Miss Marcie's Mischief (15 page)

"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.

To her delight, a number of children, screaming with glee, came sliding down a small hill. Marcie raced to greet them, heralding them all over a "finish line" that was naught but a line of ground holly laid down with loving care.

"A winner!" Marcie yelled as they came skimming across the holly on strips of leather.

Three small bodies tumbled happily into the snow.

Marcie laughed with the children. "Famous!" she cried.

The smallest of the children glanced up at Marcie and Prinny.

"An owl!" cooed the girl, delighted. "I've never been this close to an owl before."

"No? Then do come closer," replied Marcie. "Prinny is a very friendly owl."

The girl did as Marcie suggested and even reached up with one mittened hand to gently pat the owl on its head. She giggled as Prinny's eyes widened. "Is it true what the vicar tells me," she asked, "that all birds sing loudly and choose their mate on the morning of Saint Valentine's Day?"

Marcie had heard that same saying when she'd been very young, and she, too, had been caught up in the wonder and magic of what one special day might be able to create in the hearts of all God's creatures.

"I think," Marcie replied softly, "that it just may be so."

The girl inclined her head to one side, studying Marcie. "Are you one of Cupid's helpers? The vicar's wife told me today that Cupid and all of his helpers visit people on Saint Valentine's Day. And they bring love, and sometimes presents."

Marcie laughed. "I am not one of Cupid's helpers," she said. "But I've lots of gifts in my portmanteau—that is, if you like fossils."

"What kind of fossils?" the wide-eyed girl asked.

"Fossils from near the sea," said Marcie in a whispered voice. "Fossils straight from a smuggler's cave."

The girl gasped. "Really and truly?"

"Really and truly," said Marcie. "What is your name?"

"Frederica. But everyone calls me Freddie."

"Hello, Freddie. My name is Marcie. Pleased I am to make your acquaintance."

"Would you like to slide down the hill with my friends and me?" asked Freddie shyly.

Marcie didn't need to think twice. "Most definitely," she said. "I would be honored."

And so it was that Marcie, having set Prinny atop her portmanteau, helped pull the strips of leather back to the apex of the hill, waving as she went to Nan, Jack and Miss Deirdre, who were heading for the house. Cole Coachman, still dealing with his high-strung horses, was only now making his way over the footbridge.

Marcie grinned mischievously. If she figured correctly, she could make it to the hilltop and come winging down at just the precise moment Cole Coachman came through the gate of the vicarage. She felt a burning urge to give him a proper greeting to such a loving household. Surely happy children come to greet him would make the man smile!

So thinking, Marcie headed for the top of the hill.

* * *

Cole found himself cursing soundly as his nervous horses fidgeted yet again. Would they never reach the warm stall Jack had promised? Cole was close to losing his patience. He'd been led through everything short of a bramble patch. God only knew what manner of house Jack would guide them to. No doubt a shambles, thought Cole testily just as he managed to lead his cattle through a dense copse.

The sight of a welcoming and weather-worn vicarage, all brick and with three chimneys softly puffing smoke up into the snow-filled air, was not at all what he'd expected.

Cole straightened, thinking perhaps this day wasn't truly lost. He headed for the footbridge and the house past the low wall. It wasn't a fancy house, to be sure, but it appeared welcoming enough, lighted as it was behind the many frosted windows.

A young lad met him at the gate, with a warm welcome.

"Jack asked me to take your horses to the stable, sir," said the youth, his cheeks bright from the cold. "Said I should rub them down good. Said I'd be rewarded with a shiny coin for my troubles."

Cole had no doubt but that Jack had also intended for Cole to be the one to produce the coin. No matter. Cole was just thankful to see that his horses would not be forced to endure further hardship in some drafty barn.

He handed the lad coin enough to make the boy's eyes wide as saucers, then watched as the youngster skillfully took charge of the horses. Assured they would be properly handled, Cole turned his gaze to the vicarage. Hearing the distant yip of a dog, he headed inside the stone wall.

Ah, finally, a peaceful haven at last, he thought... until he took several steps on the well-worn path.