Read Wilda's Outlaw for Free Online Page B

are my bags? I must change. I cannot let Lord Prescott see me like this.”
    “Nonsense, there is no time. We shall repair your hair. Then you can wash up and we will go down. We must not be tardy, that would be most unwise. There will be time later for you to make yourself presentable. Besides, Lord Prescott well recalls you at your worst.”
    Wilda shuddered, remembering those meetings at St. Ann’s, her hands red from scrubbing the stone floors, her hair like straw from the harsh soap. She had seen very little of him after he moved all three girls to his family home in Devonshire, where they had quickly learned to live a pampered life.
    Nothing had prepared any of them for the grueling trip to America. All were now the worse for wear. Surely Lord Prescott would understand.
    Standing in front of the full length mirror, she allowed Marguerite’s fingers to work their magic on her coif, and soon a few natural curls hung from the mass pinned high on the back of her head.
    At the washbowl she bathed her face and hands in cold water and felt much better, though her stomach clenched into a hard knot at the mere thought of this meeting. Following Marguerite down the long hallway, knees trembling and heart fluttering, in a dress wrinkled and soiled, she went to confront her long-absent betrothed.
    At the bottom of the stairs, a servant waited to accompany them into a high-ceilinged dining room with a long wooden table. Its surface reflected light from dozens of candles in yet another elaborate pendant suspended overhead. Gleaming china, silver, and crystal adorned each place setting. A young girl in a work apron, plain dress, and cap stood at the sideboard, hands folded over her stomach. Simmons was also on duty, wearing black trousers and a matching waistcoat.
    Wilda’s heart raced at the thought of greeting Lord Prescott. What would he say? What would she reply? She need not have worried, for looking around the table she saw only the faces of her traveling companions. The chair at the head of the table, obviously reserved for the lord of the manor, remained empty. Disappointment and relief warred within her, but soon turned to anger.
    “Wilda, Wilda, sit here beside me.” Tyra bounced in her chair, rattling silverware.
    “Miss Tyra, mind your manners,” Marguerite Chesshire said.
    There were two empty chairs at the table, one at its head, another to its right. She moved around the table. Simmons caught up with her, taking her elbow to guide her to the chair next to where Prescott would sit. If the rude man ever showed up.
    Where was his Lordship? Why was he doing this? How thoughtless of him to allow her to travel all this way and then not be here to greet her. She made every attempt to rein in her smoldering temper. It would be the ruination of her if she weren’t very careful, but blast the man!
    Shaking, she allowed Simmons to seat her in the lady of the manor’s chair. Even as she settled her soiled skirts, the door off the far end of the dining room opened, and Lord Blair Prescott strode in. He wore black trousers, an ivory colored shirt open at the throat, a burgundy silk vest and no coat. His thick hair was tousled, as if he had only come in out of the wind. If he had smiled he would have been a breathtaking sight, despite the scar, which only served to prevent his appearing too beautiful. But he remained stoic, glowering at each one in turn, his gaze sweeping past her without recognition.
    Her heart plummeted. He had changed his mind, no longer wanted her. What would they do now?
    After spending a long moment inspecting each of the new arrivals, Lord Prescott finally spoke to no one in particular. “Good evening. I trust you had a good journey.”
    With no apology for being late, he strolled past his seated guests and took the chair Simmons pulled out for him. Then he turned his dark gaze upon Wilda, and her heart might as well have stopped in her chest.
    “Madame,” he said in a powerful voice that rumbled