A.N.: A retelling of the book we all seem to love! If it hadn't been Megan's choice to move in with the McGowans.

Rose Amongst Thorns

Chapter One

Rosalie Helena Meade

Making Rose drive her truck from Raleigh to Boston was probably one of the best things Regina McGowan could have done to boost the quiet girl's confidence in her own driving. The truck was a 1984 Chevy Silverado, big and dirty, with a low rumble, and tuned up tight by Rose's own pretty hands.

Regina had always suspected Tim Meade had overlooked completely the fact that Rose was in fact a girl, and a very pretty one at that, to compensate for having no sons; Rose was quiet and very shy, as she had been as a baby, and very polite. In the last week, Regina didn't think she'd ever heard Rose be rude, even when she was tired and upset; the girl was very sweet, and very shy, and Regina feared she would be completely swallowed up into the madhouse that was her family of seven sons. But making Rose drive from Raleigh had given her a much surer sense of her own driving abilities.

And they had actually had fun driving back, having taken most of the weekend to drive up to Boston; Rose's beloved truck had been fitted with a new stereo system for her birthday from her dad, and they had hooked up her iPod and put on all Regina's favourite 80s music, made frequent stops at 7/11 for Slurpees and Dairy Queen for ice-cream sundaes and Sonic for chilli-cheese tater-tots.

Regina had reintroduced Rose to Meadowlark Dairy, the drive-thru dairy downtown, and which Rose had always loved walking to as a kid, for the enormous chocolate-vanilla swirl ice-creams, and they both sat licking melting ice-creams as Rose directed the truck into the sweeping driveway up to Regina's home.

Regina hadn't had time to herself for almost twenty years—since she had found out she was pregnant with Sean, really. Having spent a week with Rose and only with Rose, as a sort of morbid vacation, it was a little strange to think of the mayhem that awaited her, but she couldn't deny that she had missed her babies. It had been strange not having Caleb barrel into her bedroom at six a.m. wanting breakfast, or shouting through Doug's bedroom door at midnight to turn his music down, or mediating the squabbles between Caleb and Ian, and making sure Evan and Sean watched their language, and cooking. She and Rose had dined out almost every meal, though Regina knew from Lily's phone-calls that Rose, the sweetest girl in the world, cooked for her parents so dinner was on the table when her father got home from work.

Her boys knew to expect her and Rose this afternoon, if the traffic wasn't bad—which it hadn't been—and she smiled affectionately, her heart warming, at the sight of her family playing their traditional Sunday-afternoon game of ultimate Frisbee—though why the boys insisted on playing shirts-and-skins, she didn't know! She cast a sidelong glance at Rose, wondering how she would react to seeing her older boys in only their shorts. The truck had slowed, but instead of her eyes zooming to the muscular torsos of Sean and Evan, Rose's exquisite, warm sapphire-grey eyes were trained on Caleb, who was darting around the sweeping green lawn like a lunatic. Careful not to run over Regina's youngest son, Rose drew the truck up near the barn, outside which Evan's Saab and Regina's minivan were parked.

"And remember what I said about the boys," Regina smiled encouragingly. "They promised me they'd be on their best behaviour. Just be yourself, and I'm sure they'll all love you." Rose cut the engine and nodded; she was a very quiet girl, intensely shy, and unrelentingly sweet. Regina hoped with all her heart that she wasn't too overwhelmed by her boys. "Alright, come and meet them." Regina slipped out of the truck, glad to stretch her legs, and her boys abandoned their game of ultimate Frisbee to launch themselves across the lawn toward her.

In seconds, Regina was laughing and accepting hugs from her sweaty, grinning boys, Caleb tackling her knees and all of the boys clamouring for her attention; John swept through them, creating a path which Caleb followed closely to get to her, and greeted her. John looked tired, but happy, and no matter what had happened in the week she had been helping Rosie, she knew John was more than capable of handling their horde—and that she would hear every single detail of their sons' indiscretions later tonight after John begged her never to leave him alone with their seven boys ever again.

Over at the back-end of Rose's truck, Evan had decided to be a gentleman—for probably the first and only time in his life—and was helping Rose lift out her heaviest suitcase and the box she had stuffed with books; she and Sean would have a lot to talk about, if they weren't both so shy of strangers. Regina watched from the corner of her eye as Evan smiled that charming smile of his at Rose, the way warmth spread into her pretty, high cheekbones, and then she looked simply stunned, and Evan's handsome laugh lingered on the lawn like dew at dawn.

The truck-bed door slammed, and all eyes turned to Rosalie, who stood small and very slim, tiny compared to her truck. If Regina hadn't known what kind of a girl Rosalie was—shy, quiet, sweet—she might have worried about her behaviour toward her older boys; Evan and Finn were very handsome boys. They took after their father. She was worried about how her boys would treat Rosalie, because she was a very pretty girl. With slender limbs and delicate curves, she had long, toned legs, and showcased them in a pair of denim shorts. She had billows of rich, light-caramel blonde hair that swirled around her delicate, angular face like the beauties of 30s Hollywood, just brushing her shoulders.

Upon all Regina's numerous offspring turning to stare at the low neckline of her broderie anglaise-detailed white top, sweet, shy Rose blushed prettily, high in her cheekbones, the colour of early-June peonies, and averted her eyes embarrassedly. Regina truly hoped for Rosalie's sake that her boys behaved.

"Rosalie Meade!" John gave one of his patented movie-star grins and loped across the remaining distance to Rose, scooping her up into his arms. "It's so good to see you! Wow, well, you've certainly changed. You don't so much look like a starved little chicken anymore."

"That's hardly flattering, John," Regina laughed; Rose smiled embarrassedly, but it was the truth; the last time they had seen Rosalie, she had been nine or ten, and such a delicate little thing that John had feared she would be squished during the boys' rough-play.

"Well, you've grown up," John chuckled, looking Rosalie over. "And very beautifully, too." Regina saw John's expression fall, and she knew he was thinking what she had all week; that Rose looked exactly like her beautiful mother. "You look so much like your mom." Rose made no reply to that, except her eyes saddening. "Is this your truck?"

"Yes, sir," Rose said softly, placing a hand affectionately on the door of the truck. "I helped Daddy build the engine."

Sean made a sharp move, and Regina glanced at her eldest son; he was staring at Rose, his expression re-evaluating. Whatever he had first thought about Rose had been set aside after the realisation that the girl could help build an engine. Rose blushed at the intensity of Sean's scrutinising stare, and John wandered back towards Regina, slipping an arm around her waist and kissing her temple.

Without John or Regina by her side, Rose felt considerably vulnerable. She had never been an extroverted person, not even when she was a little girl. As a child, she and her family had moved around a lot, and she had become so dependent on her parents for companions in every new place that she found it difficult to make friends. It wasn't her fault; she was just naturally a very shy girl, and moving countries almost every year until she was nine hadn't helped her personal growth. The only friend she had ever had as a child was Medha, the Turkish girl she still visited and exchanged letters with—it was Medha who had taught her Turkish in the first place. Moving to North Carolina when she was nine, she had met Pogue, her next-door neighbour, and the boy who had been her best-friend since the first day she and her parents had moved in. This was the first time in seven years she had ever been away from Pogue—he had always invited her even on family vacations. And since Pogue was the most popular guy at school, he was her self-confident alter-ego and the only person who could ever get her to broaden her horizons by trying to get past her shyness.

And now, dwarfed by her truck as if she was backed against a wall in front of a firing-team, she stood with trembling knees while the seven McGowan boys stared at her. She had been so concerned with not running over the littlest brother—who could be no older than Lucia would now be—that she hadn't really noticed the older boys, until Evan had joined her at the truck-bed, helping her start carrying her things out. She had enough nightmares about the little rogue militia to keep her memories of the McGowan boys alive. But one of them was extremely pretty.

Evan—how had the little grubby-handed, bloody-kneed boy of her youth turned into that—was taller than the dark-haired one with the Orange County Choppers logo tattoo, but also shirtless; he had lovely shaggy-blonde hair that was coiffed oh-so perfectly, the kind of perfect shoulder muscles and muscled torso that Abercrombie-model scouts searched the world over for, and incredibly warm brown eyes, a square jaw, straight nose and lips that turned up at the corners with a perpetual smile. He even had a small dimple. His sweat-slick torso was dusted with torn grass and dirt, and his denim shorts sat low on his hips, revealing the V-shape definition of his hipbones that Rose loved on men, and he was carrying her heaviest suitcase like it was nothing.

"Yo, what's Chibs mean?" The Eminem-doppelganger called, eyes on the motorcycle helmet Rose was carrying; she glanced down at it and saw the white lettering on the back of the black helmet blaring in the sunshine. Chibs…

"It's…it's my nickname," Rose said quietly. A Scottish friend of her father's had given her the name, which came from the word 'chib', meant quite literally, 'knife, or scar', only months ago, after a small accident had given her a scar on her back. Eminem's doppelganger didn't look like he could find anything to respond to that, and so asked what it meant. "Um… it's Scots. It means 'scar' or 'knife'."

"Why'd you get that nickname? You knife someone?" he asked.

"No!" Rose gasped, jumping slightly. She licked her lips nervously. "I have a scar…"

"I don't see any." The boy's eyes were intent on her legs, which she realised were bare, her shorts very short. She flushed.

"It's on my back," she said quietly, tweaking the hem of her t-shirt at her back. She hated her scar, and Pogue would never forgive himself for giving it to her, as she had been riding on the back of his motorcycle when they'd had the accident. Pogue had broken his arm, and Rose had thought her dad might kill him—if Pogue's dad didn't get to him first.

"Alright, let's see it," the boy said, more challengingly than interestedly.

"Shut up, you idiot," Evan said, smacking his brother, his cheeks flaming in shame on his brother's behalf. "You're making her nervous."

"Evan! Language!" Regina warned. Rose liked Regina; she was the kind of woman—her mother's high-school best-friend and college sorority-sister—whose commands were always seen through. Though she was tall and fair and very slim for having given birth to seven children, she had the unmistakable aura of authority around her that had allowed her to survive—no, thrive—in a family of eight men.

"Okay, but tell him to quit being such a jerk," Evan replied to Regina, who sighed heavily.

"I can parent on my own, thank you," Regina said tartly, striding over to the bleached-blonde boy, and dealing him a sharp slap around the back of the head. The boy gave a dramatic "Ow!" and rubbed the back of his head.

"Well, are you guys gonna introduce yourselves or are you just gonna stand there like a bunch of orang-utans?" movie-star handsome John McGowan asked, nudging one of the boys who had bleached-blonde hair cut very short and defined arms and an incongruous belly, and who shot his father a nasty look, conveying instantly how he felt about Rosalie coming to live with them. Rose felt unkindness roiling off the boy as he turned back to glare at her, his arms folded across his chest. While he might have been good-looking if he had dropped the 'gangsta' look and smiled a little bit, he hadn't, and he stood sucking his teeth and glowering.

The boy who stepped forward was a little taller even than Evan, who had to be about the same height as Pogue, who stood at six-eight and dwarfed her, and just as good-looking. His hair was the warm blonde colour of drowsy sunshine at her favourite beach in North Carolina, wavy, and with a few stubborn curls at the nape of his neck, his left temple and behind his ears, and looked as if he had run his hands through it many times because it stuck away from his face. He had very warm blue-grey eyes, and even from here she could see his eyelashes were the prettiest she had ever seen on a boy. He was very tall, and had had the same athletic build as Evan, though a little slimmer; he had nice broad shoulders and toned arms, which were spattered with dried paint, and very nice hands, which were also caked with dried paint, dirt and strands of torn grass. He wore a black t-shirt that had one word on the front in white, old-fashioned typewriter lettering; art.

"Hey, I'm Finn," he said, smiling; his voice was on the soft side, the Boston accent not as noticeable as Regina's or Evan's when he spoke again. "I think you're gonna be in my class. Junior, right?"

"Yeah, that's right," Rose nodded, smiling embarrassedly at the boy. He was just as good-looking as Evan, though thankfully fully-clothed, and he had an easy smile that made her feel at once very much more comfortable, and at the same time all fluttery and bashful.

"Cool," Finn said, with another of his easy smiles; his teeth were very straight, and very white, and made his whole face glow. "Um, you met Evan," he said, gesturing to Evan, who grinned at Rose.

"This is Sean," he said, pointing to the shorter, darker-haired young-man with the Orange County Choppers tattoo, and who wore jeans despite the heat.

"That's Doug," Finn said, pointing out the bleached-blonde kid who had an attitude problem.

"This is Miller," Finn continued, pointing to the only other older boy; he wore his natural blonde hair in a crew-cut and sported a New York Yankees t-shirt with a caricature of someone on the front, Rose didn't know; she wasn't very much interested in baseball. Miller stared at the ground, and only nodded slightly when Finn said his name.

"That's Ian," Finn said, pointing out an endearingly chubby kid who looked about ten or eleven years old, and who had a wicked, taunting grin and an unforgiving cackle.

"Hi Chibs," Ian cackled, clutching his stomach as he laughed. Rose experienced déjà vu, remembering the time when Evan had been that little and incorrigibly naughty, hanging her upside-down from the climbing-tree in the backyard with Sean, until her daddy had saved her and promptly whopped them for making her go purple in the face and hysterical with screaming when they wouldn't let her down. She had gotten her revenge playing baseball the next day with all of the boys and their dads; she had grabbed the baseball bat when it came to her turn and sent a softball straight at Evan's nose.

Out of nowhere, the littlest one came running over from his parents, making a random revving noise like an engine, and he ran headfirst into the backs of Finn's knees, laughing when his elder-brother buckled and almost fell before righting himself.

"And this runt is Caleb," Finn said, rumpling Caleb's white-blonde curls affectionately. Caleb scuttled shyly up to Rose, and offered a pudgy little fist, inside which were clenched several little daisies he had picked from the lawn. He touched the tip of his finger to his mouth, smiled shyly, and said, "Hi, Rosie."

He couldn't be more than six or seven, and had the biggest brown eyes she had ever seen, rosy cheeks and most of his milk-teeth still in place. Seeing him made her heart ache painfully, instantly reminded of Lucia, and she accepted the flowers while her nose and throat burned and her eyes threatened to fill with tears. She managed a tremulous smile and leaned down to give one of his rosy cheeks a kiss, and he laughed softly and ran off towards Regina.

A.N.: The mystery of who Lucia is will be revealed, I promise!