coerce a practical woman to accept who he was and believe in him?
Moments ticked by. Finally, her rigid stance lessened on a deep sigh and she gave him a curt nod.
He smiled, touched his tricorne in salute, and led her deeper into the cemetery.
They stopped short of the linked fence surrounding Lilac Grove. Stately oaks, bare of leaves, towered overhead, but the wind whispered through them as if in greeting. Other than the grounds keeper, no one viewed this area much. Not even flowers or flags marked the passing of time.
He peered down on the woman. She hadn’t said a word, just followed him blindly. She was still shaking. James occasionally caught her looking at him, and then she'd move away. It didn't seem to be in repulsion. Perhaps it was in confusion.
She stiffened her body and forced her arms to her sides by shoving her hands deep into her coat pockets. She was as tightly wound as the eight day clock he had purchased for his mantle years ago. He didn’t want to see her springs explode from the tension she held.
“Are you warm enough in your woolen coat?” he asked, hoping casual conversation might help her relax.
“I’m fine…” She stopped talking and stared wide-eyed into his eyes again.
He wished he could soothe her wariness. Perhaps if he could kiss her it might erase all her fears. He’d been known to make a woman forget her troubles a time or two in the past. A kiss from her would definitely do something for him.
She looked around, frowning.
“Where are we?”
“The least visited area of the cemetery,” James replied, knowing without taking his eyes from her, exactly where they were.
April viewed the solemn rows of tiny marbled bricks sticking out of the ground. “The paupers’ graves.”
James nodded.
The only indications of the graves were a series of numbers imprinted onto the tops of the most identifiable bricks. Some were so cracked and decayed from time and the overgrowth of roots they weren’t recognizable. Others were barely visible, eaten up by the shifting of the earth beneath them. One stone seemed generally intact, the number ten barely visible, etched on the top. April stepped closer to inspect it more thoroughly.
She knelt down. Removing her gloves, she brushed a bit of leaves and debris off of the grayed marble, then respectfully caressed the stone.
“James Addison’s grave.”
He hadn’t needed to tell her. She knew as if drawn to it. Her reverent touch across the old marble pierced his soul, as if it’d been caressed by her fingers.
She looked up at him. “Odd, how would I know that?” She returned her interest to the stone marker. “It’s as if…”
April Branford cried out. Her hand began to glow where it lay on the stone. The stone took on an illumination, radiating from within her, outward like a candle's dancing flame, only brighter.
Before James could answer or help her, the light fragmented and penetrated him like a sword. He was thrown backwards. Pressure and pain ripped into his chest, intensifying as it spread outward through his extremities. This wasn’t gentle. His immortal soul was being pierced, ripped asunder by an invisible hand.
Stumbling, James gasped, clutching his chest where he knew his heart would have been, if he had one. What was happening? The marble brick beneath April’s hands continued to radiate an inferno of orange light. Even though she cried out for him to help her, she kept her hands stationary against the glowing marble, her face contorting as she squeezed her eyes shut against her shock and pain. He could feel it. What she felt echoed in his senses, reverberating between them as if they were mirrored objects catching the same reflection. The glow of light illuminated her, cascading through her and blasting him with its brilliance.
Bloody Hell! The pain drove him to his knees.
“Stop!” he choked out, gasping from the ache.
James shielded his eyes from the bright intensity. A prickling of awareness crept into him.
Moments ticked by. Finally, her rigid stance lessened on a deep sigh and she gave him a curt nod.
He smiled, touched his tricorne in salute, and led her deeper into the cemetery.
They stopped short of the linked fence surrounding Lilac Grove. Stately oaks, bare of leaves, towered overhead, but the wind whispered through them as if in greeting. Other than the grounds keeper, no one viewed this area much. Not even flowers or flags marked the passing of time.
He peered down on the woman. She hadn’t said a word, just followed him blindly. She was still shaking. James occasionally caught her looking at him, and then she'd move away. It didn't seem to be in repulsion. Perhaps it was in confusion.
She stiffened her body and forced her arms to her sides by shoving her hands deep into her coat pockets. She was as tightly wound as the eight day clock he had purchased for his mantle years ago. He didn’t want to see her springs explode from the tension she held.
“Are you warm enough in your woolen coat?” he asked, hoping casual conversation might help her relax.
“I’m fine…” She stopped talking and stared wide-eyed into his eyes again.
He wished he could soothe her wariness. Perhaps if he could kiss her it might erase all her fears. He’d been known to make a woman forget her troubles a time or two in the past. A kiss from her would definitely do something for him.
She looked around, frowning.
“Where are we?”
“The least visited area of the cemetery,” James replied, knowing without taking his eyes from her, exactly where they were.
April viewed the solemn rows of tiny marbled bricks sticking out of the ground. “The paupers’ graves.”
James nodded.
The only indications of the graves were a series of numbers imprinted onto the tops of the most identifiable bricks. Some were so cracked and decayed from time and the overgrowth of roots they weren’t recognizable. Others were barely visible, eaten up by the shifting of the earth beneath them. One stone seemed generally intact, the number ten barely visible, etched on the top. April stepped closer to inspect it more thoroughly.
She knelt down. Removing her gloves, she brushed a bit of leaves and debris off of the grayed marble, then respectfully caressed the stone.
“James Addison’s grave.”
He hadn’t needed to tell her. She knew as if drawn to it. Her reverent touch across the old marble pierced his soul, as if it’d been caressed by her fingers.
She looked up at him. “Odd, how would I know that?” She returned her interest to the stone marker. “It’s as if…”
April Branford cried out. Her hand began to glow where it lay on the stone. The stone took on an illumination, radiating from within her, outward like a candle's dancing flame, only brighter.
Before James could answer or help her, the light fragmented and penetrated him like a sword. He was thrown backwards. Pressure and pain ripped into his chest, intensifying as it spread outward through his extremities. This wasn’t gentle. His immortal soul was being pierced, ripped asunder by an invisible hand.
Stumbling, James gasped, clutching his chest where he knew his heart would have been, if he had one. What was happening? The marble brick beneath April’s hands continued to radiate an inferno of orange light. Even though she cried out for him to help her, she kept her hands stationary against the glowing marble, her face contorting as she squeezed her eyes shut against her shock and pain. He could feel it. What she felt echoed in his senses, reverberating between them as if they were mirrored objects catching the same reflection. The glow of light illuminated her, cascading through her and blasting him with its brilliance.
Bloody Hell! The pain drove him to his knees.
“Stop!” he choked out, gasping from the ache.
James shielded his eyes from the bright intensity. A prickling of awareness crept into him.
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