Chapter Two
Rafe nearly cursed himself out loud. He sounded like a scoundrel. Suggesting that he and a demure young lady go somewhere alone to talk might be interpreted as a ruse to try to take advantage.
He hurried to add, “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to suggest anything indecent.”
Nearby, one of the villagers looked at Rafe wide-eyed, then hurried away with an alarmed backward glance. Odd. Perhaps, unlike most of the others, that man mistrusted strangers.
A woman’s voice called out to him. “Tell your fortune, good sir?” Wearing a red scarf around her head and large gold hoop earrings, a gypsy with thick dark hair gestured to Rafe and spoke in a Romani accent. “You, sir, have a...how do you say... unique fortune. I see. Come, come, sit. I tell you.”
Rafe glanced ruefully at the young lady he’d been so privileged to meet. Osanne. So lovely. So mysterious. Somehow, in her presence, his sense of humor had returned. If only his wits would return.
“Come, you must know.” The gypsy gestured wildly, making her bracelets jingle.
Rafe shrugged at Osanne. “I suppose I must?”
“Why, certainly, you must,” Osanne said in that sweetly smooth voice that seemed to come from the very air itself.
A gentle smile curved her lips but failed to ease the sorrow in her eyes.
He recognized in her a kindred spirit—someone who had suffered great loss but held on to her humanity.
There was something gentle and wise about her that he had not encountered in other girls—certainly not in anyone as youthful as she.
With her cloud of pale hair, flawless ivory skin and dark, solemn eyes, she might be anywhere between fifteen and thirty.
Osanne added, “’Tis tradition here. The Romani people come to our fair village every year to tell fortunes and sell their wares.”
Her formal speech of a bygone era had a certain charm. Everything about her had a certain charm.
Despite his opinions about the validity of fortune-telling, Rafe needed no more convincing than the encouragement of a beautiful lady. He sat on a stool before a low table opposite the gypsy and handed over the requested coin.
“I am Madam Miska, and I see.” The gypsy drew out the word, then nodded as if that explained everything.
After she adjusted her silks and scarves, Madam Miska peered deeply at him, her dark eyes reflecting the bonfire light.
“You, sir, are haunted by many ghosts, some from within, some from without.”
While she wasn’t wildly mistaken about his inner torments, nothing would convince him to accept the idea of ghosts. Spirits walking the earth were about as real as fortune tellers.
Still peering into his eyes, she nodded. “You have suffered much. You torture yourself with choices you made for others. Military man, no?”
“Yes,” he admitted. She could have derived that from any number of clues if she were truly observant.
“Heat of the battle,” she nodded, then frowned in sudden sadness. “Your orders led many to their deaths.”
Rafe frowned. Everyone in command had faced that horrible truth. Most men who saw battle bore inner scars. It would be rare, indeed, to come home unaffected by the nightmarish events of war.
The gypsy closed her eyes and twisted her face. “Oh, so sad....your friend dying in your arms.”
Her words hit him like a fist to the gut. His chest constricted until breathing became an effort.
His common sense reasserted itself and he shoved back unwanted memories. Since many had held dying friends in the recent past, she might say that to all her customers and be right most of the time.
The fortune teller said in a sage voice, “Do not revisit the battlefield. Move on. Let go.” The fortune teller nodded again and held out her hand. “Your palm?”
Rafe wiped the perspiration trickling down his face and shook himself. Really, it was ridiculous. Why had he agreed to this?
Oh, right—to show the lovely Osanne that he wasn’t so stingy with his coin that he would refuse a little traditional fun on this bizarre annual event.
He glanced at the lady in question, who stood a ways off to the side as if to give him a bit of privacy.
Osanne, in all her intriguing loveliness, glanced at him with eyes full of questions, then looked away so as not to intrude.
The gypsy woman took his hand and studied. “Ah, you are a strong leader. Wise. Intelligent. Decisive. You enjoy books. History. Exploring.”
Odd. How could she have known that?
She leaned closer. “You are lost. You must find your way.”
He had, on more than one occasion, felt a bit lost. Adrift.
The revelry around the bonfire intensified with music, drums, and wild dancing. The scents of apples, toasted foods, and smoke filled his nostrils. Osanne met his gaze, her eyes so dark and mysterious. A hint of a smile curved her plump lips. Were they as sweet as they looked?
“True love!” The fortune teller’s voice jerked him back.
“You have it within your grasp, but only when you live true to yourself will you find your heart’s desire, the mate for your soul, and free you both from the chains that bind you each to your solitude.
Free yourself, free her. Find love. Hold fast to it. ”
A strange fortune, to be sure. Stranger still, it smacked of truth, at least as far as trying to heal his inner wounds before he could hope to find a sense of normalcy in his life.
Yet, she might simply be giving good advice to any number of returning war veterans.
It faintly echoed counsel his commanding officer had given him when Rafe sold his commission—except that bit about finding his true love and saving her from chains that bound them to solitude.
What could that mean? Likely, any unwed girl felt bound to solitude without a husband.
Rafe’s solitude came from something he didn’t wish to examine too closely.
The fortune-teller merely hinted at a future love, surely.
Osanne drew his gaze. Her serenity and gentleness touched him. Perhaps he might shake off his proverbial chains and try to live, truly live.
But he’d tried, and the emptiness would not be filled. Perhaps loss and grief and guilt had damaged him too deeply.
If the fortune teller said a single word about how he should be looking for his heart’s desire in a drawing room, he’d demand a refund.
Madam Miska released his palm and nodded. A dismissal.
Rafe inclined his head. “Thank you, madam. And good evening.”
She gestured with a flourish that jingled her bracelets and smiled benevolently.
Rafe gave Osanne an inviting smile and strode away from the gypsy, careful to walk slowly enough that the petite young lady could keep up.
She moved with smooth grace and they fell into an easy pace as if they had walked together for years.
And yet, he knew her not at all. Her thoughtful expression gave her an otherworldly beauty.
Despite her loose hair and unfashionable gown peeping out from her parted cloak, her poise and loveliness would put to shame young ladies in even the topmost society circles.
“Did she tell you anything useful?” Osanne asked.
He blinked at her.
Again came that softly amused smile as she gestured to the gypsy’s tent. “The fortune teller. Did she tell you your fortune?”
“Some vague references to battle and finding love.” He shrugged. “Do you believe people can really tell fortunes?”
“I believe there is much we cannot explain. ’Tis possible some things require faith.”
“I left my faith on the battlefield.”
She fell silent, her brows drawn together, and nodded.
“Forgive me,” he said. “I’ll try not to be too brooding. Not tonight. Not with you.”
Her searching gaze left him with the sensation of being studied and healed at the same time. “There is nothing to forgive.”
Away from the bonfire, a chill settled into his limbs despite his wool coat.
“Are you cold?” he finally managed.
A small smile came in response. “No, not at all. But thank you for asking.”
“I’m cold. Do you want to give me your cloak?” he said wryly.
She laughed. Birdsong had never sounded sweeter.
He grinned. “Ah, you do laugh. I had begun to wonder.”
Her mouth shifted from laughter to a wry smile. “I apologize if I am poor company.”
“Not at all. However, I cannot claim to be witty or entertaining if I fail to win your smiles and at least one notable laugh.”
“You may consider yourself successful. Only a court jester could best your skills as a diverting entertainer.”
“Oh, I must be losing my touch. I used to put jesters to shame. Perhaps my skills are in need of refining.”
A curving of her lips and something in the darkness in her eyes awakened an old memory.
“As a boy, I used to try to make my mother laugh. She made me feel as if I were the cleverest, most diverting boy who ever lived.”
“Mothers are never wrong about that sort of thing.”
“Indeed.” The wind stirred the naked branches of the tree overhead, making the moonlight shiver, and sent a chill through him.
She huffed a soft laugh. “I believe you need to move closer to the fire. Or have a hot drink.”
“It would be unmanly to admit I’m too cold to remain here.”
“Very well. I wish to return closer to the fire.” She stood. “Would you care to escort me back?”
“I can give you my coat.”
“No need.” She gave him a mysterious smile and led him to a less crowded fire barrel at the edge of the square. He held out his hands to the flames. Warmth soaked through his gloves. He let out a contented sigh.
She smiled at him. “Isn’t this better?”
“Noisier. But it is warmer.” His shivering eased as heat dispelled the chill.
“I know a place that is both warm and quiet.”
“You aren’t trying to lure me to a solitary place so you can trifle with my virtue, are you?” He gave her his most charming, flirtatious smile.
She lifted a brow and an enigmatic curve touched her lips. “Is that your fear or your hope?”
He choked and then laughed. No demure little miss here, despite her earlier reticence. How refreshing! “I dare not say.”
Honestly, he would follow her anywhere at that moment.
She nodded. “This way.”