Miss Marcie's Mischief (12 page)

Marcie smiled. "Oh, Jack, what a perfect gentleman you are. I do believe I have found a friend in you."

The man puffed up with pride, and to Marcie's dismay she noted the glint of tears filling his eyes.

"I never had me a true friend—other than my mum, and a kindly vicar and his wife, who took me in after her death—and surely not one as sweet and beautiful as you," he said, voice choked.

Marcie reached for his callused hand. She gave it a gentle squeeze. "And I can honestly say that I've never met a man who was so heartstoppingly honest as you have been these minutes past. Honesty becomes you, sir."

Jack blushed furiously. "Yes, well," he muttered, quite flustered. He pulled his hand from hers and yanked a threadbare kerchief from his shabby coat. He quickly mopped at his eyes.

Marcie sat back, feeling both satisfied and a bit weepy herself as she peered at the wide circle of new friends. She hadn't felt this much at home since before her father's death, when she used to ride down to the sea's edge and visit with the fishermen as they readied their boats for a day on the water. It was moments like these that she'd sorely missed while being cooped up in Mistress Cheltenham's drafty attic.

One of the ostlers drew out a harmonica and began to play a lively tune. The youngest farmboy whittled away at some wood, his knife blade moving to the tune. Two of the bootboys joined an errant kitchen maid, who had stolen inside the stables with yet another pitcher of the potent hot chocolate and a loaf of steaming bread as well, in the middle of the stable. The three commenced to dance a jig.

Marcie clapped her hands and laughed as the bootboys took turns twirling the comely lass about. Before Marcie knew it, she too was pulled into the merriment.

"Oh, no," said Marcie, shaking her head. She shyly pulled away. "I cannot! What I mean to say is, I—I don't know how to dance."

Jack moved beside her. "A pretty miss such as yourself was never taught to dance?" he exclaimed. "Pity, that! But never fear, Jack here shall learn you a few steps."

"You?" Marcie said, quite surprised.

Jack winked. "My mum might not have had the blunt to keep my belly full, but she had the lightest feet in all the north, she did. I learned to dance just as soon as I learned to walk. Here now, you just follow my lead, mistress."

Marcie, her eyes aglow in anticipation, did indeed follow Jack's lead, and all too soon she gave herself over to the wild elation within her. Ah, to have someone actually teach her how to dance! Famous!

She swirled about the floor, her bonnet cast aside, and her fiery curls in riotous disarray about her flushed face.

The ostlers stomped their feet, hands clapping. Horses nickered, coming awake with the music and laughter.

Round and round Marcie went, spirits soaring. Oh, how she'd dreamed of being allowed to dance while in London, but Mistress Cheltenham had forbidden Marcie from joining in any of the fun, and truth be known, Marcie had not wanted to learn to dance with any of her uppish schoolmates, knowing they would ridicule her awkward steps.

But this was different. Here, in this cozy stable, Marcie could be anything she wanted to be. She could trip over her own feet—which she did, many times—and no one batted an eyelash. They merely laughed along with her, encouraging her to dance some more. And dance she did. She danced until the pins tumbled out of her hair, and her cheeks grew hot, and her eyes sparkled.

One of the bootboys, just as much caught up in the excitement, took hold of her hands and spun her round so hard and so fast that Marcie was sent spinning out of control. She whirled right into Jack's arms. They collided with great speed, tumbling head over heels into a pile of hay. Marcie let out a scream of delight.

It was then Cole Coachman came charging into the stable. A fire-breathing devil he appeared. He took one look at Marcie lying in a heap in the hay, and immediately charged toward Jack.

"Unhand her, you scoundrel!" bellowed Cole Coachman.

Marcie sat up on her elbows, blowing a red curl from her eyes. "Cole, no!" she cried, realizing his intent. "Jack did me no harm! He—"

But she was too late.

Cole Coachman yanked Jack to his feet, then, just as quickly, delivered a clean punch to the man's whiskered jaw.

Jack fell back, out cold.

Chapter 8

Cole certainly hadn't intended to resort to fisticuffs, but good breeding and common sense fell to the wayside the minute he'd found Marcie being mauled in the hay by some thieving highwayman.

Seeing her caught beneath the man's bulk, her hair in wild confusion and her skirts hitched up and showing a shocking amount of trim ankle caused Cole's blood to boil, and his indignation to mount to terrifying heights. How dare anyone lay a hand on his Mistress Mischief?

"Get to your feet and face me man to man!" Cole said in a murderous tone. "I am far from finished with teaching you a lesson you'll not soon forget."

A horrid hush filled the stable as the highwayman failed to move. Indeed, every person present stood stock-still, scarcely breathing and waiting to see what would transpire.

Everyone but Marcie.

"Save your breath, you odious coachman!" Marcie snapped at Cole. "My friend isn't about to be standing up to you anytime soon, nor anyone else for that matter. You've knocked him senseless, you have, and for naught!"

Cole gaped at the too lovely Miss Marcie. "For naught?" he sputtered.
"For naught?"

"That is exactly what I said. Have you lost your hearing as well as your good sense?"

Thunderstruck, Cole watched as Marcie unwrapped a much-worn scarf from about her neck, a scarf she'd somehow obtained since Cole had last seen her, then cradled Jack's head upon it. She gently patted the man's weathered cheek, trying to rouse him with both her soft touch and a few whispered words.

A small-framed youth broke free of the circle of bystanders behind Cole. He scurried past Cole with frightened haste, then kneeled beside Miss Marcie.

"He dead?" the boy asked.

"I should hope not," said Marcie, shooting an angry scowl in the general direction of Cole.

Cole watched in dismay as the others soon crowded round the lovely miss and her fallen highwayman. One by one they crouched down beside the two, all of them holding vigil over the threadbare thief.

Cole felt very much the villain. And to think, not a minute ago, he'd come raging into the stable, imagining himself to be the white knight rushing to his damsel's rescue. This damsel obviously needed no rescue. It was on the tip of Cole's tongue to utter an apology of sorts, but Jack took that moment to come round.

"What hit me?" he muttered.

Cole felt the weight of too many eyes upon him. For the very first time in his life, he wished the earth would open up and swallow him into its dark, dank depths.

Miss Marcie turned her attention back to the highwayman. "I fear it was our own Cole Coachman. He did not break your jaw, did he, my friend?"

The highwayman had the good humor to smile. "Naw. My jaw is as sturdy as a tree trunk, mistress."

Cole heard her sigh of relief, a sound which managed to cause him much discomfort. So she'd come to care for the highwayman, had she? Was now addressing him as "my friend," was she? Now how the devil had that come about? Cole felt an unexpected prick of pain pierce the nether regions of his hard heart.

"Perhaps we should summon a physician," said one of the men crouched about Jack.

The highwayman shook his head, winced, then replied, "No need... that is, if Cole Coachman isn't set on making mincemeat of me."

Again, too many accusing eyes turned toward Cole.

Cole straightened, quelling the urge to flex the fingers of his right hand; Jack's jaw had been monstrous solid. He cleared his throat. "I see no need for further confrontation. It has become quite obvious to me that I misjudged the situation. I had thought Miss Marcie was in trouble. Clearly, I was wrong," he announced.

Jack gave a crooked grin up at Cole. "No need to apologize, Cole Coachman. As I figure it, you had every right to cut me down to size seeing as how I waylaid your coach and all. Truth be known, I feel a world better now that you've taken a swing at me. As I see it, we're even as even can be, eh?"

Cole quelled the urge to haul the slippery thief to his feet and knock him down yet again. Even indeed.

Feeling outnumbered, though, he held his tongue—and stayed his temper. What mattered most to Cole at the moment was regaining Marcie's trust. He'd made a perfect idiot of himself in her eyes, no doubt. She must think him an uncouth beast.

To Marcie, he said, "Our coach leaves for Burford within the quarter hour. If you return to the inn, you'll find Nan and Miss Deirdre relaxing in a private parlour. You'll find some food there as well."

Marcie turned her face away from him. "I am not hungry," she said. "I've decided to stay here, with my friends."

"Surely you cannot be serious!"

"And why not?" she brazenly challenged.

Damn, thought Cole, but she could be a mulish miss! Too bad for him that she'd quite enraptured him with her mischievous ways and quicksilver moods.

She looked a perfect hoyden with her hair all a-tumble and her eyes bright with passion. Since she had relieved herself of her fur-lined pelisse, Cole found himself viewing the full luster of her charms. She was not the too-thin runaway he'd first imagined. Indeed, her comely curves were very much in evidence beneath her pretty gown. Her bosom heaved with righteous indignation, and Cole found himself remembering all too clearly the sight of her lovely ankles, shown to great advantage just moments ago.

It wouldn't do at all for him to become doe-eyed now, thought Cole sternly. He must hold his meandering thoughts in check. She was his passenger, and like it or not, his responsibility. He couldn't very well allow her her own head and leave her to this mishmash of "friends" she thought she'd found.

"You told me yourself you wish to arrive at the inn of Burford, posthaste," he said.

"And so I shall," replied Miss Marcie. "Jack has promised to see me safely to the inn."

"Oh, he has, has he?"

"Yes," said Miss Marcie, a bit too defiant.

Cole's jaw tightened. The girl needed a strict rein.

One young lad mustered the wherewithal to stand up and face Cole. "We were just having a bit o' fun, Cole Coachman. The mistress taught us all how to roll her lucky ivories. Why, I even won me a strand of pearls. And Jack, he won some sugar fer his horse. And then, well, we all got a mite carried away with our winnings, and soon we were dancing a jig. Miss Marcie dances the best jig I ever did see! But I got to spinning her too fast and before I knew it she was tumbling down into the hay. Jack only tried to soften her fall, he did. That's all there was to it. Just a dance. Nothing more."

Cole didn't know whether to smile or be outraged. His Mistress Mischief had been gambling and dancing... in a stable, no less. Had he saved her from a stuffy school only to cast her into an even worse scenario? And now the chit thought to stay on at the inn and allow the highwayman to transport her "safely" to Burford.

Unbelievable.

Cole fought hard to contain his temper, as well as his feelings of guilt. For all he knew, the girl would sprint off with Jack and soon become mistress to a highwayman!

"Miss Marcie," said Cole, his voice clipped, "I would have a word with you. Alone."

Marcie lifted her chin. "I see no need—"

"Now," said Cole, moving forward and reaching for her.

The runaway schoolgirl had no choice but to do as he asked. She left Jack to the ministrations of the others as Cole led her to the center of the stable.

"Forgive me," said Cole, "but yet again your antics have sorely tested my patience. I dareswear your father would roll over in his grave should he know you've taken up gambling in a stable."

"And I daresay my father would be most sorely vexed should he know you knocked a poor, defenseless man silly only because he dared save me from a nasty fall!"

"What I should have done upon meeting your highwayman was drag him to the nearest magistrate, my dear!"