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!"
"I am not 'your' anything," Marcie shot back. "Nor is Jack 'my' highwayman!"
"Then why the deuce do you continue fussing over his welfare?"
"Would you have preferred I left him to rot on the floorboards?"
Yes, thought Cole. Anything would have been preferable to seeing his Mistress Mischief fawning over the shabby man.
"He is naught but a thief, and a sorry one at that," Cole said.
"And there you err," said Marcie. "He is my friend. He has not cast judgment on me merely because I've chosen to secret myself away from an odious boarding school. Indeed, Jack has been kind enough to assure me that he'll remain by my side until I make my way to Burford. He has promised to deliver me safely to my destination and has not once chastised me. Unlike you, Cole Coachman, Jack has proved to be nothing short of a gentleman!"
Cole scowled. "If that shifty man appears a gentleman in your eyes, then I cease to wonder why the mistress of your boarding school locked you in an attic. No doubt it was to save you from your own self!"
Those were the wrong words to say, obviously, for there came the sudden glint of wetness in Marcie's bewitching green eyes.
"Oh, bother—you are not going to cry, are you?" Cole demanded, trying to maintain control over his own roiling emotions. Why was it he kept saying and doing all the wrong things where Marcie was concerned?
She lifted her pretty chin, stalwart defiance chasing the sadness from her eyes. "Certainly not!" she said. "Tears are—are quite a useless reaction, I've learned." She mopped hastily at her damp eyes. "Do be assured I don't give a... a whit what conclusions you've arrived at concerning me, Cole Coachman! You should doubtless be relieved to know that I shall no longer have the chance to waylay your precious run. Now if you'll excuse me...."
She made a motion to turn away from him.
Something in Cole snapped. He reached for her hand. "Don't," he whispered. "Don't do this."
Perhaps Marcie's tears forced him to stay her. Perhaps it was his own cold heart thawing just a little at her tenderness that made him reach out to her. Whatever it was, Cole found himself taking her hand in his.
He cleared his suddenly tight throat. "I—I wish to be the one to see you safely to Burford," he blurted.
The wariness in her eyes proved pure torture.
"Why?" she whispered.
Why indeed? thought Cole. But he knew why. It was because he couldn't tolerate saying farewell to her just now, because he couldn't fathom climbing back onto his cold bench, alone, and knowing he might never see her again.
Cole found he couldn't form the words that were in his heart. He couldn't blurt out that he'd actually come to care for her in some odd, too-forceful kind of way. No. He couldn't say those things. The Marquis of Sherringham wasn't known for wearing his heart on his sleeve. Just the opposite.
"Because I don't fancy standing idly by while you whistle your reputation down the wind," he said instead, a bit too brusquely for his own comfort. "No proper young lady would enlist the aid of a highwayman to see her safely to her destination. You must realize that a proper miss wouldn't set out on the open road with a highwayman!"
At that, the fight drained out of her. Her comely shoulders slumped. She pressed her eyes shut tight, bowed her head. "You are right," she whispered, the words almost inaudible.
Hesitantly, Cole asked, "So you'll allow me to take you to Burford?" A
"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!"
"I am not 'your' anything," Marcie shot back. "Nor is Jack 'my' highwayman!"
"Then why the deuce do you continue fussing over his welfare?"
"Would you have preferred I left him to rot on the floorboards?"
Yes, thought Cole. Anything would have been preferable to seeing his Mistress Mischief fawning over the shabby man.
"He is naught but a thief, and a sorry one at that," Cole said.
"And there you err," said Marcie. "He is my friend. He has not cast judgment on me merely because I've chosen to secret myself away from an odious boarding school. Indeed, Jack has been kind enough to assure me that he'll remain by my side until I make my way to Burford. He has promised to deliver me safely to my destination and has not once chastised me. Unlike you, Cole Coachman, Jack has proved to be nothing short of a gentleman!"
Cole scowled. "If that shifty man appears a gentleman in your eyes, then I cease to wonder why the mistress of your boarding school locked you in an attic. No doubt it was to save you from your own self!"
Those were the wrong words to say, obviously, for there came the sudden glint of wetness in Marcie's bewitching green eyes.
"Oh, bother—you are not going to cry, are you?" Cole demanded, trying to maintain control over his own roiling emotions. Why was it he kept saying and doing all the wrong things where Marcie was concerned?
She lifted her pretty chin, stalwart defiance chasing the sadness from her eyes. "Certainly not!" she said. "Tears are—are quite a useless reaction, I've learned." She mopped hastily at her damp eyes. "Do be assured I don't give a... a whit what conclusions you've arrived at concerning me, Cole Coachman! You should doubtless be relieved to know that I shall no longer have the chance to waylay your precious run. Now if you'll excuse me...."
She made a motion to turn away from him.
Something in Cole snapped. He reached for her hand. "Don't," he whispered. "Don't do this."
Perhaps Marcie's tears forced him to stay her. Perhaps it was his own cold heart thawing just a little at her tenderness that made him reach out to her. Whatever it was, Cole found himself taking her hand in his.
He cleared his suddenly tight throat. "I—I wish to be the one to see you safely to Burford," he blurted.
The wariness in her eyes proved pure torture.
"Why?" she whispered.
Why indeed? thought Cole. But he knew why. It was because he couldn't tolerate saying farewell to her just now, because he couldn't fathom climbing back onto his cold bench, alone, and knowing he might never see her again.
Cole found he couldn't form the words that were in his heart. He couldn't blurt out that he'd actually come to care for her in some odd, too-forceful kind of way. No. He couldn't say those things. The Marquis of Sherringham wasn't known for wearing his heart on his sleeve. Just the opposite.
"Because I don't fancy standing idly by while you whistle your reputation down the wind," he said instead, a bit too brusquely for his own comfort. "No proper young lady would enlist the aid of a highwayman to see her safely to her destination. You must realize that a proper miss wouldn't set out on the open road with a highwayman!"
At that, the fight drained out of her. Her comely shoulders slumped. She pressed her eyes shut tight, bowed her head. "You are right," she whispered, the words almost inaudible.
Hesitantly, Cole asked, "So you'll allow me to take you to Burford?" A
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