Miss Marcie's Mischief (8 page)

"Psst," Marcie said, peeking her head inside the carriage door.

Nan popped one bleary eye open.

"We've time enough to stretch our legs, if you're of a mind to do so," whispered Marcie.

Nan wrinkled her pert nose, shaking her head. "La, Marcie, I was dreaming of a handsome prince." Squashed between a mountain of boxes and packages, and very happily so, she snuggled deeper into the squabs. "There is no way I will leave my dreams to venture out into the cold!"

"Not even for some hot, sweet tea?" Marcie coaxed.

"Not even," muttered Nan, falling fast asleep again.

Marcie glanced over at Miss Deirdre. That one was also fast asleep, stretched out luxuriously on the opposite seat, covered from nose to toes in a thick rug.

Marcie shrugged and quietly closed the carriage door.

"I guess it is just the two of us, Prinny," she said to the owl. With that, she headed for the door of the inn.

The building was squat and rather small. A bit rustic, too, but the lights burning inside and the sparkling ice hanging in perfect cones from its pitched roof made it appear quite inviting. Marcie no sooner reached for the latch of the door than the portal was thrust open and a behemoth of a woman stood in its frame to greet her.

"We've been waiting for your coach," said the woman in a loud, firm voice. "Expected you several hours ago. No trouble along the road, was there? No thieves to hinder your progress? No accidents?"

"Only one," said Marcie, feeling guilty as she remembered once again how Miss Deirdre's driver had run his carriage into a snowbank. "But all is well," she hastened to add. Cole Coachman had already delivered the tale of Miss Deirdre's driver to the ostlers, even while he'd commenced to oversee the change of horses. Help would soon be sent to Miss Deirdre's driver.

"Well, then, do come in, Missy. Why, your nose is as red as a cherry, and your cheeks pink. Do not tell me the handsome Cole Coachman forced you to sit atop his bench with him! The man must think everyone likes to freeze alongside him."

Marcie smiled. "I did so on my own accord, truly."

"Ah, a brave miss, are you? Good! Come, warm your bones by the fire. I got some sweetcakes warming on the stove, just the way Cole likes them to be when he passes through."

Marcie found herself being relieved of her bonnet and pelisse, gloves and tippet—but not before placing Prinny on the top rung of the hat rack near the door. The woman did not seem to think a girl with her owl was an oddity. With much fuss, the woman led Marcie toward the warm fireplace and seated her on a bench there.

Prinny, from his perch, watched with wide-eyed interest as Marcie was quickly served an entire plate of sweetcakes, as well as a mug of steaming tea. Marcie enjoyed the feast, all the while listening to the woman's chatter.

Her name was Meg, Marcie learned. She'd been born and raised at the inn, which had been owned by her father and his father before him. Her husband ran the inn now, and Meg took great delight in serving nourishing meals and keeping the few rooms upstairs neat and tidy.

"Ain't never met a coachman better than Cole," said Meg as she sat down on a stool across from Marcie. She took up a bit of knitting, needles clacking furiously, as she continued speaking. "He be a gentleman, though I do declare he is a bit too serious for his own good. Something about him makes me think he is hiding secrets in his heart."

"Oh?" said Marcie, instantly curious. "Why do you say that?"

"Well, for one, he only comes by once a year, sometimes twice a year, unlike most other coachmen who come through here often. He ain't like other coachmen, though. He don't put on airs—though he could—and we would still race to do his bidding. There be something special about him, and lonely, too. It's as though he took to the roads to find something... or someone." Meg shook her head, studying her knitting. "Don't misunderstand me. I've a warm spot in this old heart of mine for Cole Coachman. Most women do. But still, he does seem lonely to me. Too lonely for a man as handsome and sweet as he is."

Marcie found herself nodding in agreement, and once again a queer warm feeling tingled up her spine. She finished most of the tea, and ate too many sweetcakes. Then Meg insisted that Marcie follow her. Marcie was led to a warm room at the back of the inn, one with a washstand and a pitcher of tepid water.

"No doubt you'll be wanting to freshen up a bit before Cole decides to put you back on that hard bench of his," said Meg, closing the door and leaving Marcie alone.

Marcie wasted no time in taking up the woman's offer. She washed her face and hands, tidied her hair, then finished her ablutions, feeling a world better as she retraced her steps back to the common room.

Cole and John Reeve were standing near the fire, warming their bodies and drinking a tankard of Meg's special hot-buttered rum.

"Feeling better?" asked Cole.

Marcie nodded.

"Good. We've made the transfer and must be setting off again," he said. He finished off the tankard, then reached for his gloves.

Meg fussed over him, even going so far as to wrap up several sweetcakes into a square of snowy linen for him. Into the top button of his greatcoat, she placed an early-flowering primrose.

"My way of saying happy Saint Valentine's Day to you."

Cole surprised—and pleased—the older woman by planting a quick kiss on her plump cheek. "And to you," he said. He reached inside his pocket and pulled forth a prettily wrapped package.

Meg cooed with delight, tearing open the package to find two new knitting needles. She began to cry.

Cole Coachman lifted one hand and gently dashed away a tear with his thumb. "I hadn't meant to make you cry, Meg," he said.

Meg waved one hand at him, crying all the more. "Scat, then, before you see me cry a bucketful of tears! Though I've nourished a legion of coachmen, not a one has thought to bring me such a gift. God bless you, Cole Coachman."

"And God bless you, Meg, for you've warmed my heart with your light banter and generous ways. Too, I love your sweetcakes."

Meg blushed, looking like a schoolgirl, though she was a woman grown and wizened by life. "Go on," she said. "Get. And be sure to stop here on your way back to London. I promise to have a feast prepared for you on your way back through."

"It is a date I will race to make, Meg." Cole then made a motion towards the door. John Reeve was the first to move, nodding his thanks to both the innkeeper and to Meg.

Marcie, however, found herself quite rooted to her spot. She was gazing at Cole. He was framed by firelight, his muscled form clearly outlined, and his face made even more handsome by the genuine friendship he felt for the woman named Meg.

The man was indeed a puzzle, thought Marcie. He could be cold and gruff as well as warm and wonderful. He could bark about being behind schedule, but could just as easily take time to retrieve a broken-winged bird from the roadside and gift a gabby innkeeper's wife with a new set of knitting needles.

Too, he'd helped a runaway schoolgirl escape from the snowy mews of a London boarding school. Never would Marcie forget that.

"Are you ready?" Cole was asking her.

Marcie yanked her thoughts back to the present. "More than ready, My Lord Monarch," she said, a smile on her lips.

Cole Coachman gifted her with a grin. Indeed, he even took it upon himself to guide Prinny from his hat-rack perch. Prinny went easily enough but ruffled his feathers as Marcie stepped beside Cole.

"You had best take him. He seems to be particular about where he deigns to perch."

Marcie took the bird, which hopped atop her muff, and stayed there until Cole helped her up and onto the hard bench, at which time Prinny jumped down to sit in the space between her body and Cole's.

Waving to Meg and the innkeep, Marcie found herself thrust back on the seat as Cole directed his horses out of the yard and back onto the road.

John Reeve blew his horn once again.

And once again, the silence and beauty of the eerily lit night took them into its depths.

* * *

Marcie found herself nodding off to sleep, huddled as she was beneath the toasty carriage rug. She felt warm and safe with Prinny perched at her side and "whoo-whooing" now and then. The sound of the carriage wheels churning over the snow-covered roads lulled her into a peaceful state, and the sound of Cole Coachman's even breathing helped propel her into a soft cocoon of dreamy wonder.

And what dreams she had!

She dreamed of a castle carved out of dark stone. Caught in the depths of its chilling darkness, she could suddenly hear the thunder of pounding horses' hooves, could feel the very earth tremble. A bold knight in a blazing chariot materialized, racing toward her. Yet there came a villain as well. Marcie heard the snort of the villain's black beast, could feel the man's menace from a universe away. She saw herself reaching for the shining white knight. Just another few paces and she would be beside him. One more step, and then all would be well....

Marcie came awake with a start, feeling horridly compelled to scream. Her eyes opened to the glare of torchlight. The coach wasn't moving, and she felt Cole's rigid body next to hers.

"What...?" she began.

"Hush," Cole whispered forcefully.

What had seemed a dream, wasn't totally a dream. The coach had indeed stopped. She spied the gun in Cole's hands. Looking up, she saw the rider upon which that gun was aimed.

It was a highwayman barring their way! And he held a primed pistol pointing straight at Marcie's heart.

"Do not move," muttered Cole.

Marcie nodded, forcing herself not to breathe.

Even Prinny came awake then, widening his large eyes and peering at the lone rider.

"Do as I say and no one gets hurt," said the masked man. "Now hand over all valuables, or I'll blow a hole clean through your lady friend before you can move!"

Marcie, now fully awake, found herself miffed that the lowly man would dare to threaten Cole. Too, the fact that the robber's hand shook a bit as he tossed out his horrid threat made her think the man was not the terrible beastie he hoped they would believe him to be.

He wore a threadbare coat, several sizes too big, and a dirty muffler which he'd wound about the lower half of his face. His boots were scuffed and dirty and worn through at the toes, at which place he'd tied some strips of old cloth. His fingers stuck through the knitting of his gloves, and his slouch hat was much the worse for wear.

A very unlikely highwayman, thought Marcie. Having been reared in Cornwall, she'd viewed—from afar, of course—more than a few highway thieves. The man did not at all seem cut out for a life of thievery and mayhem—or murder, for that matter. Too, didn't highwaymen steal enough coin to dress themselves in a warm fashion?

"Now, see here," said Cole in a low and lethal voice. "I could shoot out your left eye before you even have a chance to pull the trigger. If I were you, sir, I would think twice about trying to shoot the lady."

"Well, you ain't me," snapped the man, his scratchy voice wavering. "Now do as I say!"

"The devil I will," said Cole Coachman.

Marcie panicked. She had to do something. Anything!

But Prinny took that moment to hop up onto her lap. "Oh, Prinny, no!" she cried, hoping the owl's movement didn't cause the highwayman to shoot. She reached to capture the owl.

Too late!

The owl, frightened by her quick movement, took that moment to test its broken wing. It fluttered up and off her lap, landing haphazardly on the slouch hat of the highwayman with much flapping of its wings.

"Awk!" squealed the highwayman. "Call him off! Call him off, I say!"

The man dropped his gun, which landed innocently enough on the ground. John Reeve, having jumped down from the hind boot when the coach stopped, moved to scoop up the weapon and checked it.

"It was never loaded!" he cried, staring up in dismay at Cole Coachman, who shook his head and muttered a curse.

Marcie, however, found her thoughts solely on Prinny.

"Oh, you silly bird," she chided, climbing down off the bench, then reaching up to retrieve the owl from the highwayman's head.

"Gah! He done scratched my face, he did!" cried the highwayman.

Marcie managed to calm the man's weather-worn horse even while coaxing Prinny to perch on her shoulder.

"If that is all he did, then you should consider yourself fortunate," scolded Marcie. "Imagine, holding up a Royal Mail coach, and threatening to shoot me! Your mother would doubtless turn over in her grave!"

"Oh, pray, miss, do not say such a thing! I loved my mum. She was the bright spot of my sorry youth. I was just hungry. My horse is hungry, too."

"Well, why didn't you say so?" said Marcie, her tone softening. "We've some sweetcakes on board. And sweetmeats, too. We'll share them, certainly."

"We will?" demanded Cole, glaring down at Marcie.

"Of course we shall," said Marcie, turning round and looking up at Cole. In a whisper, she said, "Can you not see that the man is desperate for food? I dareswear I might be forced to rob a coach should I be caught up in such dire straits!"