Page 6 of A Ghost of a Chance

Three small children too young for the schoolroom raced directly in front of them. Rafe halted his steps to avoid them. One little boy fell and started to wail.

“There now.” Rafe picked up the child, brushed off dirt, and dabbed at the wound with his handkerchief. “I hear that being the only person who gets a skinned knee on All Hallows’ Eve is powerful good luck. But don’t tell anyone; we wouldn’t want anyone else to get injured, would we?”

The little boy laughed and scampered off. Rafe watched him fondly. What a kind gentleman. And good with children.

Chuckling, he glanced at Osanne. “Would you care to go somewhere perhaps a bit less...crowded to talk?”

She hesitated. Dare she embrace the moment? Torn, she glanced at Ravenwood Manor, lured to the pianoforte and a new refrain of music ringing in her head. She glanced again at Rafe, the only man with whom she had enjoyed a conversation in far too long, who seemed truly interested in her.

Really, she ought to stop now before going too far down this path. No matter how tempting, spending more time with Rafe might fan her growing admiration for him. It could only lead to greater loneliness after he left. By his own admission, he was only passing through. Likely, she’d never see him again.

And yet, how could she stop now? It would be like rejecting a much-desired gift.

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?”