Wilda's Outlaw (10 page)

At that moment she heard laughter from behind the thick door of the library where Prescott spent much of his time. Usually alone, or so she thought. Quietly she moved to the door and laid her ear against it. Who could be in there with him? And who could possibly laugh in his presence?

Murmured conversation was impossible to make out, but when the laughter came again, she recognized it as that of her sister Rowena. How very odd.

Afraid she would be found eavesdropping, Wilda hastened across the entryway and up the stairs, being very careful not to let her shoes clatter on the wooden treads. If she were the mistress of this house, rugs would cover all the bare wood so that after they married she could creep around at night and escape his watchfulness. Shaking the thought away, for she had no wish to consider the possibility of being Prescott’s wife, she slipped into her room and closed the door firmly at her back.

At the small desk she found writing paper, pen and ink, then sat for a long while, trembling hand poised above the thick, creamy vellum. How she handled this could well mean the difference between salvation and doom for her. Finally, with a determination born of desperation, fear and dread, she traced out each word with great care, pausing to mull them over so as to form precisely the correct request.

Dear Joshua
, she wrote, careful not to address him by his outlaw name.
I must speak to you about something that is important to my well-being. Please meet me where we met Friday.
She’d almost bade him to meet her tomorrow night in the barn, but didn’t know when she could see the note delivered, or if it might be intercepted, so wrote instead,
as soon as is convenient. It would be best if it is after dark. I will keep watch for you, if you could find some way to signal that you are there. Please, I desperately need help and have no one to turn to.

When she was satisfied, she blew on the glistening black ink until it dried, then remembered she must sign it so he would know who the note was from.

“Silly,” she scolded herself aloud. Who would he think it was from? That big bald smithy? Some fallen woman? All the same, she dipped the pen once more in ink and scrolled a large, flowery W carefully at the bottom of the page.

Should the note be confiscated she didn’t want to mention Fairhaven or her name. She only hoped he would know who W was. How many women could he possibly have met anyplace this morning? At any rate, women whose names began with a W? Unless he was dense, which he didn’t appear to be, he would know immediately who she was. No sooner was the note written than doubts assailed her. She knew nothing of this man. How dangerous he might be, what he might think of her request. Meeting a man while he robbed a train wasn’t exactly the same as being acquainted with him, nor could she presume to sense his perceptions or morals from their brief confrontations.

After the cryptic signature dried, she contemplated the note for a moment longer, then wadded it and threw it down. What a ridiculous idea. Foolish to place herself in the hands of a dangerous outlaw to avoid marrying a prominent member of a good family. Just because Lord Prescott was an oaf and bully who would probably confine her to the house, father ten children by her while never giving her a moment’s satisfaction and no doubt have himself a mistress as well, all the while forbidding her having a thought of her own, was no excuse to try to escape the marriage.

With a cry of dismay she snatched up the wadded note, smoothed it out, glared at the words until they blurred together. Those were very good reasons to try to find a way out of this dreadful agreement. Perhaps it wasn’t even legal here in America.

Oh, dear God, what should she do?

Go down to the dinner table, at present. Spreading the note carefully, she placed her journal over it, repaired her hair and left the room.

Prescott appeared at the dinner table just as they were being seated, and she ignored her earlier dilemma to face this one. He was on time for a change, and appeared almost civilized. Not only in dress but in countenance. He greeted each in turn, the Chesshires with a slight bow, Rowena with a hand kiss, then remarked on Tyra’s absence, though they were already accustomed to the child’s erratic comings and goings, before he finally aimed his ebony gaze in Wilda’s direction. She stiffened, prepared herself for the worst.

“How did the fitting go, Madame?” he asked. Still civil. Barely.

Mutely, she nodded, kept her eyes on her plate.

“Do look at me when we converse.” A bit on edge now.

She couldn’t help herself, she stabbed an accusatory glare at her sister Rowena, who spread a hand over her bosom and blushed. Blushed. How could she consort with the enemy? The idea made Wilda so angry, she turned to Prescott and allowed her tongue to once more run away with her.

“I would appreciate it if you stopped calling me madame. It makes me feel as if I am an old lady dripping in jewels.”

He thumped his knife handle on the table, startling the serving girl who hurried to his side with a slight curtsy. After motioning her away, he addressed Wilda in a soft voice that made her even more nervous than his earlier bark. “What would you wish to be called, madame?” She could have sworn his dark eyes twinkled ever so slightly and one corner of his mouth lifted, but she refused to believe he possessed a sense of humor.

Rowena’s nervous laughter pulled his attention away from Wilda for a moment. His glance toward her sister was anything but severe.

Both of them looked…different, but she could not put her finger on how. What was going on here? The light dawned and she covered her mouth.

“Well?” Prescott roared, returning his attention to Wilda.

Everyone at the table jumped, clattering silverware and bumping crystal against china. Mr. Chesshire coughed. Marguerite sipped at her water and tried to appear ladylike while gulping the liquid down.

Wilda cleared her throat, tried twice to speak before the words came out. “I have a name.”

“I do not like your name,” he retorted. “What sort of name is Wilda?”

“I’m not sure I understand. It is the one my mother gave me.”

Rowena chimed in. “It means wild or untamed.”

“Precisely,” Prescott said. “And that’s why I do not like it. Why would anyone name a girl child in such a way that she might feel it acceptable to rebel against convention? Precisely why you behave as you do, I should think. Perhaps,” he lifted his water glass, “after we marry I’ll give you an education in the proper etiquette for an upper class Victorian lady.”

At that moment Tyra rushed into the room, cheeks flushed, hair a-tumble. Straw hung from behind one ear and there was a smudge across her nose. Whatever had the child been up to?

“Sorry…sorry I’m late.” She bobbed a tiny bow, scattering hay on the floor.

Prescott gestured toward her with his glass. “Now, you see. That is exactly what I mean. Look at the girl. Has she been taught respect for her elders?” Prescott’s turning on Tyra gave Wilda breathing room, but she didn’t envy her cousin the attention.

“I was playing…playing with—”

“Silence. You are too old to be playing, it matters not what with.”

Tyra covered her mouth and giggled. Both Wilda and Rowena shook their heads at her simultaneously, but it did no good. From the beginning Tyra had shown no fear of the master of the house.

Prescott threw an arm in the air. “Why I thought to civilize either one of you is beyond me. Madame, please escort your cousin to her room and see that she is presentable for her meal. We will wait.” He raised a finger and the serving girl removed the soup bowls, returning them and the tureen back to the kitchen.

Relieved to be out of his company, Wilda did as he asked, following the fleeing girl up the stairs. Madame, indeed. She’d almost thrown her linen napkin at him.

“It matters not what with?” Tyra squealed when they were safely behind her door. “What a dunderheaded bore. You’re right, you should never marry him.”

“I don’t think I shall. He’s impossible. I would rather be dead.” Wilda grabbed Tyra’s arm. “Did you mean it when you said you would help me…well…ask Joshua to…uh, well, you know.”

Excitement danced in the girl’s pale eyes. “Oh, yes, yes I will. You’re actually going to do it? Oh, how delightful. Tell me what to do, anything, I promise to never tell.”

“Hush, now. You’ll spill the secret out of sheer excitement. We will return to the table, take our meal, then you will come to my room. And if you say anything, even to Rowena…well, our plans will be ruined. Do you understand?”

Wide-eyed, Tyra nodded her head up and down, up and down, dislodging more strands of hay.

Chapter Seven

After the meal and an intensive grilling from Prescott about the fitting of her wedding gown, Wilda escaped and waited for her cousin to come to her room. That hateful gown. It was indeed beautiful, but she despised it. Let Rowena wear it; she would only have to let it out a little around the hips. Yes, and let Wilda ride free across the plains with her outlaw. The dream had already taken form.

A soft knock on the door jerked her away from the fantasy. The door creaked open and Tyra slipped through a narrow slit, then shut it behind her.

“What do you want me to do?” she asked, curls bobbing.

“Are you sure you can get into town without being seen?”

“Yes, of course. I mean, I’ll tell you a secret if you won’t tell anyone.”

“A secret?” Slightly puzzled, Wilda tried to follow the change in subject.

“Yes, a delicious one. Oh, don’t worry, it will help with your problem.”

Though she noticed that the child’s language had already taken on a hint of this wild west country, Wilda waited without comment. Tyra obviously wanted to be coaxed, for she wrung her hands at her waist, twisting smudged fingers together.

“Okay. Tell me the secret and how it will help me.”

“The groom is teaching me how to ride, and how to speak…talk like an American. Did you notice?”

“An American? Oh, my.” Wilda eyed the mussed dress. “How do you ride, dressed this way?”

Tyra played with the pleats down the front of her bosom. “You promise you won’t yell at me, or tell Rowena or that horrid Mr. Prescott?”

“I promise.” Impatience reared its head. She wanted to shake the words from that pretty mouth.

“Vow on our mothers’ graves.”

“Tyra. You will keep my secret and I will keep yours. Now talk.”

A scowl of impatience must have warned the girl, for she hurried to explain. “I wear trousers.”

Shock replaced Wilda’s impatience. “Men’s trousers?”

“What other kind are there? Of course, men’s. And shirt and boots as well. How else would I ride astraddle?”

“Tyra, why in the world…ride astraddle? You wouldn’t dare. It’s wicked.”

The girl’s head bobbed up and down. “Oh, yes, I know and guess what? I know why it’s wicked. But never mind all that. You’ll know soon enough if you run off with this man. I’ll ride into town and see him for you. What should I tell him…ask him?”

“I’m not sure…if I should do this.”

Tyra tapped a foot. “Oh, for goodness sake. You are impossible. Do you want me to do this or not?”

“Of course.” Wilda fetched the note from her desk, held a finger to her lips a moment and asked, “Why?”

“Why what?” Tyra asked, reaching for the paper.

“Oh, you know. Why is riding astride a sin?” She folded the note twice but kept a grip on it, waiting.

“It makes a lady feel quite delicious.”

“Delicious?”

“Yes, you know. Down there.” Tyra gestured vaguely toward her lap.

Wilda grew quite hot and fanned herself twice with the note, then held it out. “You should watch that young mouth.”

Tyra shrugged and grinned wickedly. “You asked. You going to give me that?”

“Of course. Delicious?”

“Give me that. You’ll know soon enough.”

The time for hesitation was past, and she handed her note to Tyra. “Be careful not to be seen by anyone, not even your groom. Take this to…uh, Joshua at the blacksmith shop. Make sure he gets it and no one else. And don’t get caught. Can you do that?”

Tyra arched a fine brow. “Of course.” She grabbed the folded slip of paper and hugged Wilda. “Oh, isn’t this the most exciting thing?”

“If you dare tell anyone, it will be my undoing, and yours and Rowena’s as well. Do you understand? No one.”

A nod that dislodged hay strands from her curls. “Can I read the note?”

“May I. You will anyway.”

Tyra offered her alluring crooked grin and opened the folded paper. Her eyes widened as she read. “You’ve met him before? In the barn? Are you really going to do it? I mean, right out ask him to kidnap you? I thought perhaps you’d meet with him a few times, smooth the way.”

“No use of that. Besides, meeting might make it easier for us to get caught. All the same, I’m not certain he will agree.”

“Oh, he will. Look at you. He’d be a fool not to. You have him enamored of you already. Are you frightened?”

“Stop asking so many questions. Of course, I am, but not so much as I am terrified of Prescott. But you’re wrong. He isn’t enamored of me. We have barely spoken, so I doubt very seriously that he will agree to such a thing. Now, we must get you cleaned up and hurry back downstairs before His Lordship becomes suspicious and sends someone after us.”

Even as she brushed her cousin’s hair and rearranged it, she had second thoughts. Suppose this Calder Raines was worse than Prescott? Suppose he decided to really kidnap her, really ravage her? There would be nothing she could do about it. Oh, dear, was she only making matters worse?

Her mother must have felt many of the same doubts when she and her sister, Tyra’s mother, eloped with the brothers who would become their fathers.

If her mother had that sort of courage, then so could she. And she could hardly make things much worse.

“I have an idea,” Tyra said when the hair brushing had finished.

“Oh, what might that be?”

“Well, perhaps if you offered to pay this man, then he would be more willing to do what you ask.” She paused and grinned impishly. “I mean since you sure don’t want to…well, you know, do the—”