Miss Marcie's Mischief (9 page)

Cole released a disgruntled sigh. "No doubt you would, you little mischievous soul," he said.

Marcie turned back to the highwayman. "You haven't another weapon on your person, have you?"

The man bowed his head, his growling stomach obviously getting the best of him. "Only a knife in my boot."

"Hand it over," ordered Marcie. "That is, if you wish to join us. We'll take you to our next stop and see that you have a decent meal, and that your horse has a warm stall."

"You would do that for me?" said the man, amazed.

"Of course," said Marcie. She looked up at Cole. "Won't we, My Lord Monarch?"

"Oh, for the love of—yes, yes, of course," he grumbled. "I've taken up a runaway schoolgirl, an owl, why should I cease my philanthropic acts now?" All of this was highly irregular, but then again so was the fact that Cole had taken the reins of a Royal Mail coach and not a mere stage coach as some swell did.

"My exact thoughts," said Marcie, smiling.

"Reeve," Cole ordered, "see the man—" he paused a moment. He turned a stern stare toward the highwayman. "What is your name, man? And don't be giving me any aliases you've doubtless assumed."

The highwayman lifted his grubby face to stare at Cole. "My true name be John, but my mum always called me Jack."

It seemed an honest enough answer. Cole nodded. To Reeve, he said, "See that Jack has a place to sit."

Reeve shuddered in haughty distaste. "Surely you do not expect me to house him on the hind boot," grumbled he. It was a preposterous notion for any guard worth his salt to allow a stranger to perch in the lofty hind boot, for it was upon that very boot where the guard rode and made a living of protecting the mail bags.

Cole Coachman frowned. "Very well. The thief can sit atop the carriage behind me, but—" Cole glared at the highwayman. "But should he make a motion to unseat me, I'll spare him no mercy."

The highwayman appeared affronted at such a scenario.

"Hitch up his horse, Reeve," said Cole Coachman, "and do not, I pray, take your eyes off the thief."

Reeve moved to do the coachman's bidding.

"Wait!" said Marcie. "Your sweetcakes, Cole. We should offer some to the man now."

Cole frowned, obviously not wanting to have anything to do with a lowly thief and, perhaps, not wishing to part with any of Meg's famous sweetcakes, but the generous spirit of one lovely runaway schoolgirl seemed to be upon him, for he reluctantly reached into his greatcoat and pulled forth the snowy linen Meg had given him.

The highwayman accepted the food with a nod of his dirty head, then, following Reeve's abrupt command, scrambled onto the tiny perch above Marcie and Cole.

Marcie climbed back on the box.

Cole wagged his head at her. "For as long as I live," he muttered, "I shall never forget this night, Mistress Mischief."

Marcie, ever an angel of mercy to injured birds and unfortunate souls, smiled at Cole. The man was truly not as gruff as he liked to pretend. Joy fluttered inside her as Cole Coachman took the time to help cover her with the carriage rug once again.
Neither shall I forget this night,
she thought to herself.
Neither shall I...

Chapter 6

Cole spent the next several miles pondering the amazing fact that although he was woefully behind schedule, had managed to take on a circus-like mix of riders, and was even now sharing his bench with an owl named Prinny, he wasn't in the least bit fuming, fussing, nor even flabbergasted.

Indeed, he felt, well, rather pleased with the events of the night, if one could actually believe that. Which one couldn't, because normally Cole would have been spitting fire to realize his exacting schedule had been so skewered. And the last time one of his coaches had been set upon by a highwayman, Cole had knocked the man senseless and then transported the scoundrel to the nearest magistrate! It was quite a feat that Cole had held both his temper and his tongue to some degree during this entire topsy-turvy night.

Normally, Cole wouldn't be so accepting of inconveniences. His life at Sherringham House in London was one of detailed exactness, and though certainly coupled with unending interruptions by his many nieces and widowed sisters-in-law, he'd always managed to deal with his many duties by being as dour and as stuffy and stiff-hearted as he could possibly be. To be lax in any way would have threatened to bring the entire household crumbling down round his head.

Though he'd allowed his sisters-in-law to constantly bleed his coffers, and his nieces to take up far too much of his time with their spoiled demands, he'd never allowed them to pierce the prickly crust surrounding his heart. He'd always kept his distance, and his dignity.

Yet in spite of those facts, he was now charging along a darkened roadway, transporting not only his illegitimate half sister, but the Prince Regent's latest love interest, a starving and very inept highwayman, a guard who viewed himself to be above the masses of humanity, and a runaway schoolgirl and her owl named Prinny. And he was actually enjoying himself!

It was not to be believed. Not at all what Cole had planned.

Cole had taken on this ride because he wished to be alone, and because he'd wished to whisk himself out of Town before his sisters-in-law and his many nieces began to pack numerous bags for their Valentine's Day excursion to the Cotswolds and to the home of one eccentric Penelope Barrington, who lived just outside of Stow-on-the-Wold. He knew only too well that once he delivered the last of his parcels at the inn of Burford he would be expected to travel onward to Penelope Barrington's sprawling Cotswold manor house and thus be directly thrust into the company of a Cit heiress, whom he'd never met but whom his sisters-in-law had decided would be the perfect match for him.

Perfect? Cole doubted that. He was not in the least interested in choosing a wife. He'd seen firsthand how petulant and demanding women could be, thanks to his sisters-in-law. Neither woman enjoyed anything that was the least bit challenging. They much preferred amusing themselves with fashion plates and Town gossip rather than a brisk ride in the park or an intricate round of chess playing.

Cole had intended to avoid their matchmaking by using his duties in the Whip Driving Club as an excuse not to join them on their trek to Stow, and also as a way of avoiding their plot to pair him with some heiress, who would no doubt prove to be just as spoilt and selfish as the many heiresses he'd encountered thus far.

Yet here he was, heading for Burford, which was but a short distance from Stow and Penelope's house, with a coach filled with folk he barely knew. So much for finding time alone and avoiding having to travel to Stow. Adding to all of this was the fact that Cole was hours behind his appointed schedule.

The only nugget of pleasure for him was the fact that Miss Marcie's smile did odd things to his heart. Cole glanced over at the girl he'd termed "Mistress Mischief." She was mischievous, certainly. But she was also a great deal more, he was beginning to learn.

The fact that she was now sound asleep, snuggled back on the bench, afforded Cole the leisure of admiring the way her fiery curls framed her lovely face, the way her slumbering mouth formed a perfect Cupid's bow, and the way the dusky length of her long, luscious lashes curved upward.

She was far too pretty to be out and about, alone in the world. Someone should be watching over the girl. Someone should safeguard her, he thought.

Cole turned his attention back to the road, minding the bends and ruts. Though he'd been surprised—and concerned—about the way in which his Mistress Mischief had chosen to deal with the highwayman, he'd soon found himself admiring her spunk.

Cole chuckled to himself, shaking his head at the memory of Marcie jumping down off the bench to confront the highwayman. Such a glorious sight! She was brave, he'd give her that. Maybe too brave.

Cole looked over at her once again. The rug had slipped down past her knees again, he realized.

Cole reached over to pull the thing back up and around her. "My little Mistress Mischief," he whispered softly as he tucked the rug around her. "Why ever did no one teach you to beware the chilled and coldhearted souls of this world?"

Surely the girl's spirit would be broken by the scoundrels scouring the earth. Surely her sweet heart would one day be nicked by those people whose souls had been turned to so much brittle, cold stone by the wickedness of the world. People like Jack the highwayman.

Like himself.

* * *

Marcie came awake just as Cole Coachman tucked the carriage rug about her. "Hullo," she said sleepily. "I must have drifted off again."

The man quickly pulled his hand away, suddenly concentrating on the reins and muttering something she couldn't make out.

Marcie frowned.

No doubt Cole Coachman was angry with her. She'd been very forward in suggesting that Cole allow the highwayman to board his coach. But even so, Marcie hadn't been able to turn a cold shoulder on the poor little man who'd sought to warm his empty belly by robbing a coach.

"You are not angry with me, are you?" Marcie asked.

He gave her a queer look. "Why ever would you ask that?" he demanded sharply.

Heavens! but the man could be so deuced moody, she thought.

Marcie straightened on the bench. "I guess it must be the way you are gripping the reins," she said, her voice just as sharp. "And your mouth is ever so tight—as though you'd been thinking about how I've made this run such a mess."

"Are you always so forward with everyone you meet?" he demanded.

"Yes," Marcie said. "I am. Now answer my question, if you please."

"And what question was that?"

Marcie gnashed teeth. "Are you angry with me, or not?"

"Would it matter if I were?" he asked, still not looking her in the eye.

"Perhaps," said Marcie.
Definitely,
she thought.

He blew out a long sigh, guiding the coach over a frozen bridge and onto a narrowed lane.

"No, I am not angry," he finally answered. "Though I should warn you to take more care when dealing with ruffians. That highwayman," he muttered, motioning with a nod of his head to the sleeping man behind them, "could have murdered you. I am of the opinion you run pell-mell into every encounter. That is not a very wise thing to do."

"I have never been one to sit back and allow others to chart my course."

"Obviously. But you are naught but a schoolgirl, mistress. And a runaway one at that. Someone must take you to task lest you leap out of the frying pan into the fire."

Marcie felt herself stiffen with anger. "And I suppose you'll next announce that you deem yourself to be that person."

"Little though I like it, yes. The world can be a dangerous place for a schoolgirl on her own."

"I might have been a schoolgirl in London, but we are not in London now. I've left that life behind me, sir. I have no need for a champion, nor even a chaperone, and I take offense that you believe otherwise. I am not as addle-brained as you paint me!"

As she spoke, they turned into the courtyard of a very busy inn. There was much commotion to greet them, with other carriages, carts, barrows, and hackney coaches coming and going, ostlers and porters rushing here and there, and a swarm of sleepy-eyed folk hustling from one conveyance to the next.

Cole Coachman was forced to keep his eye on the bustle surrounding them, as well as on the narrowed lane where he was being flagged to direct the coach. He hadn't a chance to reply to Marcie's heated words, nor did he have the chance to stop her before she scooped up her owl and jumped down off the bench once they'd come to a stop.

Marcie was too angry to look back over her shoulder. So the man thought her to be a flighty schoolgirl, did he? Oooh, but he had made her very angry by saying she was too quick to rush into any situation! What did he know of her childhood, of her life? What did he know what it was like to lose one's parents too soon and be compelled to travel to a strange city to find, not a shimmering future, but instead a horrid schoolmistress and a decrepit schoolhouse filled with odious girls, who constantly teased and belittled her?

Marcie's half-boots clacked atop the ice-encrusted boardwalk as she hastened toward the inn door. She had every intention of staying on at the inn until she could find another coach to transport her to Burford. To the devil with the Cole Coachmans of the world, she heatedly thought.