Miss Marcie's Mischief (7 page)

"Absolutely not," said Cole, shaking his head. "You'll not be bringing an owl aboard this coach, mistress."

"But he's wounded and hungry," Miss Marcie countered. "Surely you cannot object, nor could you possibly expect me to leave him in some barren tree to fend for himself. He has broken a wing!"

She moved to the carriage door, asking Nan to pass out a sweetmeat. Nan eagerly obliged, all the while clucking over the little bird. She gave Miss Marcie the desired sweetmeat, then leaned out the door to coo some more over the creature.

"Is it not the most adorable little thing you've ever seen, Cole?" asked Nan.

Cole frowned at his flighty half sister. "'Tis a barn owl, Nan. It feeds on rodents and would as soon nip off your fingertip as look at you."

"Nonsense," Miss Marcie intervened. "He appears harmless enough. And just look how beautiful its plumage is! It appeared pure white against the snow bank, but now I can clearly see it is actually specked with brown. I think it is the most beautiful bird I've ever held."

Cole watched as Miss Marcie tipped her head to peer at the monkey-faced owl. A few curls escaped her bonnet, whispering against her cheek and fluttering in the cold breeze. She ran the fingertips of her free hand across the owl's head, gently ruffling the feathers there. Cole was not surprised to hear the owl emit a soft "snore" of pleasure.

A curious ache stirred in his chest. He found himself wondering what precious pets she might have been forced to leave behind when she'd traveled to that odious school from which he'd whisked her away. She'd mentioned a pony she'd often ridden along the sands of Cornwall, and she'd talked of screeching gulls as though they'd been dear friends. Cole had no doubt but that Miss Marcie must have nurtured a good many broken-winged birds during her girlhood in Cornwall.

Looking at her now, with her head bent, a few soft ringlets framing her radiant face, he saw, suddenly, not a mischievous chit who had taken great delight in scampering away from her rigid boarding school; rather, he beheld a beauteous young woman who had, perhaps, had her own wings broken a time or two.

"Can we not take the owl with us?" asked Miss Marcie, the sound of her pretty voice cutting into Cole's wandering thoughts.

"Oh, yes, please!" chimed in Nan.

Cole scowled. He was an hour behind schedule. This mail run was becoming ridiculously muddled with all sorts of complications. Take an owl aboard the coach? It was a preposterous notion! Thoroughly ridiculous.

Cole glared down at Miss Marcie, prepared to gainsay her. One look into the jewel-like facets of her eyes, though, weakened his resolve.

"Devil take it," he groused. "Climb back aboard the coach, mistress, and bring that blasted owl with you if you must."

Nan let out a cry of glee, handing Marcie an entire box of unopened sweetmeats.

Miss Marcie, hiding a pleased smile, took the sweetmeats, then climbed back onto the bench, the owl looking complacent, spoilt, and far too content.

"Thank you, Cole Coachman," murmured Miss Marcie.

"Yes... well... ahem," muttered Cole. "You are quite welcome," he said, adding, "I think."

And then they were off, heading into the eerily lit night: a swell coachman, a mail guard, a seamstress's daughter, a lover of the Prince Regent, a broken-winged owl... and one very precocious, runaway schoolgirl.

Who would have thought Cole Coachman had intended only to race the Valentine's Day mails to the Cotswolds?

Chapter 5

"I think I shall name him Prinny," announced Marcie, several miles later.

"Eh? What's that you say?" asked Cole Coachman.

Caught up in racing the coach along tricky roads, the handsome man had obviously quite forgotten not only Marcie's presence, but the owl's as well. No matter. Marcie, intrigued by the bird perched so complacently on her arm, had actually forgotten her earlier pique at being forced to sit atop the bench while Miss Deirdre and Nan snuggled beneath warm carriage rugs inside the coach. Too, she found the silence between herself and the coachman to be a most comfortable thing. The man wasted no energy on making small talk. This pleased Marcie. She was not one to waste words either, nor mince them, for that matter.

"My new friend," she explained to Cole Coachman. "I've decided he looks very much like a 'Prinny' to me."

"How so?"

"Well, for one, he is very regal, don't you agree? And he
is
plump."

Cole Coachman gave her and the bird a quick glance. "I s'pose the fact you have given him a name indicates you intend to claim him as your own?"

"Why ever would you suppose that? Really, sir, I would not presume to claim ownership on anything or anyone. To do so would be, in my opinion, quite arrogant. I only meant that I shall think of this bird as Prinny. As for my keeping him, that is solely Prinny's choice. He can stay, or he can go."

"And if he does not choose to stay?"

"Then I shall bid him a fond farewell," Marcie replied easily. "After all, life is naught but a series of meetings and partings. Don't you agree?"

"You speak as though you've experienced one too many partings."

"I have had two too many partings," she said softly, honestly. "My mother and my father."

"Forgive me." Cole felt beastly. "I did not mean to bring about sad memories."

"Pray, do not apologize," Marcie said quickly, smiling up into his handsome face. "The memory of my parents is sweet, not sad. And I like to remember them. Indeed, I hope never to forget them. Not that I could. Though our time together was far too short, it was wonderful and unforgettable. If I learned nothing else from them, I learned that life is indeed precious and far too brief. That is why I've decided to name this feathered creature."

Cole shook his head. "I'm afraid you have quite befuddled me now."

"I doubt that." Marcie grinned. "I do not think you are so easily befuddled, Cole Coachman."

"Please, call me Cole. Cole Coachman sounds far too stuffy."

"And an experienced coachman such as yourself would hate to be thought of as stuffy?"

"Something like that," he replied, his voice curiously tight.

"Very well, then... Cole. The reason I've named this bird is because I enjoy giving names to persons, animals or things that bring me joy. For instance, I have a name for every fossil I carry in my portmanteau."

"Surely you are jesting."

"No, I am not," Marcie said, her smile broadening at his gentle tone. "I am quite serious. I found one fossil in a smuggler's cave. I call that fossil 'Ship's End,' because it is very large, with many distinguishing marks, and would make a tidy landmark for someone looking for such a thing. I like to think that a ship's captain would traverse the seas looking for such a fossil. It is a Valentine's Day gift for my cousin, Mirabella, as I do believe she has long been travelling the world in search of a sturdy landing place. I've another fossil for my other cousin, Meredith, who is ever so lovely. This fossil is smaller than the others but imprinted with many figures. You see, Merry—or rather, Meredith—has the ability to see into another person's soul. I thought this puzzle of a fossil would be the perfect gift for her. As for our mutual friend, Nan, I haven't a fossil for her, but I do delight in calling her Mistress Busybody."

"I well know why!" Cole laughed. "And John Reeve?" he asked, sobering somewhat. "Have you a special name for him?"

Marcie smothered a giggle. "I shouldn't admit it," she said.

"Do tell."

"I think of him as 'Sir General.' A mix of military and nobility."

"Oh, he is that, to be sure." Cole grinned. Then, of a sudden, and rather haltingly, he asked, "And me, Miss Marcie?"

"Please, if I am to address you as Cole, then you must call me Marcie," she said.

"Consider it done. And what of me, Marcie? Have you thought of a name that suits me?" He gazed at her, his gray eyes clear and unutterably mesmerizing.

Marcie blushed. Blast, but the man had a way of causing her to feel both excitement and confusion, not to mention an odd sort of vulnerability.

"To be quite frank?" she asked.

"To be very frank," he said.

Marcie took a deep breath, then plunged ahead. "I think of you as 'My Lord Monarch.' "

Cole Coachman laughed.

"You do appear to be quite decisive and set in your ways," she answered honestly. "You don't like surprises, do you?"

His laughter eased. "No. I do not."

"Everything in its place, and a place for everything, am I correct?"

"Precisely correct."

Marcie nodded. "I thought as much," she said, then grimaced. "I can only guess what name you've given
me,
then. I have certainly made a mess of your time schedule."

"Indeed you have."

"And have you, My Lord Monarch, attached a name to me? Surely, you've one swimming in that head of yours."

"Oh, I do at that. Mistress Mischief. For obvious reasons."

Marcie bowed her head, quickly hiding the shimmer of tears that suddenly sprang to her eyes and tickled her eyelids. Only one other person had ever called her Mistress Mischief.

"I have offended you," he said, obviously misunderstanding her reaction.

Marcie blinked away the wetness from her eyes. She looked up at him. "Quite the opposite. You see, my father used to call me Mistress Mischief."

"It seems I am forever stirring up memories for you."

"Yes," she whispered. "It does seem that way, doesn't it?" And as she spoke, she felt a tiny tremor of feeling inside her breast, a feeling she could not quite express. Happiness at the memory of her father? Yes, it was that... and yet it was so much more complicated, and had more to do with the man seated beside her.

Cole Coachman smiled at her, reaching over with one gloved hand to pull up the carriage rug that was threatening to puddle down around her toes once again.

"Wouldn't want you to catch your death," he murmured.

His gloved hand brushed against her own, and Marcie felt a shiver tingle up her spine. Of a sudden, she could not help but notice how very near he was. She could smell the crisp, clean scent of him, and the delicious smell of cedar emanating from his greatcoat and red scarf. The world sped past as the coach whisked over the road, and to Marcie it seemed as if there was only just herself, Cole Coachman, and Prinny alive in the universe. What a very cozy place it was.

The blare of a horn brought Marcie abruptly out of her reverie.

"Heavens!" cried Marcie, startled. "What is that?"

Cole Coachman chuckled. "'Tis only our guard alerting those at the upcoming post of our arrival."

"What post?" asked Marcie.

Even as she said the words, they rounded a bend, and up ahead, in the distance, could be seen a glare of lights through ice-laden tree branches.

"What a sight!" she exclaimed as Cole Coachman expertly slowed his team through a narrow gateway, then into a well-lit coachyard. The glare of torches stung her eyes, and the shouts of "Hallo!" and "Welcome!" from ostlers and a burly aproned man, who could only be master of the inn, became music to her ears.

"We will not stay long," Cole Coachman said. He brought the horses to a halt, put away his silver-mounted whip, then dropped down off the bench. "Reeve and I have the transfer of packages and letters to make. There'll also be a change of horses. Shouldn't take us longer than fifteen minutes. Perhaps less." He nodded toward the door of the small and very quaint inn. "You will find hot, sweet tea, and perhaps a sweetcake or two inside. But try not to tarry too long."

"Oh, I shan't," Marcie assured him. She was down off the bench even before he could step around and offer his assistance. Prinny rustled his feathers but made no motion to remove himself from his perch on her shoulder.

John Reeve was already making fast work of tossing down the mail bags intended for this stop. Cole Coachman, surrounded now by three ostlers, gave the order for a fresh team of horses.

Marcie, hoping to make herself useful, decided she should alert Nan and Miss Deirdre of their stop. She found the two women sound asleep in the coach.