Marcie suppressed the very unladylike urge to kick him in the shin.
“There is no room left for me in the coach,” she replied. “Nan and Miss Deirdre seem to have taken up all available space.”
“Surely, there is somewhere for you to sit.”
He made a motion to pop open the door.
“No!” Marcie said emphatically. “There is no need for you to peer into the coach.” And no need, she thought, for me to have to witness as you become unmolded clay beneath the very skilled gaze of Miss Deirdre.
“Pray,” Marcie said, on a lighter note, “do not bother yourself on my account. I am perfectly able to find my own space.”
“And where might that be?” Cole Coachman demanded.
“Why, near the hind boot, alongside your good guard, John Reeve.” She lifted her chin defiantly. “You will find that I am most adept at hanging on for dear life should you continue to take the turns at breakneck pace.”
With that, Marcie turned away and commenced to climb aboard the back of the carriage, the sound of Cole Coachman’s exasperated sigh ringing in her ears.
She’d successfullyâand rather stubbornlyâwound a sturdy strap about her gloved wrist when Cole Coachman came round the carriage, his eyes ablaze.
He pulled her hand free of the strap. “Of all the scatterbrained, ninnyhammered ideas,” he groused.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I’ll not be having you trailing my coach like some rag doll flapping in the breeze. If you refuse to take a seat inside, then I must insist you ride with me on the box.”
He did not allow her the chance to argue.
Marcie was forced to stumble along behind the broad-shouldered form of Cole Coachman. He half led, half dragged Marcie to the front of the coach where he immediately hoisted her into the air and atop the bench with no more exertion than if he’d been tossing a bag of seed onto a farmer’s cart.
Marcie landed with a thud on the hard wood. “This is hardly necessary,” she gasped.
“Not in my viewpoint, it isn’t,” he muttered, heading round the horses, and checking the sturdiness of their reins as he went. He then climbed up beside her, reached for his long whip, and set his fine team to motion.
Marcie was forced back as the horses took off in a flurry of spitting snow.
And so it was that Marcie joined Cole Coachman on the bench, and found herself squinting into the slanting snowfall and braving chilling winds, while Miss Deirdre and Nan no doubt shared yet another box of bonbons within the warm comfort of the coach.
So much for famous beginnings, thought Marcie sourly. She snuggled deep into her pelisse, and soundly cursed every moment following her unfortunate meeting with the moody Cole Coachman. The inn at Burford could not come soon enough!
Chapter 4
Cole Coachman found himself wondering how he’d acquired not one, but two extra passengers on this madcap Mail run. Doubtless his contemporaries in Town, should they ever get wind of the antics of this nightâwhich, of course, Cole would see to it they never didâwould share many hearty laughs, all at his expense.
Miss Marcie huddled against the cold, and locked her eyes to the distant and snow-obscured horizon. No doubt she was counting the miles until she could be free of both himself and their newly acquired passenger. Perhaps she was even wondering why Cole had acquiesced and allowed Miss Deirdre more than ample space within his overburdened coach.
The answer was, quite simply, that Miss Deirdre Waxford was none other than the latest swan to capture the interest of the Prince Regent. It wouldn’t do at all for Sherringham to allow such a woman to flounder along a dangerous road. B’gad, but being a gentleman was deuced inconvenient at times!
As for the mischievous young miss he’d acquired from some snowy mews… well, she was another matter entirely. Imagine, her thinking she would latch herself near the hind boot alongside Reeve!
What a stubborn chit she could be, thought Cole, chancing a glance at her from the corners of his eyes. She sat ramrod straight on the bench, her gloved hands folded upon her lap, eyes slanted against the snow, her chin held in that defiant position Cole was coming to know all too well. She hadn’t uttered a word of discomfort. She’d not made a fuss about the wind slicing through her hair and doubtless chilling her to the bone. Indeed, she now appeared quite fully prepared to endure the violent weather and was making a famous attempt to ignore all the discomforts the bench afforded her, which were many.
Dash it all, thought Cole, but the maddening miss was beginning to grow on him. He rather liked her spiritedness, found her self-sufficient attitude most refreshing. And blazes, but those bewitching green eyes catching the glow of the running lamps were far too appealing by all accounts.
It was a mystery to him why he’d even bothered to help her as much as he had. The Marquis of Sherringham, though constantly bending to the demanding wills of his many nieces and sisters-in-law, had actually made a name for himself in Town as being a bit of a curmudgeon. Indeed, there were those of the ton who termed him a stuffy bore, for he rarely bothered himself with anyone that caused him the slightest bit of trouble. No doubt the reason for this was that he had more than enough on his plate with his overly demanding family.
But perhaps his behavior more truly derived from the fact that Cole had ever been third choice in his now deceased father’s eyes. It was no secret to one and all that Cole had forever lived in the shadow of his elder brothers. He’d been forever second best to those two lively, handsome gentlemen, who set the ton all astir with their quick wit and startling good looks.
It smarted Cole to know that, should his eldest brother, Harry, not have been taken from life by illness, and his second eldest brother, George, not have been struck down and killed by a runaway carriage shortly thereafter, he himself would no doubt still be living in their shadows. Instead, having buried his father, and then his brothers in too short order, he’d been cloaked in sadness the day he’d ascended his title.
It was the memory of his brothersâteasing brutes though they might have been, but beloved nonethelessâthat made Cole care for both their offspring and their widows as well. And though all the females left to his care seemed bent on bleeding him dry and testing his mettle, Cole strove to please them all.
Of course, all that pleasing left far too little time for himself… and now, here he was, taking on yet another unprotected female. Three, he corrected himself quickly, counting his half sister, Nan, as well as the golden-haired Miss Deirdre.
Trouble was, Cole was a mite too interested in the mischievous Miss Marcie. There was something about her… something sad, but feisty, too. She’d wished to be free of her boarding school, and so she had fled. Simple as that! Cole admired that. Too, there seemed to be a life-loving air about her. She appeared quite determined to enjoy herself no matter what.
Cole deduced he should keep his mind on his team and the road before him, not on the runaway school girl beside him. So thinking, he set his face into grim lines and concentrated on a tricky bend ahead.
*
An hour later, the snowfall lessened to nothing more than huge, lazy flakes twirling to the ground. The twisting and hazardous turns of road gave way to a wide berth that stretched endlessly before them. There appeared a full moon in the sky, its phosphorescent beams painting the landscape in a bluish haze.
The beauty of the silent night near took Cole’s breath away. Such precious, quiet moments were the reason he took his duties in the Whip Driving Club so seriously. Only on the open road could a man find such solitude. London, with its mad pace and narrow lanes, seemed far, far away.
The young woman beside him, as though reading his thoughts, finally spoke.
“How lovely,” she said, motioning to a passing grove of pines, the boughs heavy with snow. “It is so peaceful in the country. Nothing like Town, with all its congestion and coal smoke.”
“You do not care for the city?” he asked.
“Oh, I like i
t well enough,” Miss Marcie replied, “but only in small doses. Everyone is always in such a hurry. They seem to have nothing better to do than rush to a party, and pass along tidbits of gossip.” She sighed. “I rather prefer wide open spaces. I find a walk in the fresh air more to my liking than a crowded drawing room.”
“As do I,” agreed Cole.
She tipped her face up to his. “How marvelous for you, then, that you constantly find yourself racing along these enchanting roads. What I would not give to be as free!”
Free? thought Cole. Oh, if she only knew how very tied up he was with matters of his inheritance and with his demanding sisters-in-law, Patricia and Georgiana, and their many children!
“I was not always so shackled,” she murmured, turning her pretty face back to the road stretching out before them.
“No?”
“Not at all,” she admitted. “There was a time when I was as free as a bird, allowed to flutter where I wished… but that was before my fatherâbefore he died.”
“I am sorry,” said Cole softly, “that your father has passed away.”
She bowed her head momentarily. “He was a very sweet man. He fussed over me, certainly, but he also possessed sense enough to realize I needed to find my own place in this wide world of ours. He was… very good at allowing me to discover my own inner strengths.”
Cole had guessed as much. Not every female would take kindly to being transported aboard a Mail coach, nor would an ordinary female acceptâlet alone adapt toâfinding herself traveling atop a hard bench and braving a wicked snowstorm.
“I take it you haven’t lived all of your life in Town,” said Cole.
“Not at all.” Melancholy forgotten, she lifted her face, eyes suddenly bright. “I was reared in the West Country. Cornwall, to be exact. Have you ever been to Cornwall?”
He shook his head.
“Pity that. You do not know what you are missing.”
“Then do tell,” he urged, quite taken by the bright gleam in her green eyes.
Miss Marcie hastened to share her memories. “The sound of the sea crashes endlessly in one’s ears. And the gulls! What a song their cries create. There are many cliffs, each one with a stunning view. All the roads seem to lead to and from the sea, and there is always a breeze blowing.
“As a child, I used to think that every blowing breeze carried memories of those who have gone before us. It was a silly thought, I know, but one that never ceased to amaze me. I could often imagine hearing the sound of a pirate’s cutlass hissing in the air, or the lonely call of a siren’s song chanting in the winds. I used to ride my pony along the rocky shores, hunting smuggler’s hiding-holes of long ago, and finding footprints in the sand that I thought surely must belong to a famous smuggler!”
Cole laughed with her at her lovely daydreams of youth. “Ah, you are a dreamer, then,” he said.
“No,” she replied, softly, surely. “I am a believer.” She shivered then, though just barely.
Cole immediately chastised himself. How very remiss of him not to see to her need for warmth. He was, after all, bundled in a warm coat and several layers of clothing.
“You are cold,” he murmured.
He reached beneath the bench with his right hand and pulled out the thick carriage rug he’d tucked there at the beginning of his Mail run.
“Here,” he said, shaking the blanket open with one strong yank, then fluttering it over and atop her knees.
She accepted the rug with good grace, but said, “There is no need for you to go out of your way on my behalf. Truly, I am quite comfortable. Indeed, I rather prefer riding on the bench to being enclosed in the coach.”
Cole thought her to be too much on her manners at that moment. He might have told her as much, but in the next instant, the young woman sat straight up on the bench and clapped her hands to her chest, the carriage rug slipping woefully down to puddle at her feet.
“Oh! Look!” she cried.
Cole feared she’d spied a highwayman lurking in the shadows. He too quickly ground his team to a shattering stop along the road.
“What?” he gasped, ready to reveal his gun should the need arise.
The young woman abruptly shushed him, then said, “There! Hidden in the snowbank. Do you see?”
Cole could see nothing more than the broad sweep of snow and endless night. It would not surprise him if a band of thieves lay in wait, hidden by the same snowbank.
So thinking, he reached for his gun, giving signal to Reeve to do the same, and all the while glad for the young miss’s sharp eye.
“Whatever you do, do not make any sudden moves,” he said softly to Miss Marcie.
“Oh, I shan’t,” she whispered in reply, her gaze fixed on the snowbank just ahead.
“My guard and I have things well in hand,” he said.
“I’ve no doubt you do, but if you would lend me your gauntlet, I am certain I could take care of this matter all on my own.” This she said just as Cole aimed his weapon on the snowbank in question.
Gauntlet?
“What the devil are you talking about?” Cole demanded.
Obviously distracted by his questioning, the young miss glanced quickly over at him and, seeing his weapon, gave a cry of dismay.
“Oh, but you couldn’t… wouldn’t!”
She lunged for his gun.
Cole found himself pressed bodily back on the bench as Miss Marcie, in a very unladylike manner, thrust the weapon from his hands. He allowed her her head only because he didn’t fashion having the gun triggered and thus sending a round of shot into the rump of one of his horses! Too, he’d come to the conclusion there must not be any thieves or highwaymen lurking in the shadows. And if there were, they no doubt would have sense enough to tuck tail and run rather than meet with the likes of one Marcelon Victoria Darlington.
Cole found himself smothered beneath the lithe form of the very indignant and far too spirited school girl. Unfortunately for Cole, he found her body warm and soft and far too appealing.
John Reeve took that moment to come racing forward, pistol in hand.
“I feared there was trouble brewing,” said John Reeve, clearly not at all pleased to have been alerted from his perch and urged to pull his pistol for naught.
Both Cole and Miss Marcie lifted their heads, peering down at the disgruntled guard.
Cole frowned.
“Thank goodness you’ve come,” said Miss Marcie, disentangling herself from Cole. “Perhaps you can talk some sense into your coachman, as he seems to be of the mind to shoot a poor, helpless owl!”
That said, she tossed Cole’s gun down to John Reeve.
The guard caught it easily.
Marcie smiled at him.
The guard tipped up his hat with the barrel of the gun, smiling back at her.
“Mayhap you’ll be needing me glove to scoop up that owl and place him out of harm’s way, mistress,” said John Reeve, sounding sweeter than Cole had ever heard the man sound.
“Indeed I shall,” replied Miss Marcie.
She took the proffered glove, then turned a heated gaze toward Cole.
“You could learn a thing or two from your guard, Cole Coachman,” she scolded. “If you had given me your gauntlet when I first asked, we could have totally avoided this… this sorry incident. Imagine! Aiming your weapon at an owl!”
Cole, sprawled on the seat, scratched his head in dismay as Miss Marcie turned away, deftly jumped down from the bench, then carefully proceeded toward an injured owl, which was by now clearly visible to Cole. And to think he’d only meant to save her from scoundrels! What an impertinentânot to mention thanklessâlittle chit she could be! Cole sat up, readjusted his greatcoat, then turned his attention to John Reeve.
The man scowled up at him.
“I didn’t see any owl,” Cole said, feeling a preposterous need to explain himself.
“Obviously,” intoned Reeve. He sniffed, clearly put out.
Cole ignored the r
eaction. “My gun, Reeve, and be quick about it.”
John Reeve reluctantly handed up the weapon, then turned and headed for the hind boot, all the while muttering about high-handed swells and their idiotic notions of manning Mail carriages.
Cole quelled the urge to pull rank on both the cranky guard and the mischievous Miss Marcie. He had a sinking feeling it would do him no good.
Just then, the carriage door popped open and Nan stuck her head out into the chill night air.
“Marcie isn’t sick again, is she?” she asked.
“I hope not,” groused Cole. He was beginning to feel a bit sick himself, with all these starts and stops, compliments of none other than Miss Marcie.
“Then why have we stopped?” Nan whined.
Why indeed? thought Cole. He had only to glance in Miss Marcie’s direction to have his answer. The female had not only lifted the broken-winged owl from its snowbank perch, but was carrying the creature toward the coach.
“Absolutely not,” said Cole, shaking his head. “You’ll not be bringing an owl aboard this coach, mistress.”
“But he’s wounded and hungry,” Miss Marcie countered. “Surely you cannot object, nor could you possibly expect me to leave him in some barren tree to fend for himself. He has broken a wing!”
She moved to the carriage door, asking Nan to pass out a sweetmeat. Nan eagerly obliged, all the while clucking over the little bird. She gave Miss Marcie the desired sweetmeat, then leaned out the door to coo some more over the creature.
“Is it not the most adorable little thing you’ve ever seen, Cole?” asked Nan.
Cole frowned at his flighty half sister. “‘Tis a barn owl, Nan. It feeds on rodents and would as soon nip off your fingertip as look at you.”
“Nonsense,” Miss Marcie intervened. “He appears harmless enough. And just look how beautiful its plumage is! It appeared pure white against the snow bank, but now I can clearly see it is actually specked with brown. I think it is the most beautiful bird I’ve ever held.”
Cole watched as Miss Marcie tipped her head to peer at the monkey-faced owl. A few curls escaped her bonnet, whispering against her cheek and fluttering in the cold breeze. She ran the fingertips of her free hand across the owl’s head, gently ruffling the feathers there. Cole was not surprised to hear the owl emit a soft “snore” of pleasure.
Miss Marcie's Mischief (To Woo an Heiress, Book 2) Page 4
