Miss Marcie's Mischief (5 page)

"Do rest assured that I have every intention of compensating you for any and all repairs to your carriage," she announced.

"Is that right," said the driver, his eyes narrowing.

"That is exactly right," replied Marcie, clicking off the name and address of her sterling solicitor in London.

The driver guffawed.

Cole Coachman muttered something Marcie couldn't quite make out.

"What!" she hotly demanded, even as Cole Coachman took her by the arm and led her a step or two away from the driver. "I see nothing humorous in my solicitor's name and address. What is all this fuss about?"

"Pipe down, will you?" Cole Coachman demanded. "And for once and for all, cease prattling on as though you are some miss of means with more gold than you know what to do with."

"But I am!" sputtered Marcie.

"Ha," rejoined the driver, obviously listening in on their private chat. "And I be the next King of England." He laughed at his own joke.

Marcie glared around Cole Coachman's muscled bulk, staring daggers at the rotund and very obnoxious driver.

"What an impertinent little man he is," she said.

"And what a spinner of tales you are," Cole Coachman muttered. "Are you mad to make such promises? Why, he'll hunt you down—and the next generation of your family as well—if indeed you do not make good on your ridiculous promise of compensation."

"But I
shall
repay him," Marcie insisted. "And rest assured I have the means to do so. I am the daughter of—"

Marcie never got a chance to finish her sentence.

Suddenly, the door of the toppled coach banged open and a woman, garbed in watered silks and bundled against the cold in a stunning, fox fur carriage rug she'd wrapped about her shoulders, stood framed in the portal of the oddly pitched coach. Her hair was golden-hued and tumbled down in comely ringlets to rest in a tousled mass against the folds of her velvet pelisse. Her eyes were cobalt blue, her pouty lips red as sun-kissed cherries.

"Harry!" screeched she. "Have you left me for dead, you dim-witted fool?"

The fat little driver stiffened in obvious fear. "Good golly," he squeaked, eyes round and filled with dread. "I done forgot Miss Deirdre!"

He jammed a finger between his lips, digging out an alarming amount of tobacco, flicked the wad to the ground, then spun round to face his beautiful but very indignant mistress.

Marcie might have laughed at the comical sight but for the fact that Cole Coachman was staring with rapt attention at the stunning lady perched precariously in the doorway of the near-overturned coach.

"You might close your mouth," Marcie suggested to Cole Coachman.

He obviously hadn't heard a word she'd said. Indeed, he seemed to have forgotten her presence entirely.

Marcie frowned.

There came a flurry of excitement from the portly driver as he bustled toward the lady, took great pains to help her alight, then even stooped to brush the clinging snow from her hems. Marcie wondered why the man didn't also drop to his knees and pay homage to his golden goddess.

"Harry, you little idiot," chided the woman. "Why ever did you leave me to bump my head and then wonder if indeed I'd died and gone to h—"

The woman stopped sputtering the moment she laid eyes on the form of Cole Coachman. Suddenly, her screeching turned to a purr.

"Why, Harry, my
good
driver, how very remiss of you not to inform me we've tumbled across such a handsome gentleman."

Harry tugged at the collar of his too-tight coat. "He ain't no gentleman," Harry spat. "He be the driver of that there Mail coach. And his missus be the reason I ran yer coach into the bank, Miss Deirdre."

Marcie fully expected Miss Deirdre to turn on both Cole Coachman and herself with talons bared. But the wily lady did no such thing. Instead, she gave Cole Coachman a melting smile, all the while ignoring Marcie.

"My good man," purred Miss Deirdre, moving toward Cole Coachman with an obviously affected gait filled with feminine wiles. "You must forgive my driver for his slow reactions. We did not startle you, I hope. And I can only pray we did not do you, nor your horses or cargo, any harm."

Marcie found herself becoming physically ill again as Cole Coachman nearly turned to so much mash in his fine boots. The woman was obviously nothing more than a skilled strumpet. Why in the blazes didn't Cole Coachman recognize that fact?

Marcie fumed as she watched Cole Coachman bend over the woman's outstretched hand, then place a beseeching kiss atop her fine-gloved fingers. A lock of his dark hair tumbled down across his handsome brow as he righted himself and gave the woman a heartfelt smile.

The woman blushed.

Cole Coachman preened.

Marcie wanted to gag.

The next few moments were near impossible for Marcie to bear as Cole Coachman made a complete cake of himself, profusely apologizing to the lady, offering her any assistance he could, and even going so far as to stating he would whisk her not to the nearest inn, but to her appointed destination.

Too bad for Marcie that the lady's destination was none other than the inn at Burford.

Marcie found herself left forlornly alone in the middle of the road as Miss Deirdre tucked her gloved hand into the crook of Cole Coachman's arm and allowed him to lead her to his Mail coach. The lady then ordered her portly driver to remain with her "beloved horses" while she, in Cole Coachman's very capable hands, traveled onward to the nearest inn, at which point help would be alerted and sent to the driver's aid. There remained only the monumental task of transferring the lady's needed luggage onto the coach.

And what a mountain of luggage it proved to be! Even John Reeve was pressed into service by the suddenly moon-eyed Cole Coachman.

Marcie felt a moment's pique, watching as the two men restrapped wine barrels, rearranged game and bandboxes in order to make way for the lady's excessive need for space. They certainly hadn't gone to such fuss when confronted earlier with Marcie's single portmanteau!

To Marcie's further dismay, Miss Deirdre took up an entire seat within the coach for herself, leaving Nan crowded against the opposite squabs, and leaving Marcie with no seat at all.

Marcie gnashed her teeth, deciding she'd rather walk to Burford than be forced to inquire if Miss Deirdre would deign to scoot over an inch or two to make room for her.

Nan, comfortably squashed between hat boxes and having, to her obvious glee, found a box of sweetmeats with which to content her ravenous appetite, frowned when she spied Marcie peering into the coach.

"Oh, Marcie, I dareswear there is not a bit of extra room in here," she said between mouthfuls. "Mayhap you could ride on the hind boot with Reeve. Or better still, on the bench with Cole. You always told me how you adored riding into the wind while in the West Country. Just think, you could have your fill of wind this night!"

Miss Deirdre, lounging against the squabs in all her silks and furs, cast a cursory glance in Marcie's direction.

"You are a West Country girl?" asked she. "How quaint. And how marvelous that you will find the snow and wind to your liking. I, for one, would near
perish
should I be forced to endure this foul weather for overly long."

Marcie deduced the overly scented she-wolf would no doubt perish should she get so much as a toe chilled.

Nan passed the lady some sweetmeats. "I've some bonbons, too, if you like."

"Bonbons? Oh, how I
adore
bonbons!"

Marcie felt her stomach turn topsy-turvy. There was absolutely no way she would climb into the coach and suffer the sight—or smell—of sweetmeats, let alone bonbons.

"I shall ride on the hind boot," Marcie announced, willing to brave the elements. Anything would be preferable to spending time in a confined space with bonbons and the too-pampered Miss Deirdre.

Marcie closed the door of the coach. With her head held high, she headed for the hind boot.

"What the deuce are you doing now?" demanded Cole Coachman.

Marcie spun round, quite surprised to find the man trailing her. She had assumed he'd forgotten her presence in all the activity.

"I am merely finding a place to roost on this stuffed coach of yours," she told him.

"Then why the devil don't you climb inside and find a seat?"

Marcie blinked at his harsh tone.

"I'll thank you not to speak to me in such a fashion," she snapped back.

"And I," ground out Cole Coachman, clearly itching to be on his way, "would thank you to get to the point."

Marcie suppressed the very unladylike urge to kick him in the shin.

"There is no room left for me in the coach," she replied. "Nan and Miss Deirdre seem to have taken up all available space."

"Surely, there is somewhere for you to sit."

He made a motion to pop open the door.

"No!" Marcie said emphatically. "There is no need for you to peer into the coach." And no need, she thought, for me to have to witness as you become unmolded clay beneath the very skilled gaze of Miss Deirdre.

"Pray," Marcie said, on a lighter note, "do not bother yourself on my account. I am perfectly able to find my own space."

"And where might that be?" Cole Coachman demanded.

"Why, near the hind boot, alongside your good guard, John Reeve." She lifted her chin defiantly. "You will find that I am most adept at hanging on for dear life should you continue to take the turns at breakneck pace."

With that, Marcie turned away and commenced to climb aboard the back of the carriage, the sound of Cole Coachman's exasperated sigh ringing in her ears.

She'd successfully—and rather stubbornly—wound a sturdy strap about her gloved wrist when Cole Coachman came round the carriage, his eyes ablaze.

He pulled her hand free of the strap. "Of all the scatterbrained, ninnyhammered ideas," he groused.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I'll not be having you trailing my coach like some rag doll flapping in the breeze. If you refuse to take a seat inside, then I must insist you ride with me on the box."

He did not allow her the chance to argue.

Marcie was forced to stumble along behind the broad-shouldered form of Cole Coachman. He half led, half dragged Marcie to the front of the coach where he immediately hoisted her into the air and atop the bench with no more exertion than if he'd been tossing a bag of seed onto a farmer's cart.

Marcie landed with a thud on the hard wood. "This is hardly necessary," she gasped.

"Not in my viewpoint, it isn't," he muttered, heading round the horses, and checking the sturdiness of their reins as he went. He then climbed up beside her, reached for his long whip, and set his fine team to motion.

Marcie was forced back as the horses took off in a flurry of spitting snow.

And so it was that Marcie joined Cole Coachman on the bench, and found herself squinting into the slanting snowfall and braving chilling winds, while Miss Deirdre and Nan no doubt shared yet another box of bonbons within the warm comfort of the coach.

So much for famous beginnings, thought Marcie sourly. She snuggled deep into her pelisse, and soundly cursed every moment following her unfortunate meeting with the moody Cole Coachman. The inn at Burford could not come soon enough!

Chapter 4

Cole Coachman found himself wondering how he'd acquired not one, but two extra passengers on this madcap Mail run. Doubtless his contemporaries in Town, should they ever get wind of the antics of this night—which, of course, Cole would see to it they never did—would share many hearty laughs, all at his expense.

Miss Marcie huddled against the cold, and locked her eyes to the distant and snow-obscured horizon. No doubt she was counting the miles until she could be free of both himself and their newly acquired passenger. Perhaps she was even wondering why Cole had acquiesced and allowed Miss Deirdre more than ample space within his overburdened coach.

The answer was, quite simply, that Miss Deirdre Waxford was none other than the latest swan to capture the interest of the Prince Regent. It wouldn't do at all for Sherringham to allow such a woman to flounder along a dangerous road. B'gad, but being a gentleman was deuced inconvenient at times!