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

by Randall, Lindsay

  “Bother it all,” Cole muttered to himself as he failed to find Marcie within the busy common room.

  He quickened his pace, deepened his search.

  She wasn’t in the cavernous kitchens; all he found there was several harried maids, a cook who screeched at his interference, and a few plucked geese awaiting the roasting spit.

  A further search of the inn turned up nothing more than a lusty lord chasing a willing milkmaid around a scarred table, an abigail and her mistress drying their stockings near a roaring fire, and a snoozing scholar nodding over his books.

  There remained only one other parlour to barge into.

  Cole, hearing a female scream and the sounds of boots being tossed off and landing on the floor, forced the door open. The latch, severed from its hinges, skittered across the floor as two bemused faces glanced up at him. Cole knew one of those faces as well as he knew his own hand.

  “I never expected this from you, of all people!” he said.

  “My lor—Cole Coachman!” exclaimed John Reeve, caught as he was in a most compromising position with one of the chambermaids.

  A mobcapped girl blushed furiously but made no move to cover herself. “Oh, no, John, you’ll not be leavin’ me side so quick! I’ve waited near six months to get you here. Stay. Tell your driver to leave us.” The chambermaid clutched Reeve’s quivering body against her own as she gave Cole a devilish smile. “You’ll not be ruinin’ our fun, now will you?”

  Cole felt a perfect fool.

  “Forgive me,” he said. “I was looking for someone. I thought I heard her scream.”

  “Oh, that was me you heard,” said the chambermaid. “John here brought me two pretty new bonnets, the finest you ever did see!”

  “Forgive me,” Cole said again. “I did not mean to—to interrupt.” What an idiot he felt! He tried to back out of the room.

  Reeve heaved a huge sigh. “You’ll find her in the stables, Cole Coachman.”

  Cole straightened to his full height. “And how do you know for whom I am searching, Reeve?”

  Reeve, giving a quick wink to his most willing partner, turned his face to Cole. “Call it a wild wager.” The girl beneath him tugged his attention her way yet again. “She’s in the stables, Cole. Now be a good coachman and get on your way, will you?”

  Cole turned crimson. The stables! She’d wandered off to the bloody stables? Cole tipped his hat to Reeve.

  “My thanks to you, Reeve,” he said, stepping back. “Carry on, my good fellow. Carry on.”

  “That I shall,” replied John Reeve.

  Cole closed the door, hearing a smothered giggle as he did so. Ah, if only his own life could be so carefree, thought Cole, leaving the lovebirds to their clandestine affair.

  But images of Marcie, alone and with no protection, wandering into the stables of the busy inn, filled him with dread. Visions of ill-usage danced in his brain. God only knew what scoundrels she would face there. Heavens, but she could be robbed of what little coin she had. The cutthroats that haunted such establishments would make a game of teasing and toying with her. They would doubtless take advantage of her youth and inexperience. As for what such persons would do when they spied her comely shape and fiery beauty—oh, it did not bear thinking of!

  Cole headed for the stables, his heart beating an unnatural rhythm, and his brain creating a number of odious scenarios.

  He had to find Marcie.

  He had to save her, all else be damned!

  *

  Marcie leaned back against a warm pile of hay, Prinny propped on the straw above her, and sized up the pile of booty she’d amassed during the last roll of Jack the Highwayman’s crooked dice.

  “I’ll see your stolen ruby, and add a necklace of pearls,” said Marcie, digging out a string of pearls she’d purchased in London. She wasn’t extremely proud of the pearls, though they were worth a fortune. She’d bought them on a whim, but only because Mistress Cheltenham had said it was most unbecoming for a young miss to purchase jewelry for herself.

  Marcie felt a great deal of satisfaction as she dropped the pearls on the hay-strewn ground.

  Ostlers, bootboys, and the few farmboys who’d come to the inn for some fun, exclaimed over Marcie’s wager.

  “Mayhap you should take back those pearls, mistress,” said Jack the Highwayman. “They be too fancy for our purses.”

  “Nonsense,” said Marcie. “I wish to wager them, and wager them I shall!”

  Jack leaned closer to Marcie. “I wouldn’t want to see you be taken advantage of, mistress,” he whispered into her ear. “In fact, I’ve come to like your spunk. Still, I must warn you to take care. Flash pearls like these and someone might choose to stab you in the back.”

  The other players, overhearing Jack’s remark, protested loudly.

  “You wound us, Jack my man,” said the head ostler. “You wound us with your words as well as with your shaved ivories! We men o’ the north don’t fancy cheatin’. Now take those queer dice of yours and put ‘em back in your pocket!”

  Jack looked alarmed.

  Marcie laughed. “Oh, Jack, when will you learn you needn’t cheat people? We are all just the same, don’t you think? I knew you were rolling shaved dice the minute we sat down to play. How do you think I’ve continued to win such a purse?” So saying, Marcie dumped her winnings down onto the ground. “I say we start anew, and all of us are equal.”

  Jack cringed, possibly fearing he might be dragged to the magistrate. “I was only trying to see that my horse and I have enough feed to last us through this blasted winter.”

  “And so you shall, Jack,” said Marcie confidently. “Now take my dice, Jack, and see what winning numbers you can roll. They are lucky. You shall see.”

  Jack took a roll, and much to his amazement, he won. “Well, I’ll be!” he exclaimed.

  Thirty minutes later all of the gamesters had each amassed a nice pile of winnings. One of the farmboys scooped up Marcie’s string of pearls when it was his turn to roll, but Marcie did not mind for she’d won a warm and wooly scarf made of the softest lamb’s wool. Jack took in several sugar chunks for his horse, and the head ostler became owner of one shiny silver spoon. Verily, everyone soon agreed that Marcie’s ivories were indeed lucky.

  One by one they began lifting their battered tins of hot chocolate, taking turns toasting Marcie’s pretty lashes, her good health, her smile, and, of course, her lucky dice.

  Marcie, thoroughly enjoying herself, made a few toasts of her own. By her third toast, she began to realize the drink had been laced with something headier than chocolate.

  “Oh, dear,” she murmured. “I dareswear I am beginning to feel a bit light-headed.”

  “And well you should be, mistress,” said Jack. “That chocolate is more rum than anything else. Warms the toes, does it not?”

  “Oh, yes!” Marcie giggled, then hiccoughed.

  Jack took the tin from her hands. “I do believe you’ve had more than enough.”

  “Why, Jack, your concern is touching. Surely, you are not the horrid highwayman you’d hoped us to believe you to be!”

  Jack wagged his head. “I did make a blunder of it all, didn’t I? Truth be known, mistress, I never stole a thing in all my life, and I’d never pointed a gun at anyone. Sorry I am that I frightened you.”

  “All is forgiven, Jack… but only on one condition.”

  Jack eyed her closely. “And what might that be, eh?” he asked, suddenly wary.

  Marcie leaned close and whispered, “That you’ll help me find a way to the inn at Burford. I fear I’ve angered the great Cole Coachman. No doubt he hopes to be rid of me posthaste. I’ve done nothing but make him miserable during our ride and so have decided it best not to burden him further with my presence.

  “But that does leave me in a perfect pickle, for I’ve no idea when another coach heading for Burford might come along. And if one does come along, then I fear what might become of me if I travel the distance without a chaper
one.”

  “Say no more!” he said. “Jack here shall find you a seat bound for Burford, and I promise to stick close until you are safely at the inn!”

  Marcie blinked. “You would do that for me?”

  “That and more. As I see it, mistress, you saved me from the hangman’s noose. You did me a good deed. I might be down on my luck, but Jack never forgets a favor. I would be honored to see you safely to your destination.”

  Marcie smiled. “Oh, Jack, what a perfect gentleman you are. I do believe I have found a friend in you.”

  The man puffed up with pride, and to Marcie’s dismay she noted the glint of tears filling his eyes.

  “I never had me a true friend—other than my mum, and a kindly vicar and his wife, who took me in after her death—and surely not one as sweet and beautiful as you,” he said, voice choked.

  Marcie reached for his callused hand. She gave it a gentle squeeze. “And I can honestly say that I’ve never met a man who was so heartstoppingly honest as you have been these minutes past. Honesty becomes you, sir.”

  Jack blushed furiously. “Yes, well,” he muttered, quite flustered. He pulled his hand from hers and yanked a threadbare kerchief from his shabby coat. He quickly mopped at his eyes.

  Marcie sat back, feeling both satisfied and a bit weepy herself as she peered at the wide circle of new friends. She hadn’t felt this much at home since before her father’s death, when she used to ride down to the sea’s edge and visit with the fishermen as they readied their boats for a day on the water. It was moments like these that she’d sorely missed while being cooped up in Mistress Cheltenham’s drafty attic.

  One of the ostlers drew out a harmonica and began to play a lively tune. The youngest farmboy whittled away at some wood, his knife blade moving to the tune. Two of the bootboys joined an errant kitchen maid, who had stolen inside the stables with yet another pitcher of the potent hot chocolate and a loaf of steaming bread as well, in the middle of the stable. The three commenced to dance a jig.

  Marcie clapped her hands and laughed as the bootboys took turns twirling the comely lass about. Before Marcie knew it, she too was pulled into the merriment.

  “Oh, no,” said Marcie, shaking her head. She shyly pulled away. “I cannot! What I mean to say is, I—I don’t know how to dance.”

  Jack moved beside her. “A pretty miss such as yourself was never taught to dance?” he exclaimed. “Pity, that! But never fear, Jack here shall learn you a few steps.”

  “You?” Marcie said, quite surprised.

  Jack winked. “My mum might not have had the blunt to keep my belly full, but she had the lightest feet in all the north, she did. I learned to dance just as soon as I learned to walk. Here now, you just follow my lead, mistress.”

  Marcie, her eyes aglow in anticipation, did indeed follow Jack’s lead, and all too soon she gave herself over to the wild elation within her. Ah, to have someone actually teach her how to dance! Famous!

  She swirled about the floor, her bonnet cast aside, and her fiery curls in riotous disarray about her flushed face.

  The ostlers stomped their feet, hands clapping. Horses nickered, coming awake with the music and laughter.

  Round and round Marcie went, spirits soaring. Oh, how she’d dreamed of being allowed to dance while in London, but Mistress Cheltenham had forbidden Marcie from joining in any of the fun, and truth be known, Marcie had not wanted to learn to dance with any of her uppish schoolmates, knowing they would ridicule her awkward steps.

  But this was different. Here, in this cozy stable, Marcie could be anything she wanted to be. She could trip over her own feet—which she did, many times—and no one batted an eyelash. They merely laughed along with her, encouraging her to dance some more. And dance she did. She danced until the pins tumbled out of her hair, and her cheeks grew hot, and her eyes sparkled.

  One of the bootboys, just as much caught up in the excitement, took hold of her hands and spun her round so hard and so fast that Marcie was sent spinning out of control. She whirled right into Jack’s arms. They collided with great speed, tumbling head over heels into a pile of hay. Marcie let out a scream of delight.

  It was then Cole Coachman came charging into the stable. A fire-breathing devil he appeared. He took one look at Marcie lying in a heap in the hay, and immediately charged toward Jack.

  “Unhand her, you scoundrel!” bellowed Cole Coachman.

  Marcie sat up on her elbows, blowing a red curl from her eyes. “Cole, no!” she cried, realizing his intent. “Jack did me no harm! He—”

  But she was too late.

  Cole Coachman yanked Jack to his feet, then, just as quickly, delivered a clean punch to the man’s whiskered jaw.

  Jack fell back, out cold.

  Chapter 8

  Cole certainly hadn’t intended to resort to fisticuffs, but good breeding and common sense fell to the wayside the minute he’d found Marcie being mauled in the hay by some thieving highwayman.

  Seeing her caught beneath the man’s bulk, her hair in wild confusion and her skirts hitched up and showing a shocking amount of trim ankle caused Cole’s blood to boil, and his indignation to mount to terrifying heights. How dare anyone lay a hand on his Mistress Mischief?

  “Get to your feet and face me man to man!” Cole said in a murderous tone. “I am far from finished with teaching you a lesson you’ll not soon forget.”

  A horrid hush filled the stable as the highwayman failed to move. Indeed, every person present stood stock-still, scarcely breathing and waiting to see what would transpire.

  Everyone but Marcie.

  “Save your breath, you odious coachman!” Marcie snapped at Cole. “My friend isn’t about to be standing up to you anytime soon, nor anyone else for that matter. You’ve knocked him senseless, you have, and for naught!”

  Cole gaped at the too lovely Miss Marcie. “For naught?” he sputtered. “For naught?”

  “That is exactly what I said. Have you lost your hearing as well as your good sense?”

  Thunderstruck, Cole watched as Marcie unwrapped a much-worn scarf from about her neck, a scarf she’d somehow obtained since Cole had last seen her, then cradled Jack’s head upon it. She gently patted the man’s weathered cheek, trying to rouse him with both her soft touch and a few whispered words.

  A small-framed youth broke free of the circle of bystanders behind Cole. He scurried past Cole with frightened haste, then kneeled beside Miss Marcie.

  “He dead?” the boy asked.

  “I should hope not,” said Marcie, shooting an angry scowl in the general direction of Cole.

  Cole watched in dismay as the others soon crowded round the lovely miss and her fallen highwayman. One by one they crouched down beside the two, all of them holding vigil over the threadbare thief.

  Cole felt very much the villain. And to think, not a minute ago, he’d come raging into the stable, imagining himself to be the white knight rushing to his damsel’s rescue. This damsel obviously needed no rescue. It was on the tip of Cole’s tongue to utter an apology of sorts, but Jack took that moment to come round.

  “What hit me?” he muttered.

  Cole felt the weight of too many eyes upon him. For the very first time in his life, he wished the earth would open up and swallow him into its dark, dank depths.

  Miss Marcie turned her attention back to the highwayman. “I fear it was our own Cole Coachman. He did not break your jaw, did he, my friend?”

  The highwayman had the good humor to smile. “Naw. My jaw is as sturdy as a tree trunk, mistress.”

  Cole heard her sigh of relief, a sound which managed to cause him much discomfort. So she’d come to care for the highwayman, had she? Was now addressing him as “my friend,” was she? Now how the devil had that come about? Cole felt an unexpected prick of pain pierce the nether regions of his hard heart.

  “Perhaps we should summon a physician,” said one of the men crouched about Jack.

  The highwayman shook his head,
winced, then replied, “No need… that is, if Cole Coachman isn’t set on making mincemeat of me.”

  Again, too many accusing eyes turned toward Cole.

  Cole straightened, quelling the urge to flex the fingers of his right hand; Jack’s jaw had been monstrous solid. He cleared his throat. “I see no need for further confrontation. It has become quite obvious to me that I misjudged the situation. I had thought Miss Marcie was in trouble. Clearly, I was wrong,” he announced.

  Jack gave a crooked grin up at Cole. “No need to apologize, Cole Coachman. As I figure it, you had every right to cut me down to size seeing as how I waylaid your coach and all. Truth be known, I feel a world better now that you’ve taken a swing at me. As I see it, we’re even as even can be, eh?”

  Cole quelled the urge to haul the slippery thief to his feet and knock him down yet again. Even indeed.

  Feeling outnumbered, though, he held his tongue—and stayed his temper. What mattered most to Cole at the moment was regaining Marcie’s trust. He’d made a perfect idiot of himself in her eyes, no doubt. She must think him an uncouth beast.

  To Marcie, he said, “Our coach leaves for Burford within the quarter hour. If you return to the inn, you’ll find Nan and Miss Deirdre relaxing in a private parlour. You’ll find some food there as well.”

  Marcie turned her face away from him. “I am not hungry,” she said. “I’ve decided to stay here, with my friends.”

  “Surely you cannot be serious!”

  “And why not?” she brazenly challenged.

  Damn, thought Cole, but she could be a mulish miss! Too bad for him that she’d quite enraptured him with her mischievous ways and quicksilver moods.

  She looked a perfect hoyden with her hair all atumble and her eyes bright with passion. Since she had relieved herself of her fur-lined pelisse, Cole found himself viewing the full luster of her charms. She was not the too-thin runaway he’d first imagined. Indeed, her comely curves were very much in evidence beneath her pretty gown. Her bosom heaved with righteous indignation, and Cole found himself remembering all too clearly the sight of her lovely ankles, shown to great advantage just moments ago.