Miss Marcie's Mischief (To Woo an Heiress, Book 2)

by Randall, Lindsay

  To her delight, a number of children, screaming with glee, came sliding down a small hill. Marcie raced to greet them, heralding them all over a “finish line” that was naught but a line of ground holly laid down with loving care.

  “A winner!” Marcie yelled as they came skimming across the holly on strips of leather.

  Three small bodies tumbled happily into the snow.

  Marcie laughed with the children. “Famous!” she cried.

  The smallest of the children glanced up at Marcie and Prinny.

  “An owl!” cooed the girl, delighted. “I’ve never been this close to an owl before.”

  “No? Then do come closer,” replied Marcie. “Prinny is a very friendly owl.”

  The girl did as Marcie suggested and even reached up with one mittened hand to gently pat the owl on its head. She giggled as Prinny’s eyes widened. “Is it true what the vicar tells me,” she asked, “that all birds sing loudly and choose their mate on the morning of Saint Valentine’s Day?”

  Marcie had heard that same saying when she’d been very young, and she, too, had been caught up in the wonder and magic of what one special day might be able to create in the hearts of all God’s creatures.

  “I think,” Marcie replied softly, “that it just may be so.”

  The girl inclined her head to one side, studying Marcie. “Are you one of Cupid’s helpers? The vicar’s wife told me today that Cupid and all of his helpers visit people on Saint Valentine’s Day. And they bring love, and sometimes presents.”

  Marcie laughed. “I am not one of Cupid’s helpers,” she said. “But I’ve lots of gifts in my portmanteau—that is, if you like fossils.”

  “What kind of fossils?” the wide-eyed girl asked.

  “Fossils from near the sea,” said Marcie in a whispered voice. “Fossils straight from a smuggler’s cave.”

  The girl gasped. “Really and truly?”

  “Really and truly,” said Marcie. “What is your name?”

  “Frederica. But everyone calls me Freddie.”

  “Hello, Freddie. My name is Marcie. Pleased I am to make your acquaintance.”

  “Would you like to slide down the hill with my friends and me?” asked Freddie shyly.

  Marcie didn’t need to think twice. “Most definitely,” she said. “I would be honored.”

  And so it was that Marcie, having set Prinny atop her portmanteau, helped pull the strips of leather back to the apex of the hill, waving as she went to Nan, Jack and Miss Deirdre, who were heading for the house. Cole Coachman, still dealing with his high-strung horses, was only now making his way over the footbridge.

  Marcie grinned mischievously. If she figured correctly, she could make it to the hilltop and come winging down at just the precise moment Cole Coachman came through the gate of the vicarage. She felt a burning urge to give him a proper greeting to such a loving household. Surely happy children come to greet him would make the man smile!

  So thinking, Marcie headed for the top of the hill.

  *

  Cole found himself cursing soundly as his nervous horses fidgeted yet again. Would they never reach the warm stall Jack had promised? Cole was close to losing his patience. He’d been led through everything short of a bramble patch. God only knew what manner of house Jack would guide them to. No doubt a shambles, thought Cole testily just as he managed to lead his cattle through a dense copse.

  The sight of a welcoming and weatherworn vicarage, all brick and with three chimneys softly puffing smoke up into the snow-filled air, was not at all what he’d expected.

  Cole straightened, thinking perhaps this day wasn’t truly lost. He headed for the footbridge and the house past the low wall. It wasn’t a fancy house, to be sure, but it appeared welcoming enough, lighted as it was behind the many frosted windows.

  A young lad met him at the gate, with a warm welcome.

  “Jack asked me to take your horses to the stable, sir,” said the youth, his cheeks bright from the cold. “Said I should rub them down good. Said I’d be rewarded with a shiny coin for my troubles.”

  Cole had no doubt but that Jack had also intended for Cole to be the one to produce the coin. No matter. Cole was just thankful to see that his horses would not be forced to endure further hardship in some drafty barn.

  He handed the lad coin enough to make the boy’s eyes wide as saucers, then watched as the youngster skillfully took charge of the horses. Assured they would be properly handled, Cole turned his gaze to the vicarage. Hearing the distant yip of a dog, he headed inside the stone wall.

  Ah, finally, a peaceful haven at last, he thought… until he took several steps on the well-worn path.

  Suddenly, a seeming army of youngsters popped up from behind the hedge, pelting him with snowballs. Cole quickly moved to dodge the spheres of snow. Unfortunately, he stepped directly into the path of something moving fast down from the hilltop.

  “Coming through!” called a very familiar, female voice.

  Cole glanced up just in time to see Marcie plowing down upon him. “Oh, for the love of—”

  Cole didn’t have time to finish his exclamation. Instinctively, he dived out of harm’s way, landing firmly in a snowbank just as Marcie veered sharply to the right and she and her new-found friends tumbled—laughing all the while—into the snow beside him. For the second time since he’d met her, Miss Marcelon Victoria Darlington had succeeded in seeing him covered from nose to toes in snow.

  Cole came up sputtering, fully prepared to mutter a string of oaths. The number of children surrounding him brought instant memories of numerous, demanding nieces. Too many times in his past he had been sorely tested by the spoilt offspring of his brothers.

  But something was different about this group of snowball-throwing children. And the sight of his Mischievous Miss Marcie, giggling with heartfelt abandon and hugging a tiny girl lovingly to her chest, made his heart do a queer flip-flop.

  Cole found himself stunned into speechlessness by the bright sparkle of happiness lighting Marcie’s green eyes. And the children surrounding her, though loud and unreined, seemed not to gaze at Cole expectantly, but rather with happy faces that anticipated nothing more from him than his shared merriment in their winter play.

  Miss Marcie wiped tears of laughter from her lovely face. “We did not cause you injury, did we?” she asked, most concerned. “I intended only to whisk near you and wish you a happy Saint Valentine’s Day!”

  Cole felt a perfect fool for thinking the children, or even Marcie, had harbored plots of deceit. He stood, brushing the snow from his greatcoat as he did so. “I am quite fine,” he said. “And you?”

  “Breathless,” she said, truthfully. “I’d quite forgotten what fun it is to slide down a hill!”

  Oh, but she was pretty; bonnet woefully askew, hair all tousled, cheeks pink, and her smile wide. Cole decided she’d never looked lovelier. He hastily minded his manners, offering her a hand out of the snow. The smallness of her gloved hand in his reminded him of the moment he’d tumbled down a road bank with her, when Miss Deirdre’s coachman had nearly crashed into his coach. He found he liked the memory. If Marcie noticed that he’d allowed his grasp to linger overly long, she made no show of it.

  “Allow me to introduce Mistress Frederica—known as Freddie—and her playmates, Masters Neville and Theodore,” said Marcie, nodding to the youngsters.

  Cole shook his thoughts away from the feel of Marcie’s hand in his. He swept his hat from his head, giving a jaunty and exaggerated bow to the young miss and her friends.

  Little Freddie giggled. Masters Neville and Theodore, Neville nervously blinking, and Theodore popping his mittened thumb out of his mouth, promptly executed like bows.

  Marcie nodded toward the trio of snowball-throwing boys standing near. “And we must not forget Master Tom, Master John, and Master Richard,” she said, adding, “but I haven’t a clue who is who for Freddie had time enough only to rattle off their names as we flew down the hill.
”

  Cole tipped a grin their way as the boys stepped forward, reciting their names and ages. As it turned out, Marcie had introduced them in order of age.

  Thomas, the eldest, had watched with an appreciative eye as Cole led the horses inside the stone wall. Thomas said as much, and soon Cole and the young boy were talking horseflesh. Cole felt his heart warm even more when little Freddie gave a tug to his sleeve, asking if she might be able to give a pet to his team.

  Cole found himself being led by the hand to the stable, where the boys and little Freddie cooed over his cattle and Miss Marcie, smiling fondly over the group, stood at his side, Prinny perched on her shoulder. They stayed at the stable for better than an hour, the children helping to rub down the fine beasts, check their hooves, and seeing to their welfare.

  Cole couldn’t ever remember enjoying the presence of children as much as he did at that moment. How odd. Children, until now, had always presented problems, not comfort—and certainly not joy—to Cole.

  But with Marcie gently encouraging the children to be nothing more than, well, children, the time seemed to fly past on wings. There was much giggling and sharing of stories as the boys and little Freddie fawned over the cattle.

  Too soon for Cole, Jack came to retrieve the lot of them and lead them into the vicarage. Cole at first thought the magical moments shared in the stable would be lost to him, but he was surprisingly mistaken. There proved to be more merriment within the vicarage.

  Vicar Clarke, a rotund fellow with thinning hair and a heart as wide as an ocean, could not have given a warmer welcome. He and his wife, a tiny sparrow of a woman who had the patience of a saint, were the perfect host and hostess. As for their brood of lively orphans, they proved to be just as open and giving and sweetly curious as they had been in the stables.

  Since the snow continued to fall in great, huge flakes, the vicar and his wife insisted that Cole and his passengers remain for a few hours at the vicarage, or at least until the tail end of the storm waned. Jack, surprisingly enough to Cole, assured him that enough hands would be sent for to help dig the Mail coach from its snowy trap. Both Jack and Vicar Clarke made certain the three oldest lads were sent to a neighboring farm for assistance.

  The vicar and his wife were generous enough to offer them a meal and some entertainment, and Prinny a perch on an ancient hat rack in the hall.

  Following an ample—and decidedly lively—luncheon, the guests were led to a parlour where Marcie helped young Freddie play a tune upon an old and untuned pianoforte.

  Meanwhile, Miss Deirdre, complaining of cold toes, was led to an upstairs bed chamber by the vicar’s wife to find some warmth and comfort. Nan, following behind, offered to help thaw the lady’s clothes by the hearth, and Jack, with Bart at his heels, took to combing the halls of the vicarage in search of memories from his youth, while Vicar Clarke and the three boys made haste to find help in freeing Cole’s coach.

  Cole blinked in astonishment as nearly everyone departed the cozy room—everyone, that was, but young Freddie, the nervous Neville, the thumb-sucking Theodore, and, of course, Miss Marcie.

  It seemed to Cole that Marcie was at a loss as to what to do now that her thief and their hosts had scurried away. She leafed through the music sheets, making a motion to put them into some order. She miserably abandoned the act when Freddie piped up to say that the music sheets were in no particular order but were thrown haphazardly onto the bench whenever she was finished practicing her chords.

  “I like my sheets in a mess,” Freddie said with childlike candor. “No need to straighten them, Miss Marcie. Half the fun is trying to find a certain sheet.”

  Little Freddie immediately made chaos of any order Marcie had tried to create. “There,” she announced. “Now I shall have to spend several minutes searching for the proper sheet. I do declare that is what I like best! Making sense of nonsense is what Vicar Clarke says I do best of all.”

  Cole watched as Marcie beamed. “Why, Freddie,” said Miss Marcie, “I do believe we are cut of the same cloth, for I too would make a game out of practicing. I once had a horrid schoolmistress who had no patience whatsoever for my constant shifting of the sheet music!”

  Marcie laughed, and Cole felt his heart warm as she reached down to squeeze Freddie’s hand. The sound of Marcie’s laughter was like a chorus of wondrous bells in his brain, and the sight of her as she smiled lovingly at Freddie nigh took Cole’s breath away.

  How was it that Marcie had such power over his senses? One minute she could vex him mightily, and the next minute, with just a turn of her head or a soft smile, she could make his insides melt. Egad, but only a fool in love could be forced through the gamut of emotions! Cole felt his heart give a jerk at the thought. Only a fool in love…

  Could it be?

  No. Impossible!

  Cole dragged his thoughts back to the present—just in time to see Marcie’s lovely green eyes catch the light of the candles. He felt himself verily drowning in those sparkling green depths.

  In love. Ah, yes, it was indeed possible. Trouble was, Marcie thought him to be Cole Coachman and not the Marquis of Sherringham.

  Little Freddie suddenly leapt up from her bench and raced to the window. She pressed her nose to the cold, iced glass, and cooed with pleasure as she watched the snow fall down to the ground outside.

  “Can we not walk in the snow, Miss Marcie? Please? I do so like to walk while the snow is falling! Oh, say that we may. Please do!”

  Cole thought Marcie must surely have had enough of the cold day and was surprised when she followed the girl to the window, leading both Neville and Theodore alongside her.

  “A walk in the snow, hm?” she said softly, kneeling down beside the girl and the boys.

  “Oh, yes,” said young Freddie. “I would like that very much!”

  The boys added enthusiastic cries, and soon Miss Marcie was heading for her wrap.

  Cole found himself sitting upright. He suddenly did not want to be left out of anything Marcie and the children enjoyed, though God knew he’d had enough of the snow and the cold. He was out of his chair before he knew what he was about. He reached for Marcie’s hand.

  “Pray, allow me to join you,” he found himself saying.

  Miss Marcie hesitated. “Truly, you need not go back out into the cold. I shall walk with the children down to the bridge and back, just far enough for them to enjoy the snowfall, but you needn’t feel you must join us. I know how arduous your journey has been and—”

  “No more arduous than yours,” Cole interrupted.

  “Yes,” Marcie agreed, “but I enjoyed the comfort of the inside coach while you were forced to endure the cold and blowing winds.”

  “It is what all good coachmen must endure.”

  “And you are that,” she said softly, catching Cole unawares with the whispery gentleness of her melodic voice. “You are indeed a fine coachman, Cole.”

  Cole found himself quite tongue-tied by her heartfelt compliment. “Why, I am… uh… most pleased by your kind words,” he said, uncharacteristically tripping over the words.

  His lordship felt a rush of remorse wash over him. This lovely miss would doubtless feel deceived—and rightly so—if ever she should learn he wasn’t an ordinary coachman but rather the Marquis of Sherringham. Cole knew very well she would have acted differently with him had she known of his title.

  Though he very much wished to share with her the truth of his identity, he knew he could not. Not yet, anyway. To do so would mean having to witness the brightness in her beautiful eyes dim, and what a pity that would be, for it was the twinkle in her eyes that he liked best about her.

  In all honesty, Cole had to admit that he rather liked playing the part of a coachman, for it was that very guise that allowed him to cast off all his cares and woes and be himself. Had Marcie known of his title, she would not have been so candid with him, he knew. Indeed, she most likely would never have flagged him down near the snowy mew
s of her boarding school and Cole would not have had the pleasure of being in her company. What a perfect shame that would have been!

  No, Cole decided. He would not mar this moment with the truth of his identity.

  Cole guided her hand to the crook of his right elbow. “Shall we?” he said, his heart suddenly feeling light as air.

  Miss Marcie smiled.

  Together, they led the children outside into the snow.

  *

  Cole could not remember ever enjoying himself as much as he did during their leisurely stroll.

  Huge snowflakes twirled through the air. In the distance could be heard the tinkling of bells and the nickering of horses. The children bounded ahead, little Freddie twirling with abandon as she went and then dropping down into the snow to create angel wings with her arms. Masters Neville and Theodore engaged in yet another snowball fight, and their antics urged Cole and Marcie into a run as they playfully dodged the spheres of snow.

  Little Freddie declared a race to the bridge, jumping up out of the snow to scurry down the path. Both Theodore and Neville chased after her, throwing snowballs as they ran. By the time they reached the footbridge, all of them—Cole included—were laughing with delight.

  The children skidded down the bank, picking their way over the ice-encrusted rocks, the boys searching for an imaginary footpad beneath the bridge, and little Freddie announcing that she was positive one of Cupid’s whimsical helpers might be found there as well.

  A breathless Marcie leaned back against the weatherworn rail and tipped her face up to Cole. With an impish grin, she said, “You are laughing, My Lord Monarch. Do you know I have been racking my brain all morning, trying to devise a plan to see you do just that?”

  Cole, a bit breathless himself, planted his forearms on the rail beside her. As he leaned forward, his face was close to hers. “I am not such a curmudgeon, am I?” he asked. “Surely you must have heard me laugh before this moment.”