To Dream of Her True Love's Face
by Giselle Renarde
To dream of her true love's face, Emma takes heed of well-known folklore and places a bundle of rosemary beneath her pillow. Her family is quite dismayed when she dreams of a Native woman rather than the young man they intend for her to marry. Their derision drives Emma to the woods, where she takes a step in the wrong direction and becomes stuck in a marsh. When she calls for help, what should she hear but the steady beat of hooves and the heavy rustle of leather?
Is her true love a fallen woman, or a mythical creature fallen from the stars?
Warnings: This historical lesbian romance includes legendary love and explicit erotic content.
NOTE: This is a previously published work. Originally published by Torquere Press.
Excerpt:"Two bay leaves and a sprig of rosemary," her sister whispered, sprinkling the bundle with rosewater. "All that remains is to wrap them in the leaf from a cherry tree and you shall dream of your true love's face."
"And if I dream of Paul," Emma asked doubtfully, "I should accept his proposal of marriage?"
"Well, of course you should, silly girl!" Rosalind tucked the fragrant bundle under Emma's pillow and kissed her forehead. "You must accept his proposal whether or not you dream of him, or risk becoming an old maid like your sister!"
Dear Rosalind chuckled and rose from the bed as Emma pulled her fine Parisian quilt across her chest. "I have my doubts about marriage."
"Nonsense," Rosalind clucked. "You shall dream of Paul's face, and you will know in your heart he is your one true love."
Emma sighed as her sister departed, but perhaps there was some enchantment in her sister's parcel of herbs after all. When Emma's reluctant eyelids weighed heavy and closed shut, she tumbled directly into sleep.
Hooves fell, signaling the advance of a powerful creature.
At once, Emma beheld a proud chestnut horse approaching from a great distance. Even in sleep, its rider stole her breath away. The man on the horse was certainly not Paul, and as she gazed more closely upon his face, Emma realized this was not a man at all! The rider was a woman, neither a dainty Englishwoman in petticoats nor a colonial farmwoman in cotton skirts, but a proud Native warrior dressed all in leather.
The Native woman's face was unlike any Emma had observed in the talented Mr. Catlin's paintings. Her hair was black as a raven's and shimmered bluish against the blinding sunlight. Her copper skin glowed with the radiance of a star, her features noble and well-placed cheeks neither chubby nor gaunt.
As Emma looked on in rapture, a breeze picked up and tossed the woman's long hair over her shoulders. A stronger wind then urged her head to the side until at last she looked directly into Emma's eyes. Her expression hardened, but Emma's fear and excitement and great trepidation spilled into an eager smile. How could she impress her adoration upon this warrior woman?
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