To Walk in the Sun (Wiggons' School for Elegant Young Ladies - Book 1) (2 page)

The trapped air left her body in one great
whoosh. Though from fear or being crushed to the ground she
couldn’t tell. She looked into the almost black eyes of Lord
Atwood. His cloaked arm came up and covered her face in blackness
as his head descended to her neck.

But clouds dissolve into air, flowers
fade,

the sands of the hourglass run imperceptibly
away,

and even so, do human feelings dissolve,
fade,

and pass away, and with them too, human
happiness.

Wake Not the Dead

Johann Ludwig Tieck

Chapter 2

Her piercing scream shot through his brain.
Vincent reared back to ward off the assault and was struck on his
shoulder by the large tree limb he attempt to protect her from.
“Good God, woman, do you aim to make me deaf?”

She quieted and peered up at him, eyes wide,
face pale. He had frightened her. Of course he had.

The gale like winds bent the trees almost in
half. Limbs splintered and shot through the air. Shutters loosened,
banging against the frame of a house across the way. Vincent
wouldn’t be surprised if they were ripped from their hinges. They
had to get out of the elements.

He stood and offered his hand to the young
woman he knew to be Miss Crawford, a teacher at Wiggons’ School for
Elegant Young Ladies.

She shrank away from him.

“Are you daft?” he yelled. His shoulder
throbbed from the earlier blow. But there was no time to worry
about his injury now. “Take my hand. We need to find shelter
now.”

Miss Crawford whisked her head around to take
in her surroundings. If possible, her grey eyes grew wider.
“Where?”

Alarmingly near them another tree crashed on
the lane and she scampered to her feet.

Vincent grabbed her hand. “This way,” he
shouted and pulled her into the cemetery.

“The church?” she cried over the wind.

“Locked.” He pulled her past tombstones and
toward the wood line where the crypts stood.

Miss Crawford stopped in her tracks. Her head
shook violently.

“Trust me, the inhabitants won’t mind.”

With more force than was necessary, he pulled
her to one at the farthest end. She stumbled to her knees and he
paused only long enough for her to right herself. The wind blew the
cloak away from her body. Pins had become dislodged and black,
glossy hair flew around her head and covered her face. She lifted a
hand to push it away.

Lightening flashed and illuminated the stone,
grey crypts. “They are locked too,” she yelled over the wind.

Vincent fished out a ring of keys. “This is
my family vault.” He stopped before the last one and fit an old,
rusted key into a lock. It didn’t move.

The wind pushed Miss Crawford away from him.
Vincent stopped in his task and picked her up to set her on the
side of the crypt sheltered from blowing debris. She weighed next
to nothing and a stronger gust could carry her away.

He turned back to the lock and worked it
until it gave and the bolt clicked. Vincent pushed against the
door. It did not give. He rammed it with his uninjured shoulder but
it remained stubborn. Vincent tried another stance and put both
hands against the weathered wood, feet planted to add purchase to
his stance and weight, and put all of his strength into the door.
Still, it did not budge.

The wind howled. Wood crashed in the distance
and Vincent feared a house had been destroyed.

They were running out of time.

“Help me,” he yelled.

With slow, measured steps, Miss Crawford
fought against the wind, her cloak billowed out behind her, skirts
flattened against her legs. She took a place by his side and
together they shoved. If the door moved at all, it was only a
fraction of an inch. If they did not get inside now, they would
both die.

A gust of wind hit them from behind and threw
them against the door with enough force to break the seal. Thrown
to the floor inside the dark crypt, they crashed into a stone
pedestal.

Vincent jumped to his feet to bar the door
but the wind surged through the opening, preventing him from making
any progress. He turned back to Miss Crawford who sat stunned,
looking out the door, a hand pressed to her forehead. Lightening
flashed, illuminating her for but a second, but enough to see the
blood dripped through her fingers. Without thought he scooped her
into his arms and carried her to the back corner. The structure was
made of stone and should hold, but it was also over a century
old.

He settled Miss Crawford to his side and
pulled her hand away to study her head. Vincent changed his
position so as not to block the little available light coming from
the open door. A large gash ran across her forehead. She must have
hit the pedestal when they were thrown unceremoniously into the
crypt.

Vincent fished out his handkerchief and
pressed it against her head. She looked up and met his eyes.
“You’re bleeding, Miss Crawford. Keep that against the wound.”

She nodded and never broke eye contact.
“Blood?”

Is she frightened of me? Of the
rumors
? “Yes, rich, red, healthy blood.” He grinned down at her
but resisted the temptation to lick his lips. She was frightened
enough.

Miss Crawford blanched further. “Will I need
stitches?”

Vincent threw back his head and laughed. “Is
that what has you frightened?”

“I can’t stand the needle. When one comes at
me, I faint dead away.”

Something solid crashed against the side of
the crypt and Vincent looked out. A tombstone had fallen over. The
storm was getting worse. He put her back against the wall and
curled his body around her as best as he could.

“I’ve never seen a storm such as this,” she
mumbled.

“Not many witness a tempest.”

“Tornados don’t happen in the fall, or in
Cornwall, or at night.”

Another large, heavy object crashed against
the crypt. A shrill, eerie whistle pierced the whirling winds,
sending a shiver of dread down his spine.

It is here
.

He pulled her close as the worst of the storm
hit the old cemetery.

* * *

Tess clung to Lord Atwood as the noise grew
louder, and the air pressure grew so heavy she wasn’t sure she
could take a breath. She was going to die. Tonight. In a crypt,
with a rumored vampire.

If the situation weren’t so dire, she would
laugh. Instead, all she could do was cling to his solid torso and
try to breathe.

Could this be a tornado? She had only heard
of them before and never experienced one. She hadn’t believed him
at first, but there was no other explanation of what else it could
be.

Slowly, the pressure began to diminish and
she no longer had to fight for breath. Crashes became distant as
the storm moved on.

Lord Atwood sat up. “You can let go of me
now. It has passed.”

Heat spread across her face. Tess let her
arms drop and pulled away from his chest. Her arms were sore. How
hard had she held onto him? This was most embarrassing.

“You’re still bleeding.” He took the
handkerchief from her hand and pressed it against her head once
again.

“Is it over?” She searched his gaze for the
truth.

Lord Atwood glanced at the door. “I believe
so. However, we should wait a few more minutes, just to be
sure.”

She looked out the opening. Rain came down
with such force she could not see beyond the entrance. Thank
goodness Lord Atwood had been out tonight for surely she would have
died had he not rescued her.

The sheets of water continued and a puddle
pooled just inside the door. She relaxed against the cold, damp
stone wall, hoping the water would not reach them for she had no
desire to climb onto a sarcophagus in order to remain dry.

Lord Atwood settled beside her. “How is your
head?”

“Sore.”

“Do you have a headache?”

She hadn’t thought about it. Too much had
happened for her to notice any discomfort, other than the stiffness
of her arms earlier. The more she calmed, the more she became aware
of the various aches in her body. It seemed like everything hurt,
especially her head. She nodded in acknowledgement.

Lord Atwood cursed under his breath and
searched the room. He returned with an old lamp, which still
contained oil and set it on the floor beside them. Tess wondered
how much use the lamp would be as there was no means to light it.
He then reached into the pocket of his great coat and withdrew a
battered tin. “I carried this with me on the continent and it
hasn’t failed me yet.” He withdrew the steel and flint and soon had
the lamp lit.

Tess wondered what else he had in those deep
pockets, but didn’t ask.

Though he kept the light far away from
himself, he put it close to her eyes and studied them. After a
moment he set the lamp aside. “You should be fine.”

Tess was not sure what to make of his odd
behavior and decided not to question him. After a good night’s
sleep, of course she would be fine.

“What possessed you to come out on a night
like this?” he demanded after a short time.

“I might ask you the same question,” Tess
retorted. How dare he take that tone with her, as if he were an
older brother, her father, or a husband?

“Everyone knows why I am out here,” he
snorted. “The question is, why were you?”

Tess shrugged, unwilling to explain,
especially to a complete stranger, even if he had saved her life.
“I was restless.”

“Brandy would have been safer,” Lord Atwood
muttered and turned his attention to the door. “The rain appears to
have ended.” He stood and offered her his hand.

Tess was grateful for his assistance as she
was not sure she could have risen on her own. Why were her legs so
weak?

On shaking legs Tess followed Lord Atwood
toward the entrance and out into the cemetery. The clouds had moved
on and the full moon shone down. Destruction lay everywhere. Some
of the headstones were turned over, trees and branches littered the
ground.

Tess picked her way behind Lord Atwood as he
maneuvered a path through the destruction in the cemetery toward
the road. Some of the houses across the street had lost parts of
their roofs, but they were all standing, thank goodness. Many of
the residents were out in their yards, looking at their homes and
the area. They were probably stunned, not unlike her. She had never
seen anything like this before.

They ambled into the lane and looked in both
directions. There was a clear path of debris. One led from where
she had come. “The girls,” she cried and set out in a dead run.
Tess only stumbled once before regaining her balance. She had to
make it back to the boarding school. Her heart raced with fear of
what she would find.

Their sole apprehension was lest aught should
awaken

them from a delirium which they prayed might
continue

for ever. Yet how vain is the wish that would
arrest the

decrees of destiny! as well might it seek to
divert

the circling planets from their eternal
course.

Wake Not the Dead

Johann Ludwig Tieck

Chapter 3

Vincent was amazed at the speed with which
Miss Crawford took off down the road. She lifted her skirts to her
knees and her boots carried her rapidly through the debris
littering the ground. More than a few times she jumped over
branches without breaking stride. After a moment of watching,
Vincent ran after her. With her head still bleeding Miss Crawford
was liable to pass out before she made it home.

He practically ran her over as he rounded the
corner. She came to an abrupt stop, gazing ahead in horror. Vincent
followed her line of vision. The four-story building that had been
the school, which also housed the students and teachers, stood,
barely. An oak tree had fallen into the south side, demolishing the
corner of the house. He hoped no one had been in those rooms.

Several students stood in the yard, most of
them crying. Older women, and a few young teachers, comforted the
girls. One called out names, probably to make sure everyone was
accounted for. Given the devastation revealed by the full moon, he
wouldn’t be surprised if a few of the inhabitants had been
seriously injured, or killed.

She stumbled toward the group and Vincent
remained at a careful distance. Soon he could hear their
comments.

“What of Miss Crawford? Someone needs to
rescue
her
,” a young woman cried.

An older woman put and arm around the girl’s
shoulder and drew her close. “We can’t get to her room, Eliza. We
can only pray she is safe.”

Eliza buried her face in the woman’s bosom.
Her shoulders shook with her tears.

“Miss Crawford, you
are
alive!”
another girl cried out and ran toward her. Eliza lifted her head
and also ran toward their teacher.

Vincent took a step back, uncomfortable in
the presence of so many young, emotional women.

“We thought you were dead, perished in your
room,” Eliza exclaimed once she pulled away from the embrace.

“As you can see, I am very much whole and
well.” Tess opened her arms wide as if to affirm her uninjured
state.

The two girls looked at each other, eyes
narrowed with concern before they looked back at their teacher.
“You are covered in blood,” one of them explained with slow
deliberation.

Covered in blood
. He should have never
let her run so far. Vincent strode forward and turned Miss Crawford
toward him. The girls were correct. Blood streamed from the cut on
her head, between her eyes and down the side of her face. It
trailed to her neck and the modest dress absorbed the dark
spreading stain.