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

by Randall, Lindsay

  “But only because you obviously drive him to distraction,” said Nan.

  Marcie clicked her tongue. “You are too dramatic by far. And a helpless romantic, to boot.”

  “Am I now?” said Nan, snuggling deeper between the mountain of packages on either side of her. “Perhaps I am the only one with a clear view of the situation. Love, after all, can be a tricky thing.” Nan then yawned, closed her eyes, and without so much as an apology for ending the conversation so abruptly, fell fast asleep.

  Marcie stared at her friend. How the girl could sleep with the jostling motion of the coach was quite beyond Marcie’s grasp. Too, Nan’s talk of love being a tricky thing reminded Marcie of what Jack had said. The opinions of her friends appeared to be that love could—and would—steal over one with no warning whatsoever.

  Marcie turned her face toward the window of the coach and steadied her gaze on the winter landscape breezing past. She frowned. Had she fallen in love with Cole Coachman? Was that the reason she was so bothered by the man?

  “Fustian,” she muttered to herself. How could she be in love with a man she barely knew?

  And why, oh why, was she so deuced interested in whether or not Cole fussed over her welfare only because she was his passenger or because he’d actually taken a personal interest in her?

  And more to the point, what was Cole’s interest in the lovely Miss Deirdre, purported lover to none other than Prinny himself?

  Marcie spent the next several hours contemplating such intricate questions. In fact, she was so caught up in her musings that she did not bother to alight from the coach when Cole Coachman made yet another quick stop to unload a few more parcels and secure a fresh team of horses. She was not at all pleased that memories of Cole—holding her in his warm and muscled embrace, of him sharing with her some ginger root, and of him raging into the stables only to land a fist on Jack’s sturdy jaw—kept invading her mind. And no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t banish the coachman’s stormy gray eyes from her thoughts.

  “Oh bother it all,” she whispered, using one of Cole Coachman’s favored phrases. “Have I truly fallen in love with the man?”

  And as though to haunt her, both Jack’s and Nan’s theories on love came crashing into her thoughts. If this was love, it was indeed queer. And it had indeed swept Marcie off her feet.

  She sighed, watching the snowflakes fall past the window. Drowsy at last, she vaguely ascertained that the Royal Mail coach was heading into the eye of another winter storm. As for herself, she realized, perhaps a shade too late, that her heart was tumbling fast into a maelstrom of passion that began and ended with the enigmatic Cole Coachman….

  *

  Cole swore under his breath as he charged his team into a wall of whipping snow. Gadzooks, but the weather had taken a turn for the worse. A blizzard, that’s what it was.

  Cole muttered a curse as he guided his horses straight into the seemingly impenetrable wall of falling snow. He could barely see his own gloved hands, let alone the road.

  “Wh—what’s th—that y—you s—say?” queried Miss Deirdre, shivering beside him on the bench. Her teeth clacked together, a most unpleasant sound.

  Cole frowned. He should have stopped long ago and insisted she climb inside the carriage to find some warmth. But he’d been plagued by visions of Miss Marcie these many miles past and had been hard pressed to keep his mind and his wits about him.

  For the life of him he couldn’t get thoughts of Marcie out of his mind. He saw her wherever he looked. He saw her scurrying out of the snowy mews in Town, looking frightened but purposeful as she’d stepped into his path; saw her crumble atop the snow, sick from too many bonbons; and recalled her, finally, all atumble in the hay of a stable, skirts hitched up and showing her pretty ankles, burnished curls framing her pixie face, and her eyes so bright and filled with merriment…

  Heaven help him, but she’d be the death of him yet! thought Cole, as he urged his team around another tricky bend in the road. Unfortunately, an abandoned farm cart, one wheel broken, sat directly in their path.

  “Whoa!” Cole shouted, pulling hard on the reins.

  The horses snorted, frightened into panic. They bounded to the side, limbs flailing as they made a great show of avoiding the farm cart. Cole had no choice but to give them their head and allow them to veer straight for a drift of deep snow.

  Miss Deirdre screamed. Cole cursed. In a split second, the team heaved the coach deep into a crusty bank of snow. And there the coach bottomed out, firmly embedding itself in an ice-encrusted mound of chalky white. The horses blew out steams of breath, as they floundered in the snow trying to find some sure footing. The Mail coach was truly and utterly stuck.

  Cole dropped the reins. Miss Deirdre, teeth still chattering, muttered about having broken a fingernail in all the commotion. John Reeve came bounding off the hind boot, complaining that now he and he alone would be forced to unhitch one of the leaders and head for the next Mail post without any assistance.

  Cole would have given them all over to the devil at that moment. Imagine! Having landed his coach in a snowbank!

  His fellow peers in the Whip Driving Club would doubtless roll with laughter at such a thing.

  “Whatever shall we do?” cried Miss Deirdre, quite unhinged by this nasty turn of events.

  “Why, you walk, that’s what,” supplied John Reeve, even now heading toward his mail bags.

  “Walk?” exclaimed Miss Deirdre, a telling terror in her voice. “But to where?”

  “To the nearest farmhouse,” Reeve answered.

  Miss Deirdre nearly fainted.

  Cole cursed the guard for worrying the woman. “All is not lost,” Cole said in an attempt to soothe her. He jumped down from the bench, ascertained the damage, then added, “Perhaps I can guide the horses and have them pull the coach free.”

  “Impossible,” said Reeve. “You’re stuck, my lor—Cole Coachman. I suggest you and the passengers should get your feet moving and not even try to free this coach.” Reeve, grumbling like a bear, pulled Cole out of hearing distance from the coach, and in a low voice growled, “Can’t say as I didn’t warn you not to take on this run, my lord. If you were truly a coachman, I’d box your ears for the mess you’ve made of this!”

  “Now see here,” Cole began, quite affronted.

  But Reeve would have none of it. “No, ‘tis high time you listened to me—that is, begging your pardon, my lord,” he added hastily. “But you’ve got me in a fix, you have. As Mail guard, I am sworn to a twelve-hour duty, from beginning to end of this run. By my calculations, I am now long past my end of duty, yet I’ve miles to go before I reach my final post. Had the usual coachman been at the reins of this coach he’d have been off-duty hours ago and I’d be propping my feet before a warm hearth.”

  Cole could not argue the fact that he had indeed made a mess of this Mail run. All in all, it was both unusual and outrageous.

  “You are absolutely in the right, my good man,” said Cole, properly brought down to size. “Rest assured I shall give a glowing report to your Post Office. Your employer and fellow guards shall learn of your devoted service. In fact, I shall personally see to it a letter of commendation is writ on your behalf.”

  Reeve’s anger dissipated in the face of such a fine apology. “You are too kind, my lor—Cole Coachman,” Reeve replied, sufficiently pacified. “I am sorry if I’ve been gruff with you, but surely you must understand how it is. After all, it ain’t every day a swell takes the reins of a coach I am hired to guard.”

  “I understand, Reeve. No need to apologize, not when we both know that I am to blame for all the trouble we’ve encountered along the road.”

  Reeve grinned. “Seems to me all our trouble started the minute Miss Marcie climbed on board. Now mind you, I’m not complaining. She is a sweet thing. And lovely, too. Perhaps too lovely, eh?” Reeve leaned closer, adding softly, “Guard her well, my lord, for I do believe she is just your
cup of tea. Lively as the day is long, but a true lady underneath all her spunk. Perhaps the good Lord knew what He was doing when He sent her running into your path from the snowy mews, eh?”

  With that, John Reeve reached for his letter bag, making certain the way-bill, containing all details of passengers, parcels, and luggage, was secured safely within it. He swung the heavy bag over one shoulder, then headed to unhitch a horse.

  Cole followed after him, watching as the man made haste to mount the beast.

  Once in the saddle, Reeve tipped his hat. “I shall report your disaster at the next post. Take care of our passengers, I pray, and do you take my advice concerning your runaway school miss,” he added softly.

  Cole smiled. “Godspeed, John Reeve. And a happy Saint Valentine’s Day to you.”

  “And to you, my lor—Cole Coachman,” Reeve corrected hastily.

  Cole laughed.

  Reeve laughed as well, and then he rode away, snow spitting from beneath his mount’s hooves.

  Cole turned his attention to his remaining horses, and his passengers.

  Jack was surveying the scene with a critical eye. “Yup,” he surmised. “We be stuck. Can’t say as I didn’t expect as much, what with all the snow.”

  “Dash it,” said Cole, not wanting to hear the man’s voice, let alone view his wily face. Indeed, every time Cole looked at Jack, he inevitably thought of Miss Marcie and how she’d enjoyed dancing with the man.

  It did not sit well that Cole—very much viewed to be a fine ‘catch’ of the ton, and whispered to be supremely light of feet while on the dance floor—had no way of proving to Miss Marcie that he was by far more of a gentleman than Jack could ever dream of being.

  Jack, however, puffed up with pride as he opened the coach door and dropped down the steps, encouraging both Nan and Miss Marcie to climb down.

  “We be stuck, lovely ladies,” he said. “But never fear. Jack, here, shall lead you to safety. Why, I combed these very lands as a young lad, and I know of a certain vicar and his wife who will take us in without question. No doubt they’ll set us up in grand style.”

  A sleepy Nan, followed by a concerned Marcie, Prinny the owl perched on her shoulder, climbed out of the coach. Jack immediately moved to help Miss Deirdre down from the box as Cole tried to calm his horses. In no time at all, Jack won the trust of Cole’s female passengers. And too soon, all of them were blindly following Jack onto a snowy path.

  “Do be quick there, mate,” called Jack over one shoulder to Cole.

  Cole, left alone with the horses, cursed the thief. No doubt the man would see them all spending the day in a drafty, decrepit barn. And why the deuce, Cole wondered, did Marcie so willingly trust the thief?

  Cole swore under his breath. He unhitched the three remaining horses and fought to keep the beasts in line as he hurried to catch up with the highwayman. Cole decided he was a perfect widgeon for following Jack’s lead. But follow he did, for he had no choice.

  As Cole trudged after the others, he soon admitted to himself that he would follow Marcie to the ends of the earth, and beyond.

  But it wasn’t love for the girl that spurred him, he told himself sternly. It couldn’t be. She was but a runaway school miss. And he, well, he was Lord Sherringham, jaded and cold, and decidedly fastidious. It wouldn’t do at all for his lordship to become smitten with an errant miss. The girl was simply a thorn in his side. Nothing more. Once she reached her destination, Cole would be free of any obligation toward her. He could finally tell her good-bye, thought he.

  Or could he?

  Chapter 10

  The heavily falling snow soon lessened, becoming a dreamy view of huge, fluffy flakes drifting lazily from the sky. Marcie, following the trio of Nan, Jack, and Miss Deirdre into a thick copse laden with snow, could not help but glance over her shoulder, concerned about the ever-moody Cole Coachman. She caught a glimpse of his tall form amidst the falling whiteness just before she rounded a curve in the path. How handsome he looked with his hat cocked back on his dark-haired head, his strong features caught in concentration as he expertly guided his horses through the deep snow.

  Marcie paused only a moment, drinking in the sight of him as he bent to whisper some unheard words to the lead horse. A lock of his dark hair tumbled onto his forehead, and Marcie found herself wishing ridiculously that she might be nearer to him—both physically and emotionally—so that she could brush that lone lock back into place.

  “Oh, fiddlesticks,” she grumbled to herself. What a foolish chit she was being in harboring such a thought.

  Surely the man would not be pleased to know she was thinking about him, Marcie decided. Indeed, he would most likely heave a sigh of relief should she simply disappear from his life altogether! Had it not been for her, Cole Coachman would have finished his run hours ago, and would doubtless have raced ahead of the snowstorm that now left his coach buried in a snowdrift.

  Marcie felt uncommonly guilty. She’d never intended to create such a coil for the man, and yet she had done nothing less than exactly that. Oh, bother, but she managed to completely foul his plans with her wild lark of running away from her boarding school. She must somehow make amends to the man.

  Marcie pulled her gaze away from Cole Coachman. She hurried to catch up with the others, all the while trying to think of a way to help brighten Cole Coachman’s day. Surely there must be something she could do that would bring a smile to his lips.

  Several minutes later, Jack led the women to their destination. Marcie nearly cried with delight when she broke free from the wintry copse and saw a large and rambling vicarage.

  “What a beautiful place you’ve led us to, Jack!” she exclaimed.

  “It’s heaven on earth,” breathed Jack, a bit misty-eyed at seeing the place that was as peaceful-looking as his childhood memory painted it as being. “Vicar Clarke and his wife are ever so pleasant. They re known for taking in orphans and the like, so be forewarned when I say we might be met with much fuss and confusion.”

  “Lovely,” whispered Marcie. “A perfect welcome on such a snowy Saint Valentine’s Day.”

  She ran ahead of the others then, letting herself skip over a snow-covered footbridge that held the recent imprint of many little feet.

  A yapping sheepdog met her at the low stone wall that encompassed the immediate grounds. Prinny ruffled his feathers in alarm, but Marcie quickly soothed him with a soft voice, then set him on the wall, out of reach of the dog. That done, Marcie thought nothing of bending down to scratch the dog behind its thick ears. The old dog beat its tail against her skirts, diving his nose into the crook of her arm.

  “I’ll be,” murmured Jack, coming up behind Marcie. “If it isn’t old Bart. Thought he’d be dead by now.”

  “I daresay he’s quite alive,” said Marcie.

  She laughed as the dog took one sniff of Jack’s leg, then bounded up to plant his forelegs on the man’s chest, giving a great slap of his tongue to Jack’s weathered cheek.

  Jack grinned from ear to ear. “Bart, my friend! You remember me! Imagine that!”

  “It is not so difficult to imagine,” said Marcie. “No doubt he’s never forgotten you.”

  Jack and the dog gave themselves over to a happy moment of tumbling in the snow. Jack grabbed the sheepdog by the scruff of his great neck and shook him lovingly, all the while crooning soft words. The faithful dog rewarded him with several more licks.

  Miss Deirdre came up behind them then, stepping gingerly over the snowy footbridge. “Good heavens!” cried she, seeing Jack rolling in the snow with the dog. “Our highwayman is being attacked!”

  “Nonsense,” said Marcie. “He is merely greeting an old friend. Say hello to Bart, Miss Deirdre.”

  “Bart? Do not say that someone has actually given the beast a name!”

  Jack laughed, playfully pushing the dog away from him. He got to his feet, brushing the snow from his clothes. “Bart is no beast, Miss Deirdre. He was once a pup I helped deliver
myself, years past. I named him, too,” he added proudly.

  Miss Deirdre, backing away from the dog, managed to look long enough at Jack to see his eyes shining with bright memories.

  Marcie saw the woman’s features soften.

  “You named him?” Miss Deirdre asked.

  “That I did,” replied Jack proudly. “Here, come give him a scratch behind his ears. Bart likes nothing better than to have his ears scratched.”

  Somewhat awkwardly, Jack reached for Miss Deirdre’s finely gloved hand. The woman drew in a surprised gasp at Jack’s touch—but she didn’t pull away. Very gently, Jack drew her hand toward the sheepdog, who now sat complacently on its haunches at Jack’s feet.

  “That’s it,” whispered Jack. “Just a gentle scratch, that be all Bart needs. Ah, you’ve got him interested now. See how he bends his head your way?”

  Miss Deirdre actually smiled. “Oh!” she said. “I—I had never thought to… to scratch a dog before, but I rather like it.”

  Jack beamed. “Makes you feel good inside, eh?”

  Miss Deirdre fluttered her long lashes. “Indeed,” she murmured, having eyes only for Jack.

  Marcie shook her head, leaving the two to their silly conversation. She was more interested in reaching the vicarage and meeting the family who dwelled within.

  With Prinny once again settled atop her shoulder, she hastened up the path, leaving the others in her wake. The chance to acquaint herself with a large and loving family drew her on. Though Marcie had been happy living alone with her father in Cornwall, she’d not been able to help wondering how different her life might have been had her father kept her in London where she would have been able to share secrets with her cousins, Meredith and Mirabella. Too, being an only child left Marcie ever longing for a large and extended family. Oh, to have lived within a home that was filled with constant commotion and much to-do! Marcie would have liked that; very much so, in fact. And someday, the good Lord willing, Marcie would meet the man of her dreams, and together they would create a parcel of children who would tug at her skirts and fill their home with the sounds of laughter and chaos.