Miss Marcie's Mischief (17 page)

Marcie shook her head, molten curls bobbing with the motion. "Not like this," she said truthfully.

"So I have been a starchy bore, is that what you are saying?"

"A bore? Never! Starchy? Perhaps just a little," she playfully teased. "But I do understand that a fine coachman such as yourself is first and foremost concerned with his coach and his cattle."

Her smile widened, causing her lively eyes to shine. Cole felt completely spellbound. She was pretty. And sweet. And honest to a fault. What a deceitful being he was not to tell her his true identity.

His conscience got the better of him.

"Please, if you will, I've something I've been meaning to tell you."

She looked up at him with clear green eyes.

"Yes?" she asked.

Cole felt his throat constrict.

Devil take it, but he'd never been tongue-tied with a woman as he was now. He knew he should just blurt out the truth. Be done with it.

"I... uh... I just wanted to say that I—I have enjoyed watching you with the vicar's charges," he suddenly heard himself say.

Oh, what a coward he was! Why the deuce couldn't he just say it, admit he was not a mere coachman but a marquis with great wealth and a family name that stretched far into the exalted past of England?

But he knew why. The truth would only erect a thick wall between them. Young runaways from decrepit boarding schools did not dash through the snow with titled gentlemen. Cole held firm in his decision not to bring his true identity to light.

"You might be a runaway schoolgirl, Miss Marcie, but you certainly have a heart of gold where children are concerned," he said instead, and meant every word he uttered.

Marcie blushed prettily. "I've a soft spot in my soul for large families, Cole," she said. "I am an only child, you know. I can't tell you how often I've wished that I grew up in a busy, hectic household."

Cole heaved a mental sigh of relief, suddenly glad he hadn't ruined the magical moment. Said he, "Then no doubt you would open your arms to a family such as mine."

"Oh? You've a large family?"

"Too large, I sometimes believe. I've so many spoilt nieces that I find myself wondering which way to turn. They are constantly demanding this and that of me. And their mothers, widowed as they are, seem to think I've nothing better to do than see to everyone's comfort and entertainment. I am not complaining," he added. "Only stating what is true. But I do believe that now I shall view my many nieces in a kinder light."

"And why is that?"

Cole nodded toward Masters Neville and Theodore, and little Freddie. "Because of them," he said softly. "And because of you."

Miss Marcie caught her breath. "But all we've done is walk in the snow. Surely, that is not so unusual."

Ah, if only she knew! The Marquis of Sherringham would never have thought to stroll in the snow; had he any free time—which he rarely, if ever, did—he would not think to fritter it away with anything so ridiculous as an aimless walk, instead choosing to attend to his numerous duties.

But his lordship, in the guise of Cole Coachman, could easily forget about the many pressing matters left behind in Town. Cole Coachman knew a heady freedom that the marquis, sadly enough, might never know. Cole as coachman could find beauty in a falling snowflake, could find joy in a child's laughter... and could find both wondrous peace and promising passion in the eyes of one very mischievous miss.

Cole drew his face closer to Marcie's. "Forgive me," he whispered, voice husky.

"Forgive you for what, Cole?"

"For the kiss I am about to steal—or beg for," he said.

Chapter 11

Marcie watched, mesmerized, as Cole lowered his lips toward hers. He paused momentarily, allowing her the chance to push him away if she so desired. But Marcie, all atremble inside, did not desire to do so. She very much wanted him to kiss her.

Marcie's lips parted ever so slightly as she drew in a quick breath, and then, quite suddenly, she felt the heat of his mouth whispering across her own. Sweetly, gently, he claimed her with a searing brand that left her knees feeling deliciously weak and her heart soaring to great heights. This, she thought dreamily, is how every Saint Valentine's Day should be. With this handsome man pressing his lips to her mouth, with children frolicking near, and the possibility of love lingering all about....

He lifted one hand, sliding it slowly against her throat to curl his fingers at the base of her neck while his other hand slipped around her waist to nestle at the small of her back. Breathing in the scent of spice and cedar that emanated from his greatcoat, Marcie melted against his hard-muscled frame. How warm and wonderful he felt. And how oddly safe she felt in his embrace.

Though she was inexperienced, she instinctively knew how to respond to him as he playfully teased the corners of her mouth. Oh my! she thought, even as she gave herself over to
the moment and returned his fervent embrace,
surely a well-bred young lady would not allow a man such liberties.

But she wasn't a well-bred young lady, Marcie reminded herself; she'd only been trying to be one since journeying to Mistress Cheltenham's horrid school. In truth, she was naught but the wild, mischievous daughter of a wealthy Cit who had never, ever given himself over to the dictates of a too-strict society. And that, coupled with the fact that she was heading to her godmama's home only to be introduced to some stuffy swell, who might or might not become her intended, made Marcie enjoy Cole Coachman's brazen kiss all the more. She gave herself over to the wondrous sensations coursing through her, opening to Cole like a flower to the sun.

Marcie was surprised at how easily their bodies melded together. Surely this kiss was meant to be, thought Marcie, nearly mad with pleasure and delight. How silly she'd been to believe Cole had designs on the worldly Miss Deirdre. If that were so, he wouldn't be kissing her; indeed he never would have bothered to join her for a stroll in the snow but would have lingered in the parlour to await the reappearance of the golden-haired beauty.

Marcie sighed, drinking in the man's sweet kiss, believing, finally, that he wasn't the moody cock o' the road she'd previously thought him to be. Instead, he had proved to be gentle, and caring, and far too appealing.

Marcie wished the kiss could go on and on.

Interference, though, came in the form of three young bodies popping up from beneath the bridge.

"Ooooh," crooned little Freddie. "I never seen anyone kiss like that! Do you think they are in love?"

"If that's not love," said Master Neville, "then it be something we ought not be seeing."

Master Theodore sucked loudly on the mittened thumb of his right hand, grinning all the while.

Marcie and Cole abruptly parted, both of them turning to peer down at Freddie, Neville, and Theodore who now stood on the icy rocks of the streambed, their elbows propped up on the base of the bridge, their eyes near popping out of their heads.

Little Freddie, chin cupped in her mittened hands, sighed with romantic drama. "Oh, do kiss Miss Marcie some more, Cole Coachman. Please do!"

Masters Neville and Theodore continued to grin like cats who'd found a saucer full of cream.

Marcie blushed.

Cole Coachman swore beneath his breath. "Have you nothing better to do than spy on your elders?" he demanded, placing a respectable distance between himself and Marcie.

"Oh, drat," muttered Freddie. "He
isn't
going to kiss her again!"

The little girl frowned, but a moment later she'd quite forgotten her disappointment when a sled pulled by a plow horse came winging through the snow up the lane toward the vicarage.

"Visitors!" exclaimed little Freddie.

Freddie and the boys scrambled up the stream-bank, then raced to meet the sled. Marcie, too, turned to watch the sleigh wind its way toward the vicarage.

Help in freeing Cole's coach had arrived.

Marcie's heart fell; she would soon be leaving the vicarage, and the children, and the stolen moments she and Cole had shared.

She wasn't at all pleased.

Cole bit back a sharp expletive at the sight of the sled. He should have been pleased at how quickly the vicar and his charges had whipped up a ready team of hands and muscle to help pull his Mail coach free of the snowdrift. But he wasn't.

To free his coach meant he must press on toward the inn at Burford—an inn that stood too near. At the inn, he knew, his Mistress Mischief would take her leave of him. And he, alas, would face the remainder of Saint Valentine's Day without her.

"It appears as though we shall reach Burford before the end of the day," he said.

Miss Marcie nodded. "Yes," she agreed, voice quiet. She did not turn to look at him.

"That is still your wish, is it not? To be taken to the inn at Burford?" He hoped—no, he prayed—she would reply in the negative.

"Of—of course," she murmured, causing Cole's heart to fall. "Burford does indeed remain my point of destination."

Cole swallowed his disappointment past the sudden and unexpected lump in his throat. "And what will you do there, My Mistress Mischief?" he asked, unable to stop himself from voicing the question.

She finally turned, tipping her face up to his. Her green eyes shimmered—though whether the spark was due to his term of endearment, or due to the fact she would soon be at the inn, Cole could not decipher.

"I shall commence to try and enjoy the holiday," she answered. "But what of you, My Lord Monarch? What roads will you take once we reach Burford?"

Oh, but he couldn't think straight, not when she was looking so pretty and so... lost. Was that it? Lost? No, she couldn't be feeling lost, not when she was all but assured of reaching her desired destination. Surely Cole was imagining things.

"I shall guide my coach ever northward, routing the last few parcels and Valentine's gifts a few close acquaintances entrusted me to deliver."

"And when might you take a moment to enjoy the specialness of Saint Valentine's Day, Cole?"

When indeed?
he thought.

"Soon," he answered.
Probably never
, he thought,
not if he could not have Marcie near him.

Cole had taken on the run only to avoid the parties, the many demands of his station, and the ceaseless chatter of his nieces and sisters-in-law. Saint Valentine's Day had ever been a tiresome holiday to endure in the past. It always seemed that whatever party he attended in the days before Saint Valentine's Day, the ladies there would glance at him with expectation, no doubt in the hope that he would prove to be their secret suitor. There was ever someone wanting something of him, demanding this and that of him, and of course, he had yet to find, until now, that one special other with which to share the day intended for lovers. And so, Cole had struck out on the roads in the guise of Cole Coachman with only one thought in mind: Freedom.

Cole marveled at the fact that he'd found such freedom in the form of a mischievous miss from some snowy mews. This girl, with curls framing her pixie face, and her mobile mouth forming the sweetest of smiles, had shown him what he'd been missing these many years past since he'd ascended to the title. He'd not truly been living but rather going through the motions of life, more concerned with ledgers and appearances, never bothering to admire the beauty of a snowfall, to be swept away by a child's laugh, or to look beneath the surface of a bedraggled highwayman. Marcie had taught Cole to do all those things.

Cole suddenly wished their kiss hadn't been interrupted, for he very much would have liked to end it with a few heartfelt words. He wanted to tell Marcie he wished to spend more time with her, that he wished to court her. He wanted to tell her so many things.

But he couldn't. She was but a runaway school miss, enjoying her first foray into a wide world. She obviously had great plans to put into motion once she reached the inn at Burford. Ah, to be a part of those plans....

Cole mentally frowned. He had no place in her mischievous, hectic, wonderfully thrilling life. He was a titled gentleman, quite stuffy and too much wrapped up in the many coils his sisters-in-law and nieces pulled him into.