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
"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
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