Читать книгу Pride & Passion - Charlotte Featherstone - Страница 7

“BEYOND THE MIST, the darkness and shadow, he waits, reaching out through a veil of gossamer threads—’your future,’ he whispers, ‘your destiny.’”

Heart fluttering like a trapped bird, Lucy swallowed hard as she focused on the swaying piece of silver.

“He has been there all along, waiting for you. Now is the time to reach out to him, to pull him out of the depths and into the light.”

Slowly Lucy nodded, understanding the words, hoping with every beat of her heart and pulse of her blood that the mystic’s words were true.

Occultism, spiritualism, mysticism … whatever one chose to call it, one fact remained true—it was sweeping through Victorian England, a dark presence that resided over soirees and salons, spirit meetings and private clubs.

The dark arts were an invitation to evil. Or so many a mere mortal believed. But Lucy Ashton knew them to be a door to another world—a world of darkness and mystery, a realm where demons and angels—the fallen—roamed free, selling their secrets for the price of a soul in need.

As she sat surrounded by golden candelabra, coated with layers of dripping, drying wax, with nothing but the sound of the autumn wind howling and the crackling of a log being engulfed by flame, Lucy knew she was that soul. One who needed—deeply.

The woman who sat opposite her held a silver pendulum in her hand. She knew how to find what Lucy so desperately searched for.

“Your lover,” the woman said in a voice that seemed so far away the longer Lucy followed the swaying pendulum with unblinking eyes. “He will come—soon.’’

She dearly hoped so. Eight months it had been since she had last seen him—gone without a trace, taking with him any warmth, any feeling she possessed. The heady sensation of that warmth had been too brief—much too brief.

“You were right ‘ta come to me, m’ lady,” the woman whispered. “I can find ‘im. Bring ‘im to you. Keep watching,” she encouraged. “Follow the pendulum and let yer thoughts drift ‘ta him, the man who shall fix yer future.”

Lucy’s lids were heavy, and the flickering candlelight made shadows leap on the wall, a macabre dance. The mystic’s heavily wrinkled face grew shadowed, half of her cast in darkness, the other half yellowed in the candles’ glow.

“Yes, yes …” she murmured excitedly. “That’s the way, lass.”

The room narrowed and rippled; the absinthe Lucy had taken moments before the mystic produced the pendulum had found its way into her bloodstream, filling her veins with a strange sensation—one of heightened awareness meshed with a dreamy quality. Like floating on water, she thought as her body relaxed and sunk deep into the velvet chair. Watching that swaying pendulum, Lucy felt her spirit and inhibitions leave her.

“Where are ye now?”

As if in a trance, Lucy answered, “A room. It’s dark, with only bits of light filtering through gauze curtains.”

“Yes? Go on.”

“I am not alone,” Lucy whispered. “I can sense another.”

“Close yer eyes, and see ‘im with yer mind, luv.”

Obeying, Lucy allowed her lids to close fully. Immediately she saw herself, masked, her back pressed against the filmy gauze that separated her from the other person. Sliding her hand out, she slid her palm along the curtain, feeling an answering slide from the other side.

“He is there,” the mystic whispered. “The premonition of yer future.”

Yes …

She sensed the heat, the passion. Her body remembered it—him.

At last she had found him. He had come to her. His touch was hot, warming her instantly. She pressed back, felt the hard, solid body of a man.

“Now tell me what ye see.”

Opening her eyes, Lucy jumped up from the chair she occupied, a suffocating scream lodged in her throat. The mystic followed her, snapping her fingers before Lucy’s eyes, breaking the spell that held her.

“M’ lady?”

Perplexed, Lucy stared at the woman who claimed she could show Lucy what awaited her future. The Scottish Witch, with her fading red hair and wild golden eyes stood before her.

“You, madam, are a fraud.”

Snatching her reticule, Lucy left the coins on the table she had given to the crone when they had begun. The woman’s expression was stricken, and Lucy curled her lip in disdain. “You may enjoy fleecing others, but I will not be fooled. This is the last time we will meet. You needn’t attend me next week.”

“But …” The woman, just Mrs. Fraser now, no longer the Scottish Witch, or the occult mystic Lucy had once believed her to be, followed anxiously behind her. “What did ye see, lass?”

Lucy whirled on her. “Not my future!”

Mrs. Fraser’s gaze narrowed, replaced by a knowing look. “Oh, aye, yer future indeed, lassie. Just no’ the one ye desire.”

“Good day, madam,” she answered in a clipped tone. Thrusting her hands into her soft leather gloves, Lucy left the drafty parlor and took the rickety steps down the three flights of stairs, out to the back of the building where her carriage awaited.

That is what she got for visiting a charlatan in the theater district, she thought mulishly. A first rate performance in fraudulence.

Future indeed, she scoffed as the carriage jolted forward, leaving Mrs. Fraser’s rental flats and her occult babblings far behind.

Gazing out the window, Lucy hardly saw the scenery passing her by, for the images of that trance would not leave her in peace.

Yes, the dark arts were an invitation to a mysterious and dark realm. One of secrets and danger, and forbidden yearnings. A world of sensual pleasure and hedonistic pastimes.

She had seen that world in the vision, felt the heaving pulse surrounding her. She heard the words, whispering to her, wrapping around her like a lover’s touch.

Why did you forsake me?

His answer had been soft, a mere whisper. Their palms had touched through the gauze, his heat singing her just as his words did. I have been here all along, waiting for you to see me beyond the veil that separates us.

She had turned then, breathless with anticipation. She saw her pale hand reach for the curtain, its trembling strength barely able to grasp the filmy material between her fingers. But with one tug, the fabric that separated them fell, pooling between them. She had looked up from the black mound, up along a body that hers recalled with such visceral pleasure. To a set of eyes that were so … wrong.

Gray eyes.

There was something about those eyes that pulled at her memory—a different time; a past that caused pain when it was recalled. No, the possessor of those eyes was definitely not her future!