Visions of Mistletoe: A Ridlington Christmas Novella

by Sahara Kelly

  None did. She simply acknowledged his arrival with a wave of her hand. “Sit down, lad.”

  “Look…” Unwilling to raise her hopes, Michael opted for the truth. “Ma’am, I have barely a shilling to my name. I cannot cross your palm with silver, nor afford the luxury of you telling my fortune.” He sighed. “Actually, I’d just as soon not know what that might be.”

  She ignored his protests. “Sit down. Honest words are better’n gold. They’ll do.”

  Somewhat stunned at this bit of folkloric wisdom, Michael sat on an empty stool.

  “Gi’ me yer hand.”

  She held her own hand across the table, palm upwards, waiting for him to obey. As the wind rustled the fabric of the tent, he laid his right hand in hers, matching her position.

  She glanced at it then pushed it aside. “T’other one.”

  “What’s wrong with this one?” Michael stared at his hand.

  “Nothin’. It’s yer present. All that one’ll tell me is what’s goin’ on right now. Nothin’ yer doesn’t know already.”

  “Really?” Michael quirked a disbelieving eyebrow and did his best to keep the sarcasm from his voice. She was only doing her job and trying to make a few pence.

  She sighed. “Yer in trouble, family trouble and that’s the worst kind.” She tipped her head to one side, reminding him of an elderly sparrow. “Yer don’ know where yer headed. Or if yer’ll get anywhere in one piece. Yer heart has pain in it—a lot of pain—and none of it’s yer fault. Sometimes we gotta carry burdens on our shoulders, put there by others. I need to see if yer gonna lay ‘em down anytime soon.”

  Stunned, Michael obeyed, silently stretching his other hand towards her. He hadn’t expected such accuracy from a simple gypsy fortuneteller and it had taken him by surprise.

  She gripped him hard, pulling and turning his hand this way and that, running rough fingertips down creases, grating a nail against lines. “’Tisn’t enough. I can’t see.”

  Gloomily Michael stared at her. “I don’t have any future, do I?”

  “Don’t be daft. We’ve all got a future, one way or t’other.” She rummaged in a large fabric bag at her side, and produced an object wrapped in silk. “Now, let’s see what we’ve got here, shall we?”

  Oh yes, we should. He stifled his sarcastic answer, reminding himself that it was cold and wet outside and dry in here and this wasn’t costing him anything. She caught his attention fair and square, however, when she whipped away the silk to reveal the most perfect crystal orb he’d ever seen.

  He reached out a finger and brushed the smooth surface wonderingly. “So lovely…”

  “Yep. Older’n time, some say.”

  The solid sphere was flawless, resting on a simple wooden base, and must have been about as tall as Michael’s hand-span.

  He stared into it, wondering if it would indeed reveal his future. But it remained quiescent, as if sleeping.

  Michael sighed. “You see? No future at all…” His voice tapered off as some kind of flicker caught his attention. It came from the shadows behind the gypsy, and he turned his head, distracted.

  He squinted and a mirror in the rear of the tent became clearer, a thing that ladies might keep on the top of their bureau, simple in design with a small decorative curlicue on the top.

  “Uh…” He blinked and stared. It was almost as if the glass, aged and marked by time, began to soften, to melt…

  The old woman turned, looked at the mirror and back at Michael, her eyes narrowing.

  “Look…” he whispered. “In the glass…”

  It radiated light, drawing the soft rays from the small lamp and amplifying them into a pure glow. Like moonlight captured in a still pond.

  “Yep. ‘Tis indeed like moonlight.” The woman smiled at him, sending a chill down his spine that had nothing to do with the weather as she eerily echoed his thoughts. “Now. I need yer to look deep into it.”

  Michael needed no second bidding.

  “And look wi’ yer heart, lad, not yer eyes.”

  Michael was drifting. The soft shadows of the tent, the bright glow of the mirror—the magic of the moment seduced him. The surface of the glass clouded as he watched it, gentle swirls of some sparkling viscous substance beginning to roil within.

  Waves danced and parted only to merge and blend once more until they finally cleared and he stared, not at the mirror, but through it—at the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

  Chapter Two

  Michael’s breath caught in his throat. “I see—”

  “What?”

  “I see—a woman.”

  He couldn’t make out the details of the room in which she stood, but light fell on one side of her body—and oh what a body it was. Skin like alabaster glimmered above the gown in shades of ruby gathered at her breast, and hair the colour of night curled atop her head.

  “What d’yer see, lad?”

  Michael vaguely registered the questions as his gaze remained solidly on the vision before him. “I see a woman. A lovely woman. In a room. By a window I would think because she’s got light on her. Her chamber perhaps—I can’t tell.”

  He swallowed as the woman stood, staring at something.

  She adjusted the shoulders of her brilliant clothing, and straightened her lace sleeves, then stared at her reflection as Michael—on the other side—stared back. When she raised a hand to touch her necklace, he breathed in. A simple string of pearls, but it seemed to glow with a light of its own.

  “What? What’s happening?” The fortune teller’s voice distracted him and he tried to pull back, but found his wrists anchored to the table by two rough hands. They were stronger than he’d have imagined and for a second or two he could have sworn that heat poured from the calloused palms into his arms and up through his body.

  The burning energy settled in his groin and his cock stirred as he once again returned to the vision in the glass.

  “Tell me what yer see, lad. Tell me.” The fingers tightened around his wrists.

  Helpless to resist the command, Michael obeyed. “She is—touching her clothes. The bodice of her gown. Her necklace. As if she’s on the other side of that mirror…”

  The dream woman closed her eyes and lifted her hand to her neck, stroking the skin there, her chest rising and falling with her breaths.

  “Go on.”

  “I can’t.” He licked his lips. “I can’t describe this—it’s…it seems a private moment she’s having.”

  The fingers loosened slightly. “Very well.”

  He lost himself watching her, almost hearing her soft breathing, the rustle of her clothing as she moved from side to side.

  Perhaps she could hear music; perhaps she was daydreaming, or perhaps she was simply thinking of nothing at all. But she was so beautiful and so richly sensual that his entire body responded with a flush of heat that stirred him so strongly he shocked himself.

  He stared fixedly at her, biting his lip as she lifted an arm and touched the rich dark curls, finding the band that held them in place. She was tucking something beneath it; green, white…mistletoe. Her hand was shaking a little as she pulled it away, her eyes closed as if this was an important and memorable moment.

  Michael quivered too. He’d had his fair share of women in a variety of ways and enjoyed every one. But never had he been privileged to watch such a woman in such a manner.

  She glanced back into the mirror and gave a slight nod, as if satisfied with the image she presented. And all the while Michael’s eyes were glued to the vision of her. He held his breath as she turned away, only to let it out as she returned. She’d picked up a book, and there was also a bunch of mistletoe on the cover. Or in her hand. He couldn’t tell.

  He sucked in a breath of air. Who was she? Why could he see this? Why could he not look away? Would his heart survive this experience or explode before she disappeared?

  “Don’t look away, lad.” The hands kept him anchored to the table and his fascination kept him loo
king into the glass. He couldn’t have stopped looking now if the tent had collapsed around them.

  The woman had raised her head again and opened her book; her lowered lids showing him she skimmed the pages as she turned them.

  Then she closed it, her breasts rising and falling as if on a sigh. He couldn’t mistake her expression as she turned her head toward what must be a window, since the light was bright and cold, just the way it was outside the tent. She looked so sad. Lonely, perhaps. Not grief stricken, but as if whatever she saw gave her no solace. No happiness.

  He found a lump in his throat and he swallowed harshly, the urge to dive into the mirror and take her in his arms was overwhelming, sweeping through him like a lightning stroke in a tinder-dry forest.

  What was she seeking? Why did that look in her eyes make him ache to comfort her? Who was she? With a little shake of her head, she moved again, leaning forward, putting her book down. Doing so brought the skin of her neck and chest into close proximity with the mirror. The sweet curve of full breasts caught the light, as did the gentle gleam of light on her smooth skin.

  Michael was on fire.

  Desire, lust, heat—he scarcely knew where he was or what day it was. All his senses focussed on the woman in the glass and he swore he could smell the sweetness of that ivory skin. Had she been there at that moment he’d have seized her in his arms and taken those full lips, tasting her, touching her and perhaps freeing her from her ruby dress so he could feast his eyes on the rest of her.

  She straightened, a shawl in her hands. A pale and simple length of what must be wool, she tucked it around her shoulders as if it were the finest silk, twitching and tugging at the folds until she was comfortable.

  Michael stared as she lifted her chin and then sighed again; her face turning back to the window. Her throat moved as she swallowed, and again he felt the sadness, a dagger to his heart. Her tongue slid forward to leave a sheen of moisture on her full lips; he clung to his control with every ounce of strength he had.

  Aroused, hard as nails and lusting for an image he could only see within the mysterious core of a piece of pitted glass, Michael sighed with her, crushed by the yearning that was rapidly shattering his composure. He groaned as it billowed through him, a desire so strong it threatened to choke him. Then suddenly—

  She was gone.

  The gypsy woman had obscured it all, the mirror and the woman within, by throwing a large blanket over everything.

  “No…” He tried to stifle his whispered cry of protest.

  “Snow’s stopped. Best yer be on yer way now, lad.”

  He blinked and gaped, still shaken by the force of the emotions that had damn near wrecked him. “What?” His hands were free and with difficulty he moved his arms, finding them strangely limp and unresponsive for a moment or two.

  “Snow’s stopped fer now.” The fortune teller gathered her things,. “’Tis late. I must be ‘ome before dark.” She glanced up at him. “Yer’ll be needin’ ‘elp for that horse o’ yers, I’m thinkin’.”

  “How…” Had he told her about his lame horse? Michael ran a hand through his hair and tried to summon his wits from his cock where they were still thrumming about, screaming at him to let them go in an explosion of his own.

  “Go a couple miles down yon lane yer’ll find a barn. Cousin o’mine takes care of the farm. ‘E’ll help yer out. Mebbe yer can get yerself a meal at the main ‘ouse. Not promisin’ or anythin’, mind yer…” She moved toward him, urging him to the door of the tent.

  “The main house? What main house?” Michael wanted to sob. His heart still raced, his body ached from the barely repressed arousals, and he was totally befuddled.

  The old woman smiled, an odd contorted little smile, but a smile nonetheless. “Relax, lad. It’ll all work out. Yer ‘ere now. Best follow yer fortune.”

  She gently pushed him out into the snow and pulled the tent curtains shut, leaving him staring at nothing at all and wondering what the hell hit him.

  *~~*~~*

  Ariadne Wilton shivered as the cool air chilled her skin, and wrapped her shawl more tightly around her shoulders.

  She’d seen…something—someone…a reflection of a face in the mirror. Watching her as she played with her clothing and her hair, foolishly imagining herself a grand lady attending a Christmas Ball in some elegant palace far away.

  Even now his features imprinted themselves on her brain. Dark hair, fierce eyebrows over green eyes that burned into her. A deep cleft in his firm chin; harsh planes that hinted of strength and passion—she didn’t know, couldn’t be sure from the brief glimpse she’d had of him.

  And of course there was nobody there at all.

  Perhaps her mind was beginning to die, since it was creating images to accompany her occasional moments of silliness.

  She stared at the book that held no interest for her. It was early yet, too early to undress for bed. But what else was there?

  Ariadne sighed. Alone and lonely, she wished for the twentieth time that Joshua was with her, to cheer her and make her laugh as he always did.

  But she’d willingly sent him on his way to a distant relative, knowing he’d have adventures and stories to tell upon his return that would last them through the winter. She would celebrate Christmas once he returned and told her of his visit; he’d have enjoyed the season’s foods, and maybe a gift or two. Warmth. A Yule log, naturally.

  None of which she could provide. How her heart ached for the sound of his voice and how empty the house was without him.

  A door slammed somewhere below and Ariadne listened for a moment or two. It would be Winnie returning from the fair. Perhaps she’d have some news—local gossip—something to ease the cloud that was settling into Ariadne’s soul.

  Was this all there would be for her? Eking out a meagre existence on a tiny stipend and in a house that was all but falling down around her ears?

  “It’s your own fault, you whore. Be thankful I am allowing you this much.”

  She blocked out the words. No point in revisiting the past. Although God knew the future wasn’t much to look at either.

  Footsteps rang on the bare staircase and a tap on the door preceded Winnie’s entrance. The old woman erupted into the room in a flurry.

  “Tidy yerself girl. Get rid of that mistletoe, dammit. Lazin’ around at this time of day? What are yer thinkin’? We might be havin’…visitors or somethin’.”

  Ariadne laughed wryly. “Winnie, we’ve had no visitors in the past year. Few even know we exist in this out-of-the-way place and those who do will not visit the likes of me. I was bored. It’s going to be Christmas in a few days and the only thing we have is some mistletoe. Why on earth would you think we’ll have visitors today?”

  Winnie dropped her eyes.

  “Winnie. What did you do?”

  There was no answer, just a shuffling of feet underneath the icy hem of Winnie’s thick cloak.

  Nervous now, Ariadne put her hands on her hips. “Did you do something foolish?”

  “I did not.” The old woman’s head snapped up. “I did nuthin’ at all. Yer did it with yer woman’s body an’ yer mirror. An’ mistletoe of all things, as if yer didn’t know better.”

  “Me?” Ariadne blushed, the colour heating her cheeks.

  “Yes, missy. Yer summoned him, girl.”

  “Now you’re just being silly.” Ariadne frowned. “I will accept a lot of things, Winnie, but summoning someone with mistletoe?”

  “Don't yer dare scoff at the power. Called ‘im, yer did, as clear as if he were right here next t’yer. Yer know how powerful mistletoe can be under the right circumstances. An’ ‘e has the sight, lass. ‘E has the sight. ‘E’s the one.” Winnie pivoted. “Get yerself dressed. E’s comin’.”

  Chapter Three

  The knocker on the door was hanging half-off and gave an unimpressive thud when Michael lifted and dropped it. He’d found the barn as the old woman had promised, and since it was void of humans, he’d rubbed h
is mount down as best he could, and given it some oats he discovered in one of the feed bins. There were no other horses there, although several stalls looked like they had been used at one time or another, and two cows mooed quietly at the far end in their own enclosure. At least it was protection from the weather—more than he’d had some nights.

  He had hoped there might be a stable lad somewhere around who might direct him to the blacksmith. But since he seemed to be completely alone, he patted his tired horse, and headed out toward the main house.

  It appeared less than impressive. Several windows were cracked, others boarded up completely. Only a small portion looked habitable and there were few lights showing in the dusk that had fallen during Michael’s long walk from the fairground.

  He was tired, cold, hungry and still aching a little from his unrelieved arousal. She haunted his steps, lingered around him like the scent of a faded bouquet. He could still see her every time he closed his eyes, and he found the temptation to stop and just immerse himself in the memories of her both alluring and arousing to the point of discomfort. There was no way he’d bring himself ease with his own hand in some wintry forest glade, attractive though the release would have been. He had to draw the line somewhere.

  He might be almost penniless and homeless, but he still clung to something of his former life. A code of behaviour perhaps. Whatever it was, it had prevented him from doing a damn thing to take the edge off his lust, which added to his less-than-happy state of mind.

  Once again he rapped on the peeling door, cursing as the knocker gave up any pretence of usefulness and came off in his hand. With an oath he flung it away into some nearby straggly bushes.

  Just as the door opened.

  “Good evening.”

  Michael blinked and his jaw dropped. It was her.

  Or possibly her. Or maybe not.