Read Online Stranger by the Lake by Jennifer Wilde - Free Book Online Page B

my shoulders, concentrating on the turns. I felt quite confident now, certain I was going the right way. Then I saw the patch of jade-green leaves again.
    I wanted to cry, but I didn’t dare. My face was flushed, my cheeks a bright pink, and hair had tumbled over my forehead. I brushed it away, trying to maintain a degree of calm. I had made a simple mistake, turning to the left when I should have turned to the right, and it had brought me back to the place I started from. Hysteria began to mount inside, threatening to spill over any minute now. I could visualize hours and hours spent trying to find my way out of this hellish trap.
    Use your logic, I told myself. The house was due north from the maze, but which way was north? I had absolutely no sense of direction. I remembered those awful weeks at camp when I was a child. We had worn white middy blouses and blue skirts and I had been utterly miserable when Old Hatcher with her blonde braids and stocky body had herded us out into the woods, barking commands and blowing her whistle if any of us got out of line. She had pointed out all sorts of dreary things like bark and birds’ nests, and there had been lectures on survival. You could always find your way out of the woods by looking at the lichen, I remembered, and any fool could get a sense of direction by seeing where the sun was in the sky. Great, but there was no lichen on the shrubs, and I could see nothing overhead but the blue sky. The sun was up there somewhere, most assuredly, but I couldn’t see it from where I stood.
    I could stand here and scream until someone found me, I reasoned, or I could hold on and hope to find my way out on my own. The first alternative was far too humiliating to contemplate, so I chose the second one, squaring my shoulders and marching with brisk determination down the narrow pathway between the towering green walls. Fifteen minutes later I was in a state of nervous shock. The exit might be right around the next turn, I told myself, but I had been telling myself that every time I took another corner. Freedom was so close and yet so tormentingly out of reach.
    Then I heard footsteps and the sound of someone whistling. I felt an unreasonable panic, remembering the dark form in the east wing, remembering there had been prowlers at Gordonwood. I was trapped, helpless … errant nonsense, of course. It was broad daylight, and surely no one with sinister motives would whistle like that. I forced my leaping pulses to be still and drew myself up with shaky composure. Rescue was at hand. Should I call out? The thought of anyone finding me in this ridiculous predicament was embarrassing, yet the thought of spending the rest of the afternoon in the maze was even more alarming. I cleared my throat, preparing to call out as casually as possible.
    â€œYou there?” a voice called before I could make my presence known. It was Craig Stanton. It would be him, I thought miserably, brushing back my disheveled hair and smoothing my skirt.
    â€œI say, are you there?”
    â€œH—here,” I stammered.
    â€œLouder. I’ll have to locate you by the sound of your voice.”
    â€œHere!” I shouted.
    A few minutes later Craig Stanton strolled around the corner, a look of devilish amusement in his eyes. He cocked his head and grinned boyishly. He was still wearing the tight jeans and bulky white sweater, and I tried not to marvel at his stunning good looks: those sculptured cheekbones, that strong jaw, those magnetic blue eyes, and the dark brown hair that tumbled over his forehead in such rich locks. His virile male beauty disturbed me, and I was painfully conscious of my own state of dishevelment: green linen dress rumpled, hair spilling down untidily, cheeks flushed a bright pink. He chuckled, lips still curled in that maddening grin.
    â€œThis is delightful,” he said. “It isn’t often one has an opportunity to rescue a maiden in distress.”
    â€œI