Page 7 of A Ghost of a Chance

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.