"[...]What if he arose from the ruin, and put this child in it, with her marvellous eyes, her ignorant, innocent trust, her apron full of wild roses, emerging from the shadowy hollow, and one branch caught in her hair, half crowning her. For why should a man wreck his life on the shallows and quicksands of a woman's love? Two days ago he had said he could not paint again in years, if ever, that all his genius had been the soft glamour of a woman's smile. And here was a fresh inspiration. Dil stared, yet the happy light did not go out of her face as she tried to grasp the mystery. "Yes; would you mind my sketching you for a picture?" There were not many people around. Saturday afternoons they went off on excursions. A few drowsy old fellows of the better class, two women resting and reading, waiting for some one perhaps, others sauntering.[...]".

“Hev a bunch o' roses, mem? Fresh wild roses with the dew on 'em. Jes' picked. On'y ten cents.” They dropped in at the open window, and landed on Virginia Deering's lap. Her first impulse was to throw them out again, as she half said to herself, “I hate wild roses, I always shall!” But she glanced down into such a forlorn, wistful face, that her heart was touched, a not unkindly heart, though it had been bitter and obdurate with the unreason of youth. “Oh, please buy 'em, mem. Mammy's sick and can't do nothin', an' Ben's got a fever. On'y ten cents.” The poor child, in her ragged dress, was clean enough. Her face had a starved, eager look, and the earnest pleading in the eyes bespoke necessity seldom counterfeited. Miss Deering opened her pretty silver-clasped purse and handed out a quarter. “All of it?” hesitatingly. “Oh, thanky, thanky! We'd sold the chickens, and everything we could, and Ben said city folks was fond of wild-flowers.” The whistle blew. There was a groan and quiver as the train began to move, that drowned the child's gratitude. Miss Deering laid the roses on the seat beside her with a curious touch, as if she shrank from them. An hour or two ago she had started on her journey, leaving behind her a sweet dream of youth and love and roses. In twenty-four hours the brightness of her life had been swept away. The summer day wore a dulness she had never seen before.

The finale to the sweeping, multi-generational saga that began with THE TEA ROSE and continued with THE WINTER ROSE. London, 1914. World War I looms on the horizon, women are fighting for the right to vote, and explorers are pushing the limits of endurance in the most forbidding corners of the earth. As the last golden days of summer give way to the gathering clouds of war, two men and one woman find their lives forever intertwined in a lethal web of forbidden loves, hidden loyalties, and dangerous lies. With myriad twists and turns, thrilling cliffhangers, and fabulous period detail and atmosphere, tHE WILD ROSE is a highly satisfying conclusion to the sweeping, multi-generational saga that began with the tea Rose and the Winter Rose - an unforgettable trilogy. Praise for the Rose trilogy:'truly seductive, hard to put down, filled with mystery, secret passions, unique locations, and a most engaging heroine ... captivates from the first page to the last' - Barbara taylor Bradford