The Sun Witch Read online

  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 ni
ce, 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 a
rms 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.”