cold and threatening smile. “I have more than foolish words in my arsenal, John Smith, I have a pistol!"
Faster than a cheetah on the savanna, all of the anger and hatred and sadness and fear of the past months rallied from a place deep down and dark within Rose's soul. With a mighty howl, she bit down on Lord Harold of Saxon’s arm, eliciting a primal scream of pain and anger. And then she kicked him in his most manly of parts, that dreaded member that she was now relieved she would never ever have to see. He released her, and she flung herself into her beloved’s arms as Lord Harold of Saxon bent in half, wounded to the core. And then the defeated man stumbled backwards, his arms flapping for purchase, finding nothing but the salt air blowing up from the churning waters of the bay far below.
Rose buried her face into her Rogue’s black shirt, unable to bring herself to look over the cliff's edge to the rocky crags below, where she knew the man who had tormented her now lay, mangled and hideous beyond recognition, dead.
"I wish you had heard my true name for the first time from my own lips," the Rogue said wistfully.
Rose drew back just slightly, only enough so that she could gaze into his eyes, but still remain firmly engulfed within his safe, encircling arms.
“He called you your highness. And John. Who are you? Really? Tell me?“ she asked. A single tear trailed down her moonlit face.
“Rose Tyler. I am the long lost Prince John of Gallifrey, future king and rightful heir to the Bounteous Benevolent Throne of the Seven Kingdoms. Harry and I were friends once. Long ago. But that friendship died when he became the instrument of my disappearance. He was given riches beyond comprehension in exchange for me. The plot was hatched, and the kidnapping was executed. It happened when we were only fifteen. I lived for fifteen long years in a prison on an unknown island somewhere off of the coast of the southern lands. Alone. Without companionship. And then one blessed day, I was rescued by Captain Jack Harkness. He was a pirate, but a noble man. But a pirate nonetheless. We became friends, and he taught me the tricks of his trade -- how to be a noble thief, a highwayman who did no harm. And with that plan firmly in place, I reinvented myself. And I became the Rogue."
From his pocket, the handsome prince cum thief pulled a golden chain, from the end of which dangled that tiny, fine gold rosebud, which had one blessed day in the wood been stolen from between Rose’s perfect mounds of feminine, yet innocent, loveliness.
"Rose Tyler, I may have stolen your necklace from over your heart, but that day, you stole my heart. I wish to return this to you, my dearest Rose. But for a price."
"And that price would be?" Rose asked breathlessly, her two hands evenly spaced, each on opposite sides of the hard plane of his chest.
"Now that my evil foe has been vanquished, I am free to reclaim my rightful title as crown prince of my home. But I want you there with me, ruling by my side. You are now a widow. No longer matrimonially tied to that demon. Please. Be my wife? Be the princess of my throne, and queen of my heart? Tomorrow we will marry. I wish to wait no longer, for my heart beats only for you..."
"Yes! Oh, a thousand times yes, I will marry you, my Rogue! But on one condition. That you return all of the treasures and goods that you stole while you were the Rogue."
"Oh, my dearest Rose, only your heart would be so soft as to make this your first request as my future wife. Yes, I will. Threefold. But only on one condition. That you call me Rogue whenever possible. Of course, you will have to call me John from time to time, but I want to always remain your Rogue."
"Of course my Rogue. But I, too, have one condition. That you wear your roguish mask from time to time. I think it might be to your benefit that you do. When you wear your mask, my heart skips a beat, and my body begins to feel things that I feel at no other time, and although I have no experience with the physical act of passion, I do believe that only you will be able to quench the burning desire that burns deep in my core when you take me in your arms whilst wearing that mask, and then you kiss me until my breath is gone, and I must pull away for fear of expiring.”
"Your wish is my command, my Lovely Rose. My horse is around the bend. Away with me. To be my wife. To come to my bed. To leave this horrid place of darkness and desolation behind."
And so the Rogue stretched out his manly, strong hand, and she took it into her own delicate one, entwining their fingers together. He lifted her by the waist on his horse, and then he leapt onto his handsome steed.
Wrapping her arms around his waist, she pressed her soft, warm, heaving bosom against his back, and breathed words of love, devotion, thanks, and hints of the passion to come into his ear as they flew across the dark, rocky moors, riding until first light. When his castle, perched high above a beautiful blue lake, fully lit and adorned with blue, silver, gold, and white bunting and flags, welcoming the long lost prince and his bride came into view, only then did he pull back on the reigns.
“Whoa, boy…” he said kindly to his faithful beast. “Rose, there's our home.”
“Oh! It’s beautiful! I love it!”
“It has been far too long since I have seen your face illuminated and glowing from the rays of the golden orb that brings light and life to the cold ground of our northern land. I want to kiss your sun-warmed face. I want to bask in your glorious golden glow, my visions of you no longer obscured by the mantel of night. And so I have sent word ahead that, if you are so agreeable, the priest awaits us in the chapel — a glorious holy place bathed in the light of day — so that we can marry without any further ado. And no wedding luncheon or cake or dancing or other merriments shall be had until this evening. I have reserved the precious daylight hours for you, and you alone, and we will go to the hidden park, and throw off our dark raiment of the past, and then we will come together, naked, beautiful, alone, and make glorious, passionate love on a bed of soft, green grass, not a black rock in sight.”
“Oh, my Rogue. It is as if you read my mind. I do not wish to wear anything other than this blue gown, for this is the silk that was against my burning skin when you rescued me tonight, when I heard your name for the first time, when I learned the truth of your past. Now make this horse go faster, my love, or I shall take over the reigns myself. We've been on this horse for nigh five hours, and believe me, I am ready to get off, and if we don’t marry immediately, I daresay I shall no longer be a maiden when we exchange our vows.“
"You're not the only one ready to get off, Rose Tyler."