Miss Marcie's Mischief (14 page)

Marcie frowned. "He is a coachman who, as you once hinted, has the women tripping over their feet to get near him."

"I did say something like that," Nan agreed, adding slyly, "but I never said Cole ever took a fancy to one of them. Until now, that is. You must admit he seems a mite too concerned about your welfare, Marcie."

"But only because he whisked me away from Mistress Cheltenham's horrid school. Doubtless he feels responsible for my safety. Nothing more."

"Pshaw!" Nan waved one hand in the air. "If he were worried about seeing a runaway schoolgirl to safety, he would have set you off at the first post with stern orders for you to be transported back to your home in Cornwall. Believe me, Marcie, Cole is not a man to burden himself with a tag-along miss. He just isn't the sort to take too many under his protective wing."

"No? Then why has he taken such pains to see to Miss Deirdre's welfare?" Marcie found herself shamelessly asking.

"The answer to that is easy enough, I dareswear. Miss Deirdre is hardly a runaway schoolgirl, as you must know," replied Nan. She leaned forward on her seat, whispering conspiratorially, "But what you probably don't realize is that Miss Deirdre is... well, she is, ah... how to put this?"

"Just spit it out, Nan. What the deuce is Miss Deirdre, exactly?"

Nan shivered with gossipy glee. "She's none other than the Regent's latest lover!"

Marcie gasped.

"It's true, I swear! She told me so herself but swore me to secrecy. Now don't you go spreading this tale, for it is for your ears and yours alone."

"And who would I tell, Nan? You and I both know I don't move in any lofty circles."

"But you could," said Nan truthfully. "Your beauty alone could see you there, not to mention the tidy inheritance bequeathed to you by your doting father. La, Marcie, but I do declare you could become one of Prinny's conquests, or perhaps be squired about on the arm of a peer!"

Marcie shuddered with disgust. "Perish the thought. I've no desire to bump elbows with any member of the ton."

Nan's eyes twinkled with devilry. "Not even if you met a handsome, titled swell who had the power to sweep you off your feet?"

"Not even," Marcie said. "The lot of them are too toplofty, by far. And stuffy, so I've heard. I prefer not to meet any of them."

"And do you also prefer to become a spinster?"

Marcie wrinkled her pert nose. "I am hardly on the shelf."

"But you will be if you don't soon take an interest in some man," Nan pointed out. "Why shouldn't you consider Cole's attentions? A match between yourself and this coachman would not be so awful, would it? You've enough gold to keep the both of you in grand style. Surely, if you can pair yourself with a slippery thief, you can just as easily set your sights on a fine coachman."

"Egad!" Marcie cried. "I've hardly paired myself with Jack, Nan. He has become a friend, nothing more. As for setting my cap at Cole Coachman... well, don't be ridiculous. The man loathes me. Any passerby could ascertain that fact. And—and besides," she added a bit too forcefully, "I find him far too arrogant and moody for my tastes. He is forever blowing hot and cold."

"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 a-tumble 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.