Prologue

The 365th Year of the Reign of the Beckyts

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All night the narrow path had been dark, the moonlight and starlight dimmed by the thick foliage growing overhead. But for the occasional break in the intertwining limbs that offered a glimpse of the night sky, the men who marched silently along the trail might as well have been traveling through a long, dark tunnel. They had to be careful to stick to the dirt footpath, as the left side of the forest was thick with ancient trees that rustled with the wind. Animals growled and screeched in the darkness, but they did not bother the travelers. To the right, the terrain dropped sharply. The deep ravine was so overgrown it was impossible to see until you were upon it.

The springtime chill penetrated their cloaks and trousers, even seeped through their boots. It was best to keep moving, to stay warm by marching ever onward. On occasion a rebel took a misstep and a sword rattled, too loud in the stillness of night.

Sunrise was approaching, and Kane could begin to see a short distance into the thick forest to the north. Fallen limbs were evidence of a storm that had passed a while earlier. The animals that had made noise all night were now quiet, as if they had retired to sleep away the day. As it was no longer completely dark, he could see the shapes of all the men who walked before him, not simply the back of Tresty’s balding head. The battered rebels—one short of a dozen—moved silently along the trail that would take them to their leader, Arik, and the reinforcements. They had been defeated in battle and were weary, but they were not broken.

The emperor’s soldiers had taken more than half their number in the last battle, four days gone. Kane Varden was one of eleven tired, hungry men. They had been beaten, and they had been wounded, but they were not ready to surrender. Not now, not ever. Not while the Emperor Sebestyen sat on the throne, hidden away high in his lavish palace while many of his people starved. It wasn’t right for one man to have so much, while others had so little. It wasn’t right for one man to take what he wanted at the expense of the common man of Columbyana, and like his father before him, that’s exactly what Sebestyen had always done. Taken.

Kane’s brother Duran, who had the best night vision of them all, led the way. Stopping only for short naps taken in shifts and what food they could catch or pick or steal, their journey would take another six days. Perhaps seven. They would join Arik in the northernmost reaches of the Eastern Province, heal, add to their numbers, and then be off to harass the imperial soldiers once again. Duran was young; barely twenty-two years. But like Kane, his heart belonged to this cause.

One day they would have the numbers to march into the palace itself, and Arik—the late Emperor Nechtyn’s bastard son and Sebestyen’s half-brother—would take the throne. Kane wanted to be there when that happened. He wanted that more than anything else in this life.

Duran stopped suddenly and raised a stilling hand. The rest of the crew halted as well. Kane placed his hand on the hilt of his sword, as did the men in front of and behind him.

When all was still, Kane heard what had alerted Duran. There was movement in the forest. Movement unlike the whisper of animals they’d heard throughout the night. The crisp rustle of leaves being displaced and the muted snick of metal on metal disturbed the quiet dawn.

Imperial infantrymen burst from the forest with a chilling cry, swords raised as they attacked from three sides. Clad in dark green uniforms that had allowed them to blend into the forest, and as road-weary as the rebels, they broke from the shelter of the trees and surrounded Kane and what was left of his unit. The only direction that was clear of soldiers was the south, where the ravine dropped so sharply. In moments the rebels had their backs to that ravine as they faced superior numbers.

The strength of the imperial forces was daunting. How many soldiers poured from the forest? Thirty, at least, with more behind them. The odds weren’t good, but it wasn’t the first time they’d been outnumbered.

An imperial soldier raised his sword and swung out with a cry as chilling as that of any animal. Kane met the attack, stopping the arc of the sword with his own blade and then dipping down as he struck back with a skilled and fatal blow. When that soldier was down, Kane engaged another. Then another. For a poor farmer’s son, he was a damn good swordsman. As was Duran. As were they all. Arik had seen to their training, knowing that there would be moments like this. They did not brandish their swords in a manner that would impress; they practiced killing blows, simple and deadly.

But they were not sorcerers; they had no magic to protect them. They were men. Imperial soldiers fell, but so did the rebels. And the emperor’s men kept coming. One fell, and two more took his place. It was as if an endless stream of soldiers poured from the trees.

One cry in the midst of many caught Kane’s attention, even though it was no louder or more insistent than the others. It was simply more familiar. He turned his head to see Duran go down. A tall, thin soldier wearing a traditional emerald green uniform stood over Kane’s little brother and struck once again. It was a death blow; Kane had seen enough of them to know.

“No!” He ran, frantically taking on one opponent and then another as he worked his way to Duran and the soldier who had already turned away to fight another rebel. It seemed that every imperial soldier was determined to stop Kane from reaching his brother. His skill with a sword was forgotten in favor of strength and brutality. He slashed and hacked his way through the fight, intent not only on surviving, but on reaching his brother’s killer. The clang of steel on steel faded, the faces of other soldiers blurred. The point of a clumsily wielded sword caught him across the back, and he spun to plunge his blade into the offending soldier’s chest before continuing on.

As he drew closer to his goal, Kane focused on the murderous soldier’s face. It was gaunt and tanned, the eyes dark and slanted like those of a cat.

All the while, more imperial soldiers came. The rebels were going to lose this battle, and with enemy combatants on three sides and a sharp drop to the other, retreat was impossible. He could surrender and be taken prisoner, or he could die. It was no choice at all.

Kane swung his sword toward the soldier’s neck, but the man who’d killed Duran saw the move coming and he jumped back. Not far enough or quickly enough. The tip of Kane’s sword caught his cheek. Enraged to be cut, the man turned all his attention to Kane. He commanded his sword with skill, and they fought as the men around them fought. After a moment there was nothing else. No one but the two of them; no sound but their own harsh breathing and the clash of metal on metal. Everything else, the rest of the battle and the grief of Duran’s death, faded from Kane’s mind.

Kane held his own against the soldier. They fought like men who had been here before. Without conscious thought, without planning each and every move. Each blow was the result of instinct and innate skill and too many years of practice. They were well matched, until their swords met in midair and the blade of Kane’s weapon snapped in two. He had a good weapon and such a thing should not have happened, but it did.

He dropped down and rolled to his right to reach for Duran’s weapon. His hand shot out, he grasped the hilt and lifted the sword from the ground and stood, all in one smooth motion. But the delay, no matter how short, had given the green-clad soldier an edge. His furious blow caught Kane in the chest; the next one cut his arm. Deep.

Kane realized that he and the soldier who had killed Duran were the only ones who still fought. The once quiet road was littered with the wounded and the dead. A greater number of imperial soldiers than rebels lay dead, but that was little comfort. The battle, such as it was, was over. Kane Varden was to be the last man down.

“Fecking hick insurgent,” the soldier said, his voice crisp with the accent of one who had spent his entire life in the capital city of Arthes. With a flick of his sword, he ripped the weapon from Kane’s hand. When Kane had been disarmed and the tip of the soldier’s sword was pointed at his heart, the soldier paused to touch the wound on his cheek. “You marked me, you insolent malcontent. I should mark you ten times before I kill you.”

“You killed my brother, you son of a bitch.” Kane didn’t back away from the tip of the sword. His family was gone; his home had been taken. He had nothing left.

The soldier glanced down at Duran, who lay perfectly still on the ground in a puddle of his own blood. His throat had been cut; the soldier’s slash had ripped his shirt and the flesh beneath.

“This one? He didn’t even fight very well. Still, I’ll happily put his pretty head on a stick and post it on the wall at Arthes until there’s nothing left but a skull. Since you say you are his brother, I’ll be sure to display your pathetic head close by.”

He poked nonchalantly at Duran’s body with the tip of his sword, and Kane lunged. He knocked the sword from the soldier’s hand, and they grappled for control of the short knife the soldier drew from a sheath at his waist.

The other imperial soldiers found the hand-to-hand combat amusing. Winded and wounded, they gathered around to watch and cheer and close off any avenue of escape.

Kane fought hard, but he was losing blood and his strength faded fast. The soldier broke away, but the knife they’d fought for was in Kane’s hand. If he could only kill the soldier before the others killed him, he could die in peace.

The soldier moved too quickly, spinning around and then lifting one leg and kicking. His imperial boot found Kane’s wounded chest, and Kane flew backward. He tried to catch himself, knowing that if he ended up lying on the ground he was finished, knife or no knife. He’d almost managed to do just that, to catch himself...and then his foot found air where ground should have been. Momentum took him back another step, and then he was falling...tumbling. The air was forced from his lungs when he landed hard on the edge of a boulder. He rebounded, rolled back, and continued to fall. All he could see was a blur of brush and dirt, and then, when he landed on his back with a jarring thud, a brief glimpse of sunrise before everything went black.

It seemed to Sophie that everyone owned a part of the day. A precious few hours when they were more alive. More complete. She and her sisters were no different.

Isadora was a creature of the night. When she sought time alone, it was by the light of the moon or in complete darkness. Juliet was at peace when sunset came. She was usually most energetic in the afternoon, and on many a day she could be found sitting on the side of the hill facing the west, smiling contentedly as she watched the sun set.

Sophie, the youngest of the Fyne sisters, loved the morning. She adored the wakening of the day, the soft light of the rising sun, the vibrant sensations of the world coming alive. Both her sisters were asleep as she made her way to the pond near their mountaintop home. It was not yet fully light, but summer was upon them and the air was mild. The water would be cool, and she’d immerse herself in the pond to watch and feel the day come to life.

Sophie loved her sisters, but some days she felt that they didn’t understand her at all. They treated her like a child, even though she was nearing the age of twenty-three. They did not seem to understand that she wasn’t like them, that she didn’t agree with them on every issue, and she most especially was not in agreement with them where men were concerned.

Since their mother had never dared to love, and their grandmother had enjoyed a marriage of nearly thirty years, it had been easy for the sisters to dismiss the Fyne curse as myth. Perhaps in the past a few of the Fyne women had experienced bad luck when it came to love, but that did not mean that a wizard’s curse had survived more than three hundred years.

So Isadora had dared to marry. She had even dared to love. For a while everything had been good and right, but of course good and right were not meant to last. Not for them.

Isadora’s husband had died too young and left his wife, the eldest of the Fyne sisters, bitter and heartbroken. Willym had been gone four years, and still Isadora mourned him. She wore black. She rarely smiled. She warned her younger sisters that love was not for them. Not for any of them. They were not meant to have anything so ordinary and beautiful as a husband or a family. Disaster would follow. All they needed was one another; it would have to be enough.

After Willym’s death, Isadora had searched the cabin for answers. She’d found a box hidden beneath a loose floorboard, and in that box they found proof of the Fyne curse. Letters, notes from their ancestors who had dared to love and then lost, filled the plain box. Healthy young men died before reaching the age of thirty. Older men simply looked at their wives one day and ran, frightened by what they saw. After reading the stories, many of them written on paper stained with tears, Juliet—who had the gift of sight—announced that their grandmother had very specifically married a man she knew she would never love, and in return she had lived a life of misery.

So Isadora insisted that there would be no men allowed in the Fyne house. Juliet was not so adamant as Isadora, but she did steer clear of males in general and swore that she would never marry. When Sophie had suggested that her sister take a lover instead, proper Juliet had been horrified. It was her intention that no man would ever touch her. Sophie suspected her sister’s vow had little to do with the curse. Juliet could be very skittish where men were concerned.

Unlike her sisters, Sophie adored men. Short, tall, young, old...there was something absolutely magnificent about them. They had extraordinary strength, and hairy faces, and interesting large bodies. They were wondrously strange, utterly fascinating, and she loved to hear them laugh when she went to town with Juliet on a rare occasion. They even laughed with strength!

From all accounts, Columbyana was filled with many men of different sorts. There were farmers and ranchers in each of the four provinces, brave soldiers—imperial forces and rebels—spread across the empire. If a woman was not afraid of magic, there were shape-shifters, good and bad, and wizards, also good and bad. Sophie had even heard tale of a group of mountain dwellers in the Northern Province who claimed the ancient blood of the Anwyn. They kept to themselves, but every so often they raided the villages at the foot of the mountain and even beyond in search of a mate. Stories of the Anwyn had been used for hundreds of years to frighten young girls into being home by sunset, so Sophie wasn’t sure if the tales were factual or fantasy. Still, it was intriguing to imagine that such a primitive man might exist.

To Sophie, the farmers were almost as elusive as the Anwyn. The Fyne sisters saw no men at their home, not since Willym’s death. Women visited on occasion to ask for herbal remedies or magical assistance, but the males of the community stayed well clear of the Fyne witches. It was Isadora’s fault, Sophie decided. She scared them all away with a sharp glance or an indecipherable word or a wave of her hand. Some of the men in town even blamed her for Willym’s death, thinking that she’d murdered him in some magical way.

Even worse, Isadora blamed herself because she’d loved him.

Shandley, the small town in the valley below the mountain Sophie called home, was the hub of society, religion, and law in this rural area of farms and ranches. It was far from the capital city of Arthes, far from the revolution. And still, some of the community’s more able-bodied men had gone away to fight for the Empire, or against it, though no one spoke of the rebels in anything but hushed tones. Sophie herself admired the dissidents who fought for what they believed in, even though they were foolish for taking on a military so large. No matter what side they chose, war seemed a terrible waste of energy and money and men. Most especially men.

Sophie didn’t want a husband. On that one point, Isadora might be right. Marriage was not for them. If she took a man into her bed and her life, wouldn’t she eventually take him into her heart? If that happened, the curse would come into play. Sophie had seen what burying a loved one could do to a woman. She didn’t want to go through that herself.

The Fyne sisters did not need husbands; they needed only one another. At the same time, she didn’t want to shun the opposite sex completely like Juliet did. That wouldn’t be right, either. Surely it was a sin to blithely dismiss one half of the population without so much as a second thought.

It had taken months of careful consideration, ponderings best kept to ones self, but Sophie had decided that she would follow in her mother’s footsteps. She would love as her body dictated, become an independent woman who took lovers when she so desired, who never regretted a moment of her life and in the end belonged to no man. Someone had to see to it that the Fyne lineage survived. Isadora and Juliet were certainly not doing their part.

One of the reasons the three Fyne sisters were so very dissimilar, in looks and in character, was that they had been fathered by three different men. Lucinda Fyne had told her daughters very little about their fathers, but they each bore the name of the man who had sired them. Isadora Sinnoch Fyne had hair as dark as the midnight she loved and eyes almost as black, and she was quite tall for a woman. She stood eye to eye with many a man, and even looked down on a few. Brown-eyed Juliet Kei Fyne fought unruly red curls and bemoaned her smattering of freckles, and while she was shorter than her older sister, she was still of a nice height. Sophie Maddox Fyne was the youngest and shortest of the three. Her fair hair looked almost white in the right light, and her eyes were a vibrant blue. And while she was shorter than her sisters, she possessed one attribute they lacked. Juliet said that her little sister was “well endowed.” The more plainspoken Isadora said Sophie had “big tits.” Sophie did not think her breasts were big, necessarily, but when compared to her reed-thin sisters, the difference was notable.

Lucinda Fyne had told her daughters that in each case she’d dreamed about their fathers for three nights before she met them. None of the men knew that the woman who’d come to them for one night left bearing a child. Lucinda had never married, and she’d never regretted not taking a husband. She had done her duty as the only Fyne of her generation, and given birth to daughters.

There had been Fyne witches on this mountain for more than three hundred years. Sophie knew she and her sisters could not be the last; they shouldn’t be the end of their bloodline. If Juliet and Isadora insisted upon living their lives as chaste as the Sisters of Orianan, then it was up to Sophie to see that there were Fyne women on this mountain for another three hundred years.

Her heart beat a little faster as she reached the edge of the pond and quickly pulled her simple nightshift up and over her head. For the past three nights she had dreamt of a man with sad green eyes. She couldn’t see much else, but oh, in spite of his sadness, the green-eyed man in her dreams made her feel marvelous. She tingled. She trembled. And she woke wanting desperately to reach out and touch him. She couldn’t talk to her sisters about what was happening to her. They were so overly protective, they’d probably lock her up until the dreams ceased.

Columbyana was in an uproar, and had been for the past five years, since the rebels had begun to disturb the peace of their land. Sophie didn’t worry about imperial soldiers or rebels intruding on her morning ritual. Politics did not concern her or her sisters. Isadora, the most powerful of the three, had cast a spell over the mountain, and that spell kept the war at a distance. There had been no bloodshed here on this ground, and there never would be.

Sophie shook her head as she stepped into the pond. The water was only slightly cool this morning, and she knew it wouldn’t be long before it soaked up the heat of the sun and lost the last of its nighttime chill. When she was well away from the bank, she pushed herself toward the center of the pond and let the water wash over her body.

If the war ever ended, would Isadora’s spell be lifted? Would men come to Fyne Mountain again? Sophie knew that if her dreams were prophetic as her mother’s had been, her green-eyed lover was already here, spell or no spell. It was time. Time to become a woman. Time to begin her new life. She felt that truth beating inside her heart; she felt it in her skin, on the tip of her tongue. She knew.

She swam as the sun rose and bathed her in warm, welcoming light, and she felt as if she had come alive along with the day. Sunlight kissed her face like a welcomed friend. She closed her eyes and drifted in the pond, water refreshing against her bare skin, sun warm on her face. Such a moment was usually relaxing, but deep inside Sophie coiled. It was almost more than she could bear, this anxiety. The waiting. The emptiness.

“A man,” she whispered as she floated in the center of the pond. “A lover.” Again, she thought of the man she had dreamed of for three nights, and wished she could see more of him. In her dreams there were only the eyes, and the sensation of a mouth against her wrist, and a shimmer beneath her skin that she could not dismiss. “Come to me, my green-eyed man,” she said softly.

She swam beneath the water as long as she could, holding her breath and kicking her feet, then broke the surface near the opposite side of the bank with a splash and a deep intake of breath. Her gaze was drawn to the bank, where a fine white horse was tethered in the grove of linara trees. She had not seen the animal from the opposite bank, thanks to the angle and the thickness of the foliage. The trees were in full bloom, their lavender blossoms fragrant and delicate.

Someone was here. Sophie quietly swam closer to the pond’s edge until she could see the bundle beneath the flower laden limbs. As she watched, the bundle moved.

She took a deep breath, her heart pounding. “Hello,” she whispered. The shapeless lump beneath the tree moved again. Sophie’s chin touched the water, and her loosened, pale hair floated all around her. She really should swim back to the opposite bank, don her shift, and make her way home. Of course, Sophie Fyne rarely did what she should.

“Hello,” she called again, louder this time.

The person who was lost in the rough-looking bedroll sat up slowly. Sophie’s heart hitched when she realized that it was indeed a man, though he was certainly not the sort of fellow who would make a woman’s heart leap with desire. He had a scraggly beard and unkempt long hair, and while both seemed to be a light brown, it was impossible to be certain. There was too much dirt in the way. He squinted, blinked hard, and reached for the bottle beside him, taking a long swig before fixing his gaze on her again.

“I’m dead, right?” he said as he set the bottle aside.

“No,” Sophie said softly.

“I’m dead, and you’re an angel, come to take me to heaven. Or send me to hell,” he added in a softer voice.

She smiled widely. “No. You’re alive, and I am not an angel, a water sprite, or an elf.” She didn’t add that she was a witch. That little bit of information might send the man running, and, in spite of his appearance, she hadn’t yet decided whether or not she wanted him to run.

He sat up a little straighter. He appeared to be tall, was wide in the shoulders, and had nicely long arms. His clothing was well-worn and dirty, but the short leather boots had once been very nice, and the loose trousers tucked into those boots were of fine-quality cloth. As she looked closer she could see that there was a wicked-looking knife sheathed at his waist. On his tattered cloak he wore an embroidered shield of Arik, the rebel leader who claimed to be the rightful Emperor of Columbyana.

“You’re a soldier,” she said softly.

“I was,” he answered in a low voice.

“A rebel,” she whispered.

He nodded.

Perhaps he had given up the fight as futile. “Are you going home?”

The soldier shook his head. “There’s nothing left to go home to.” He gave her a crooked, bitter smile.

“If you’re no longer a soldier, and you have no home, then what are you?”

“A thief,” he answered without hesitation.

Sophie blinked twice. A soldier, even a rebel, was one thing. But a thief? “What did you steal?”

He lifted the bottle. “This whisky, the horse, and some food.”

So, he was hardly a notorious outlaw. He was simply down on his luck, that’s all.

“Are you intoxicated?”

He considered the question. “It seems I’ve slept away my inebriated state, but that will be remedied soon enough.”

The man was absolutely filthy, his hair was much too long and tangled, and he was terribly sad. She could feel the sorrow as if it radiated from him in waves. She did not have Juliet’s gift, but her senses were very fine-tuned. This man hurt deeply.

“Do you have green eyes?” she asked, and then she held her breath as she waited for an answer.

The man cocked his head to one side. “Yes. Why?”

“I have dreamed of a green-eyed man,” she said honestly. Nothing in her dreams had hinted that he might be a rebel and a thief. And yet here they were, alone on a beautiful morning. “Are you...” Her heart hitched again. Her throat threatened to close. With a deep breath, she pushed the indecision aside. “Are you gifted in the art of making love?”

A moment of silence followed her question. “Am I…what?”

Sophie smiled widely. If she was meant to be with this man, there would be no walking away. Or swimming away. Destiny had brought him here. Fate had sent the dreams to her. “Are you gifted in the art of making love?” she asked again, more slowly this time.

“I don’t know,” he said. “It’s been so long I’m not even sure I remember how.” There was a hint of teasing in his low voice, and he grinned. He thought she was teasing him, that she would be so cruel as to taunt him and then swim away.

There was only one way to dispel that notion. Sophie swam closer to the man. Her feet found the bottom of the pond, and she stood slowly. The soldier’s smile faded as she walked toward him. His gaze raked over her from head to toe. Slowly. Curiously. She knew very well what kind of picture she presented. Pale, wet hair clung to her skin. Warm morning sun touched her bare back.

“If I asked you to be my first lover, would you consent?” she asked as she came to a halt on the bank of the pond.

“Now I know I’m dead,” he said softy. “You can’t be real.”

“If you don’t wish to lie down with me, I won’t be offended.” She walked to the soldier, knelt by him, and reached out to unfasten his cloak. Already she could read the answer in his eyes. Green eyes, she could now see for herself. Beautiful eyes, too somber for one so young. Too somber for a man who’d lived a hundred years. He had seen too much. He had seen horrible things.

She wanted to wash it all away, and she began by unfastening the buttons down the front of his ill-fitting linen shirt.

As if he’d snapped to his senses, he began to assist in his own disrobing. His gaze swept over her, carefully studying her face, her throat, and her breasts, before whisking downward to ponder her pale thighs and the blond curls at the apex. The sheathed knife at his waist was set aside with some care, but the boots were tossed away with impatience, as were the trousers and the shirt. With her help, he had himself undressed in a matter of moments. When the soldier was as bare as she, Sophie took his hand and stood, and he rose to his feet with her.

Her soldier did have some impressive qualities, Sophie had to admit. He was indeed tall. At least six feet, perhaps more. Since she barely stood five foot one, the difference was startling. Height was not the only difference, of course. Where her skin was pale and soft, unmarked and creamy, his was tough, scarred, and dusted with brown hair. And hard! His chest was hard, his thighs, his arms. And he was already aroused, she noted, though she did try not to stare. Surely that would be considered rude, even amongst the inexperienced.

Evidence of wounds not yet completely healed marred one arm and his chest, but he seemed to pay them no mind at all, as if he felt no pain. There was no softness about him, no hint of gentleness.

He needed her gentleness, she decided, even if only on this one magical morning. His body, his hardness, was the perfect complement to her womanly curves and softness. They would suit one another well, she decided as she took his hand and led him to the pond.

“What are you doing?”

“My first lover should be clean, don’t you agree?” she said as they stepped into the water.

“Whatever you say, Angel. Whatever you want.”

Sophie smiled brightly as she dipped beneath the water. The soldier followed, his hands reaching for her. She swam away, concentrating for a moment on the rush of water against her flesh, on the morning sun that peeked over the horizon. At the center of the pond she stopped, in a place where she could stand and the water was just deep enough to touch her chin. The soldier’s hands found her beneath the water. He touched her waist, then one hand raked up her side and around to her breast. His fingers brushed gently over a nipple, and the jolt that passed through her body was extraordinary. Sophie closed her eyes and sighed.

She had never been touched by a man before, unless the fatherly hugs from Willym counted. They did not, she decided. This was entirely new; entirely startling. She liked it very much.

Feeling bold, she touched him, too. Tentatively, at first, and then with an unexpected sense of ease, as if this touching were as natural as the sunrise itself. She trailed the tips of her fingers over his hard skin, tracing the muscle. Her eyes drifted open, and she watched the fire in her soldier’s eyes grow hotter and deeper.

Sophie plunged beneath the water once again, and this time the soldier followed her. After a short chase he grabbed her, firmly but with an unexpected gentleness, and pulled her body against his. Flesh met flesh. They were hot and cold, hard and soft, and her skin was so sensitive she tingled everywhere he touched her. She felt the swirl of the water all about as if it were alive. Her legs wrapped around her soldier.

He propelled them upward, so that they broke the surface of the water still entangled. His own long hair clung to his face and neck. Rivulets of water ran down his face, down his neck and chest. And amidst it all, those eyes captivated her. A new aspect had been added to the sadness she had first seen there. It was a beautiful sight. Sophie laid her mouth against his neck and tasted the wetness on his skin. Even though he was hard and solid and seemed not to feel pain, a tremor passed through his body. She felt it. She tasted it.

“I’m clean enough,” he said as he turned toward the shore.

“Yes,” she agreed. “You are.”

They swam side by side for a moment, until they reached a shallow area near the pond’s edge. There the rebel stood and took her hand, much as she had earlier taken his, but he did not stop there. He laid his mouth on her shoulder and kissed the wet, sensitive flesh. His arms wrapped around her possessively, his hands dipping down to rest on her backside. Those hands were not still, but caressed while his lips teased her shoulder and then her neck. This was better than any dream, Sophie decided, as she followed his example and wrapped her arms around him. The soldier would be a wonderful lover.

With a growl, her rebel swept her up into his arms and carried her out of the pond and to his bedroll. He laid her there, his arms tender, his green eyes watchful.

“Your first lover,” he said gruffly as he lay down beside her.

“Yes.” He didn’t believe her, she could tell, but she didn’t care.

“So I should be gentle.” He kissed the swell of one breast, and then shifted his head so he could take the nipple deep into his mouth.

“Yes,” Sophie said, her heart and the center of her being leaping. Why had no one ever told her how good this moment would be?

“But not too gentle,” he added as he moved his mouth from one breast to the other, where he suckled a bit harder. His lips were warm; his tongue quick, and then leisurely, and then quick again.

“No, not too...” The words caught in her throat, until she finally stopped trying to speak and allowed him to lavish his attention on her bosom, and then her throat, and then back to her bosom again.

The soldier lifted his head almost reluctantly, dipping back down once to lick quickly at one hardened nipple. Then he took her arm and raised it to his mouth. He kissed the tender skin at her inner wrist, just as he had in her dream. It was marvelous. Beautiful and arousing and tender. He kissed his way up her inner arm, every caress more stimulating than the last. Sophie gasped. It was as if her skin had changed, had become more sensitive to anything and everything. The waft of a warm breeze, the soft caress of a man’s lips.

“Can I touch you, soldier?” she whispered.

“I’m yours, Angel,” he answered, his drawl soft and somehow different. Judging by the lilt in his voice he was not from the Southern Province. Sophie liked the softness in his voice, the honey in his words. “Touch me,” he said, “kiss me, tell me what you want.”

The perfect sexual partner, agreeable and talented.

Sophie reached down and flattened her palm against the soldier’s flat belly. He twitched. Her fingers danced, itched, and finally closed around his manhood, which was now fully erect. He was hot and silky, so hard she was truly amazed. She kissed his throat while her fingers explored, and he moaned low in his throat.

His hand skimmed down her belly, and she parted her thighs for him. He touched her where no man had ever touched her before, his hands rough and large and curious. His sun-kissed flesh was dark against her milky skin, foreign and yet very right, somehow.

“I can’t take much more of this,” he confessed, his deep voice a whisper.

“Then it’s time,” Sophie said. She shifted her body and he shifted his, and after no more than a heartbeat or two the soldier was cradled between her legs. He touched her with the tip of his erection, pushed against and then into her.

Sophie closed her eyes, tipped her head back and savored every passing second as her lover became a part of her. Slowly, tenderly. There was a short fleeting moment when she thought he would not fit. And then her body opened for him. With a low growl, he pushed himself deep inside her.

She cried out softly, and the soldier lifted his head to stare down at her. Wet hair clung to his cheek and his neck. A drop of water snaked across his shoulder, moving slowly across his skin and then falling to her own damp flesh. “You were telling the truth,” he whispered. “About me being your first.”

“I always tell the truth,” she answered. “Don’t stop,” she added quickly when he began to withdraw. “Love me, soldier.” He did love her, slowly at first, every stroke a wonder. This coming together was primal, a meeting of bodies, a search for a magnificence that fluttered just out of reach. When she felt herself dancing on the edge of something new and exciting, her rebel began to move faster. He plunged impossibly deeper, and she lifted her hips to meet his thrust.

Her body was on fire. She wanted more, needed more. By the sun and the moon and every star in the sky...

Sophie cried out as a wave of release shot through her body. Pleasure so intense it could not be described shimmered through her. The soldier’s release came in time with hers, with a shudder and a low cry, with a stiffening of his big body and the hot gift of his seed flowing inside her.

Eyes closed, Sophie reached up and touched his face as the last waves of pleasure drifted through her. She was a woman now. And as she had always suspected, men were marvelous creatures.

The soldier, her rebel, lowered his head to her shoulder, breathing deeply and with difficulty. “Oh, Angel,” he whispered.

Sophie trailed her fingers through his damp hair. “I knew you would be an amazing lover. Thank you.”

He lifted his head to look down at her. “Thank you?”

She smiled. “You’re better than a dream.”

He withdrew slowly, reluctantly, and she truly wanted to pull him back. But even though they were no longer joined she could feel him inside her, warm and potent. She would always feel him, she imagined.

He lowered himself to lie beside her on the rough bedroll, and one large, sun-darkened hand rested on the flat of her belly. That hand was so powerful, so different from her own. The fingers were long and there were small scars on the back of that hand. She wondered about each mark, and then reminded herself that it did not matter. She didn’t need to know the details of his life.

“Sleep with me, Angel,” he whispered as he placed his head on her shoulder once again. “I haven’t slept well in so long, I forgot what it’s like to dream. Nightmares, yes. Dreams...no. Sleep with me, and maybe I can dream again.” Sophie wrapped her arms around him. The act of love itself was done, but she didn’t feel that they were finished. She wanted to hold him. She wanted to press her body against his, still. “I’ll lie with you a little while,” she said. “But I can’t stay long.”

“A little while is better than nothing,” he said as his eyes drifted closed.

Sophie nestled her head against his chest. Her body thrummed, her heart hammered. “Soldier?” she whispered.

He answered with a low hum.

“What’s your given name?”

“Kane,” he answered.

Sophie smiled. “I like that name. It’s lovely.”

Without opening his eyes, Kane asked, “What’s yours?”

Magnificent as their day had been, warm and wonderful as he was at this moment, Sophie knew she didn’t need Kane nosing around looking for her at a later date. She had decided not to reject men as entirely as her sisters had done, but that did not mean she was willing to risk loving and losing a man. She would have to be content to go from one lover to the next as the dreams dictated. She would give her heart to no man. Looking at Kane now, still feeling him inside her, she suspected it would be much too easy to fall in love with a man like this one.

“Angel,” she finally answered. “You can call me Angel.”

A half smile crossed Kane’s face. “I knew it.”

Sophie held Kane until he slept. The sun rose in the sky, and the day became bright. Finally she rose slowly and sat beside him to place her hands over his heart. “A man who takes a witch’s virginity and does the task so well deserves a gift.” She closed her eyes. “I wish for you a well-healed heart, beautiful dreams, and...” Oh, she wasn’t good at this! Not without many hours of preparation. Isadora was magnificent with spells. She always knew what to say and do, and what not to say or do. Sophie usually had to plan her spells very carefully, otherwise they went astray. What did one give a poor rebel who was down on his luck?

“And luck!” she finished with a smile. “I wish you good luck.” A breeze ruffled the leaves of the linara tree, and patches of sunlight danced across their bodies. A single lavender petal fell from its place and landed directly upon the soldier’s chest, very near her hand. Sophie muttered a few well-chosen words to complete the spell, and then rested beside Kane for a few more minutes. It was probably perfectly natural to feel affection for one’s first sexual partner. The warmth in her heart was a lingering reminder of the heat they had generated together. Her reluctance to leave him was surely common for a girl who had just become a woman. She was tempted to wake Kane and ask him to love her again. Just once more.

But no. She would not cling to one man. And besides, their time together had been perfect. One could not improve upon perfection.

Sophie left Kane sleeping soundly. She entered the water quietly, sad to leave him and yet invigorated to have begun anew. Thoughts of her sisters stole her smile for a moment. Isadora would not be pleased, and Juliet would cluck and shake her head like an old hen. While Sophie was tempted to keep the events of this morning to herself, she knew she could never keep a secret of this magnitude from her sisters. Besides, they would know the truth as soon as they saw her face.

In spite of the arguments she knew would come, Sophie remained deliriously happy. This mystical morning marked the dawning of a new phase of her life. She smiled as she swam lazily to the opposite side of the pond. Yes, men were truly wonderful creatures.