Read Wilda's Outlaw for Free Online

exciting adventure.
    As for the marriage, anxiety at the idea of greeting her future husband overpowered Wilda. She could only hope and pray that her memory of his brooding disposition was only a product of her own apprehensions built during the difficult, lengthy trip. Squelching her fears, she studied the windows in hopes of a glimpse of the man. He must be curious about their arrival, and would certainly soon appear to greet them. But he did not show himself, not even as a shadow lurking behind the curtains.
    Simmons and the freight wagon driver were joined by another man, who had come from the direction of a partially completed stone barn to unload their belongings. Still no one opened the large wooden doors and bade them enter.
    Rowena tugged at Wilda’s sleeve. “Where do you suppose he is? I can’t see him anywhere. Oh, isn’t this a marvelous place?”
    “You said that before. Why is he treating us like servants, leaving us standing about out here? The least he could do is be here to greet us.”
    The heat of her temper plus that of the brutal afternoon sun added to Wilda’s discomfort. Under the constrictions of her corset, her heart was squeezed by a huge, hard fist until it could scarcely beat and her breath came in short gasps. The wind whipped her long skirts in an effort to topple her off her feet. Lord, she was bone tired, lightheaded and incredibly weary. And that interminable white-hot mass that bleached the blue from the sky. Did it always shine thus?
    “One would think we could get in out of this heat,” Marguerite mumbled, then flushed. Being here under such circumstances ruled out much complaining.
    “Indeed one would,” Wilda said. “I thought Prescott had more manners than this.”
    “Oh, now sister, don’t get upset. I’m sure there’s a reason.” Rowena's interminable cheerfulness was quite wearing.
    “I have no doubt there is,” Wilda said, holding her temper. He probably changed his mind and no longer wanted them here. Suppose he sent them back home, or worse, tossed them out to fend for themselves? She couldn’t bear to think of either possibility.
    Simmons and the other men unloaded the last of the traveling valises.
    Seething with frustration, Wilda lifted her heavy skirts, told Rowena to wait there and keep an eye on Tyra, and approached the houseman. “We are weary, sir and would appreciate being allowed in the manse. Where is Lord Prescott? He should be here to greet me…us.”
    Simmons scarcely glanced her way. “Lord Prescott will join you at the evening meal. I will show you to your rooms. There you may rest and refresh yourselves from your long journey.”
    Without another word, he supervised the handling of the bags. A perspiring Mr. Chesshire lent a hand, and they all followed Simmons and his helper toward the entrance.
    With a shout, Tyra ran around the corner of the house, ignoring the exhausted Marguerite Chesshire’s call to come back.
    “I shall get her.” Rowena hurried off to capture the young, boisterous cousin.
    In the distance horses whinnied.
    “It’s clear Tyra will need careful looking after now that she’s been freed from the strict confines of St. Ann’s,” Marguerite said.
    “With horses in residence, she’ll no doubt sleep and eat in the stable with them.” Wilda placed one aching foot on the stone step. Beside her Marguerite groaned and climbed with her, following the straight-backed Simmons.
    The doors of the house swung open when the houseman hammered the lion’s head iron knocker. Without speaking, a tall, thin gentleman led them into an immense entry hall. Cool air embraced them.
    “At last,” Wilda muttered.
    “I’ve no doubt Lord Prescott will lay down his rules of the household and keep her in check,” Marguerite replied, and arched her neck to peer upward.
    Wilda wished him luck with that endeavor. Relieved to be inside out of the wind and sun, she brushed a lock of hair off her sweating brow. “Judging by our earlier