A curious ache stirred in his chest. He found himself wondering what precious pets she might have been forced to leave behind when she’d traveled to that odious school from which he’d whisked her away. She’d mentioned a pony she’d often ridden along the sands of Cornwall, and she’d talked of screeching gulls as though they’d been dear friends. Cole had no doubt but that Miss Marcie must have nurtured a good many broken-winged birds during her girlhood in Cornwall.
Looking at her now, with her head bent, a few soft ringlets framing her radiant face, he saw, suddenly, not a mischievous chit who had taken great delight in scampering away from her rigid boarding school; rather, he beheld a beauteous young woman who had, perhaps, had her own wings broken a time or two.
“Can we not take the owl with us?” asked Miss Marcie, the sound of her pretty voice cutting into Cole’s wandering thoughts.
“Oh, yes, please!” chimed in Nan.
Cole scowled. He was an hour behind schedule. This mail run was becoming ridiculously muddled with all sorts of complications. Take an owl aboard the coach? It was a preposterous notion! Thoroughly ridiculous.
Cole glared down at Miss Marcie, prepared to gainsay her. One look into the jewel-like facets of her eyes, though, weakened his resolve.
“Devil take it,” he groused. “Climb back aboard the coach, mistress, and bring that blasted owl with you if you must.”
Nan let out a cry of glee, handing Marcie an entire box of unopened sweetmeats.
Miss Marcie, hiding a pleased smile, took the sweetmeats, then climbed back onto the bench, the owl looking complacent, spoilt, and far too content.
“Thank you, Cole Coachman,” murmured Miss Marcie.
“Yes… well… ahem,” muttered Cole. “You are quite welcome,” he said, adding, “I think.”
And then they were off, heading into the eerily lit night: a swell coachman, a mail guard, a seamstress’s daughter, a lover of the Prince Regent, a broken-winged owl… and one very precocious, runaway schoolgirl.
Who would have thought Cole Coachman had intended only to race the Valentine’s Day mails to the Cotswolds?
Chapter 5
“I think I shall name him Prinny,” announced Marcie, several miles later.
“Eh? What’s that you say?” asked Cole Coachman.
Caught up in racing the coach along tricky roads, the handsome man had obviously quite forgotten not only Marcie’s presence, but the owl’s as well. No matter. Marcie, intrigued by the bird perched so complacently on her arm, had actually forgotten her earlier pique at being forced to sit atop the bench while Miss Deirdre and Nan snuggled beneath warm carriage rugs inside the coach. Too, she found the silence between herself and the coachman to be a most comfortable thing. The man wasted no energy on making small talk. This pleased Marcie. She was not one to waste words either, nor mince them, for that matter.
“My new friend,” she explained to Cole Coachman. “I’ve decided he looks very much like a ‘Prinny’ to me.”
“How so?”
“Well, for one, he is very regal, don’t you agree? And he is plump.”
Cole Coachman gave her and the bird a quick glance. “I s’pose the fact you have given him a name indicates you intend to claim him as your own?”
“Why ever would you suppose that? Really, sir, I would not presume to claim ownership on anything or anyone. To do so would be, in my opinion, quite arrogant. I only meant that I shall think of this bird as Prinny. As for my keeping him, that is solely Prinny’s choice. He can stay, or he can go.”
“And if he does not choose to stay?”
“Then I shall bid him a fond farewell,” Marcie replied easily. “After all, life is naught but a series of meetings and partings. Don’t you agree?”
“You speak as though you’ve experienced one too many partings.”
“I have had two too many partings,” she said softly, honestly. “My mother and my father.”
“Forgive me.” Cole felt beastly. “I did not mean to bring about sad memories.”
“Pray, do not apologize,” Marcie said quickly, smiling up into his handsome face. “The memory of my parents is sweet, not sad. And I like to remember them. Indeed, I hope never to forget them. Not that I could. Though our time together was far too short, it was wonderful and unforgettable. If I learned nothing else from them, I learned that life is indeed precious and far too brief. That is why I’ve decided to name this feathered creature.”
Cole shook his head. “I’m afraid you have quite befuddled me now.”
“I doubt that.” Marcie grinned. “I do not think you are so easily befuddled, Cole Coachman.”
“Please, call me Cole. Cole Coachman sounds far too stuffy.”
“And an experienced coachman such as yourself would hate to be thought of as stuffy?”
“Something like that,” he replied, his voice curiously tight.
“Very well, then… Cole. The reason I’ve named this bird is because I enjoy giving names to persons, animals or things that bring me joy. For instance, I have a name for every fossil I carry in my portmanteau.”
“Surely you are jesting.”
“No, I am not,” Marcie said, her smile broadening at his gentle tone. “I am quite serious. I found one fossil in a smuggler’s cave. I call that fossil ‘Ship’s End,’ because it is very large, with many distinguishing marks, and would make a tidy landmark for someone looking for such a thing. I like to think that a ship’s captain would traverse the seas looking for such a fossil. It is a Valentine’s Day gift for my cousin, Mirabella, as I do believe she has long been travelling the world in search of a sturdy landing place. I’ve another fossil for my other cousin, Meredith, who is ever so lovely. This fossil is smaller than the others but imprinted with many figures. You see, Merryâor rather, Meredithâhas the ability to see into another person’s soul. I thought this puzzle of a fossil would be the perfect gift for her. As for our mutual friend, Nan, I haven’t a fossil for her, but I do delight in calling her Mistress Busybody.”
“I well know why!” Cole laughed. “And John Reeve?” he asked, sobering somewhat. “Have you a special name for him?”
Marcie smothered a giggle. “I shouldn’t admit it,” she said.
“Do tell.”
“I think of him as ‘Sir General.’ A mix of military and nobility.”
“Oh, he is that, to be sure.” Cole grinned. Then, of a sudden, and rather haltingly, he asked, “And me, Miss Marcie?”
“Please, if I am to address you as Cole, then you must call me Marcie,” she said.
“Consider it done. And what of me, Marcie? Have you thought of a name that suits me?” He gazed at her, his gray eyes clear and unutterably mesmerizing.
Marcie blushed. Blast, but the man had a way of causing her to feel both excitement and confusion, not to mention an odd sort of vulnerability.
“To be quite frank?” she asked.
“To be very frank,” he said.
Marcie took a deep breath, then plunged ahead. “I think of you as ‘My Lord Monarch.’ “
Cole Coachman laughed.
“You do appear to be quite decisive and set in your ways,” she answered honestly. “You don’t like surprises, do you?”
His laughter eased. “No. I do not.”
“Everything in its place, and a place for everything, am I correct?”
“Precisely correct.”
Marcie nodded. “I thought as much,” she said, then grimaced. “I can only guess what name you’ve given me, then. I have certainly made a mess of your time schedule.”
“Indeed you have.”
“And have you, My Lord Monarch, attached a name to me? Surely, you’ve one swimming in that head of yours.”
“Oh, I do at that. Mistress Mischief. For obvious reasons.”
Marcie bowed her head, quickly hiding the shimmer of tears that suddenly sprang to her eyes and tickled her eyelids. Only one other person had ever called her Mistress Mischief.
�
��I have offended you,” he said, obviously misunderstanding her reaction.
Marcie blinked away the wetness from her eyes. She looked up at him. “Quite the opposite. You see, my father used to call me Mistress Mischief.”
“It seems I am forever stirring up memories for you.”
“Yes,” she whispered. “It does seem that way, doesn’t it?” And as she spoke, she felt a tiny tremor of feeling inside her breast, a feeling she could not quite express. Happiness at the memory of her father? Yes, it was that… and yet it was so much more complicated, and had more to do with the man seated beside her.
Cole Coachman smiled at her, reaching over with one gloved hand to pull up the carriage rug that was threatening to puddle down around her toes once again.
“Wouldn’t want you to catch your death,” he murmured.
His gloved hand brushed against her own, and Marcie felt a shiver tingle up her spine. Of a sudden, she could not help but notice how very near he was. She could smell the crisp, clean scent of him, and the delicious smell of cedar emanating from his greatcoat and red scarf. The world sped past as the coach whisked over the road, and to Marcie it seemed as if there was only just herself, Cole Coachman, and Prinny alive in the universe. What a very cozy place it was.
The blare of a horn brought Marcie abruptly out of her reverie.
“Heavens!” cried Marcie, startled. “What is that?”
Cole Coachman chuckled. “‘Tis only our guard alerting those at the upcoming post of our arrival.”
“What post?” asked Marcie.
Even as she said the words, they rounded a bend, and up ahead, in the distance, could be seen a glare of lights through ice-laden tree branches.
“What a sight!” she exclaimed as Cole Coachman expertly slowed his team through a narrow gateway, then into a well-lit coachyard. The glare of torches stung her eyes, and the shouts of “Hallo!” and “Welcome!” from ostlers and a burly aproned man, who could only be master of the inn, became music to her ears.
“We will not stay long,” Cole Coachman said. He brought the horses to a halt, put away his silver-mounted whip, then dropped down off the bench. “Reeve and I have the transfer of packages and letters to make. There’ll also be a change of horses. Shouldn’t take us longer than fifteen minutes. Perhaps less.” He nodded toward the door of the small and very quaint inn. “You will find hot, sweet tea, and perhaps a sweetcake or two inside. But try not to tarry too long.”
“Oh, I shan’t,” Marcie assured him. She was down off the bench even before he could step around and offer his assistance. Prinny rustled his feathers but made no motion to remove himself from his perch on her shoulder.
John Reeve was already making fast work of tossing down the mail bags intended for this stop. Cole Coachman, surrounded now by three ostlers, gave the order for a fresh team of horses.
Marcie, hoping to make herself useful, decided she should alert Nan and Miss Deirdre of their stop. She found the two women sound asleep in the coach.
“Psst,” Marcie said, peeking her head inside the carriage door.
Nan popped one bleary eye open.
“We’ve time enough to stretch our legs, if you’re of a mind to do so,” whispered Marcie.
Nan wrinkled her pert nose, shaking her head. “La, Marcie, I was dreaming of a handsome prince.” Squashed between a mountain of boxes and packages, and very happily so, she snuggled deeper into the squabs. “There is no way I will leave my dreams to venture out into the cold!”
“Not even for some hot, sweet tea?” Marcie coaxed.
“Not even,” muttered Nan, falling fast asleep again.
Marcie glanced over at Miss Deirdre. That one was also fast asleep, stretched out luxuriously on the opposite seat, covered from nose to toes in a thick rug.
Marcie shrugged and quietly closed the carriage door.
“I guess it is just the two of us, Prinny,” she said to the owl. With that, she headed for the door of the inn.
The building was squat and rather small. A bit rustic, too, but the lights burning inside and the sparkling ice hanging in perfect cones from its pitched roof made it appear quite inviting. Marcie no sooner reached for the latch of the door than the portal was thrust open and a behemoth of a woman stood in its frame to greet her.
“We’ve been waiting for your coach,” said the woman in a loud, firm voice. “Expected you several hours ago. No trouble along the road, was there? No thieves to hinder your progress? No accidents?”
“Only one,” said Marcie, feeling guilty as she remembered once again how Miss Deirdre’s driver had run his carriage into a snowbank. “But all is well,” she hastened to add. Cole Coachman had already delivered the tale of Miss Deirdre’s driver to the ostlers, even while he’d commenced to oversee the change of horses. Help would soon be sent to Miss Deirdre’s driver.
“Well, then, do come in, Missy. Why, your nose is as red as a cherry, and your cheeks pink. Do not tell me the handsome Cole Coachman forced you to sit atop his bench with him! The man must think everyone likes to freeze alongside him.”
Marcie smiled. “I did so on my own accord, truly.”
“Ah, a brave miss, are you? Good! Come, warm your bones by the fire. I got some sweetcakes warming on the stove, just the way Cole likes them to be when he passes through.”
Marcie found herself being relieved of her bonnet and pelisse, gloves and tippetâbut not before placing Prinny on the top rung of the hat rack near the door. The woman did not seem to think a girl with her owl was an oddity. With much fuss, the woman led Marcie toward the warm fireplace and seated her on a bench there.
Prinny, from his perch, watched with wide-eyed interest as Marcie was quickly served an entire plate of sweetcakes, as well as a mug of steaming tea. Marcie enjoyed the feast, all the while listening to the woman’s chatter.
Her name was Meg, Marcie learned. She’d been born and raised at the inn, which had been owned by her father and his father before him. Her husband ran the inn now, and Meg took great delight in serving nourishing meals and keeping the few rooms upstairs neat and tidy.
“Ain’t never met a coachman better than Cole,” said Meg as she sat down on a stool across from Marcie. She took up a bit of knitting, needles clacking furiously, as she continued speaking. “He be a gentleman, though I do declare he is a bit too serious for his own good. Something about him makes me think he is hiding secrets in his heart.”
“Oh?” said Marcie, instantly curious. “Why do you say that?”
“Well, for one, he only comes by once a year, sometimes twice a year, unlike most other coachmen who come through here often. He ain’t like other coachmen, though. He don’t put on airsâthough he couldâand we would still race to do his bidding. There be something special about him, and lonely, too. It’s as though he took to the roads to find something… or someone.” Meg shook her head, studying her knitting. “Don’t misunderstand me. I’ve a warm spot in this old heart of mine for Cole Coachman. Most women do. But still, he does seem lonely to me. Too lonely for a man as handsome and sweet as he is.”
Marcie found herself nodding in agreement, and once again a queer warm feeling tingled up her spine. She finished most of the tea, and ate too many sweetcakes. Then Meg insisted that Marcie follow her. Marcie was led to a warm room at the back of the inn, one with a washstand and a pitcher of tepid water.
“No doubt you’ll be wanting to freshen up a bit before Cole decides to put you back on that hard bench of his,” said Meg, closing the door and leaving Marcie alone.
Marcie wasted no time in taking up the woman’s offer. She washed her face and hands, tidied her hair, then finished her ablutions, feeling a world better as she retraced her steps back to the common room.
Cole and John Reeve were standing near the fire, warming their bodies and drinking a tankard of Meg’s special hot-buttered rum.
“Feeling better?” asked Cole.
Marcie nodded.
“Good. We’ve made the transf
er and must be setting off again,” he said. He finished off the tankard, then reached for his gloves.
Meg fussed over him, even going so far as to wrap up several sweetcakes into a square of snowy linen for him. Into the top button of his greatcoat, she placed an early-flowering primrose.
“My way of saying happy Saint Valentine’s Day to you.”
Cole surprisedâand pleasedâthe older woman by planting a quick kiss on her plump cheek. “And to you,” he said. He reached inside his pocket and pulled forth a prettily wrapped package.
Meg cooed with delight, tearing open the package to find two new knitting needles. She began to cry.
Cole Coachman lifted one hand and gently dashed away a tear with his thumb. “I hadn’t meant to make you cry, Meg,” he said.
Meg waved one hand at him, crying all the more. “Scat, then, before you see me cry a bucketful of tears! Though I’ve nourished a legion of coachmen, not a one has thought to bring me such a gift. God bless you, Cole Coachman.”
“And God bless you, Meg, for you’ve warmed my heart with your light banter and generous ways. Too, I love your sweetcakes.”
Meg blushed, looking like a schoolgirl, though she was a woman grown and wizened by life. “Go on,” she said. “Get. And be sure to stop here on your way back to London. I promise to have a feast prepared for you on your way back through.”
“It is a date I will race to make, Meg.” Cole then made a motion towards the door. John Reeve was the first to move, nodding his thanks to both the innkeeper and to Meg.
Marcie, however, found herself quite rooted to her spot. She was gazing at Cole. He was framed by firelight, his muscled form clearly outlined, and his face made even more handsome by the genuine friendship he felt for the woman named Meg.
The man was indeed a puzzle, thought Marcie. He could be cold and gruff as well as warm and wonderful. He could bark about being behind schedule, but could just as easily take time to retrieve a broken-winged bird from the roadside and gift a gabby innkeeper’s wife with a new set of knitting needles.
Miss Marcie's Mischief (To Woo an Heiress, Book 2) Page 5
