which had been owned by her father and his father before him. Her husband ran the inn now, and Meg took great delight in serving nourishing meals and keeping the few rooms upstairs neat and tidy.
"Ain't never met a coachman better than Cole," said Meg as she sat down on a stool across from Marcie. She took up a bit of knitting, needles clacking furiously, as she continued speaking. "He be a gentleman, though I do declare he is a bit too serious for his own good. Something about him makes me think he is hiding secrets in his heart."
"Oh?" said Marcie, instantly curious. "Why do you say that?"
"Well, for one, he only comes by once a year, sometimes twice a year, unlike most other coachmen who come through here often. He ain't like other coachmen, though. He don't put on airs—though he could—and we would still race to do his bidding. There be something special about him, and lonely, too. It's as though he took to the roads to find something... or someone." Meg shook her head, studying her knitting. "Don't misunderstand me. I've a warm spot in this old heart of mine for Cole Coachman. Most women do. But still, he does seem lonely to me. Too lonely for a man as handsome and sweet as he is."
Marcie found herself nodding in agreement, and once again a queer warm feeling tingled up her spine. She finished most of the tea, and ate too many sweetcakes. Then Meg insisted that Marcie follow her. Marcie was led to a warm room at the back of the inn, one with a washstand and a pitcher of tepid water.
"No doubt you'll be wanting to freshen up a bit before Cole decides to put you back on that hard bench of his," said Meg, closing the door and leaving Marcie alone.
Marcie wasted no time in taking up the woman's offer. She washed her face and hands, tidied her hair, then finished her ablutions, feeling a world better as she retraced her steps back to the common room.
Cole and John Reeve were standing near the fire, warming their bodies and drinking a tankard of Meg's special hot-buttered rum.
"Feeling better?" asked Cole.
Marcie nodded.
"Good. We've made the transfer and must be setting off again," he said. He finished off the tankard, then reached for his gloves.
Meg fussed over him, even going so far as to wrap up several sweetcakes into a square of snowy linen for him. Into the top button of his greatcoat, she placed an early-flowering primrose.
"My way of saying happy Saint Valentine's Day to you."
Cole surprised—and pleased—the older woman by planting a quick kiss on her plump cheek. "And to you," he said. He reached inside his pocket and pulled forth a prettily wrapped package.
Meg cooed with delight, tearing open the package to find two new knitting needles. She began to cry.
Cole Coachman lifted one hand and gently dashed away a tear with his thumb. "I hadn't meant to make you cry, Meg," he said.
Meg waved one hand at him, crying all the more. "Scat, then, before you see me cry a bucketful of tears! Though I've nourished a legion of coachmen, not a one has thought to bring me such a gift. God bless you, Cole Coachman."
"And God bless you, Meg, for you've warmed my heart with your light banter and generous ways. Too, I love your sweetcakes."
Meg blushed, looking like a schoolgirl, though she was a woman grown and wizened by life. "Go on," she said. "Get. And be sure to stop here on your way back to London. I promise to have a feast prepared for you on your way back through."
"It is a date I will race to make, Meg." Cole then made a motion towards the door. John Reeve was the first to move, nodding his thanks to both the innkeeper and to Meg.
Marcie, however, found herself quite rooted to her spot. She was gazing at Cole. He was framed by firelight, his muscled form clearly outlined, and his face made even more handsome by the genuine friendship he felt for the woman named Meg.
The man was indeed a puzzle, thought Marcie. He could be cold and gruff as well as warm and wonderful. He could bark about being
"Ain't never met a coachman better than Cole," said Meg as she sat down on a stool across from Marcie. She took up a bit of knitting, needles clacking furiously, as she continued speaking. "He be a gentleman, though I do declare he is a bit too serious for his own good. Something about him makes me think he is hiding secrets in his heart."
"Oh?" said Marcie, instantly curious. "Why do you say that?"
"Well, for one, he only comes by once a year, sometimes twice a year, unlike most other coachmen who come through here often. He ain't like other coachmen, though. He don't put on airs—though he could—and we would still race to do his bidding. There be something special about him, and lonely, too. It's as though he took to the roads to find something... or someone." Meg shook her head, studying her knitting. "Don't misunderstand me. I've a warm spot in this old heart of mine for Cole Coachman. Most women do. But still, he does seem lonely to me. Too lonely for a man as handsome and sweet as he is."
Marcie found herself nodding in agreement, and once again a queer warm feeling tingled up her spine. She finished most of the tea, and ate too many sweetcakes. Then Meg insisted that Marcie follow her. Marcie was led to a warm room at the back of the inn, one with a washstand and a pitcher of tepid water.
"No doubt you'll be wanting to freshen up a bit before Cole decides to put you back on that hard bench of his," said Meg, closing the door and leaving Marcie alone.
Marcie wasted no time in taking up the woman's offer. She washed her face and hands, tidied her hair, then finished her ablutions, feeling a world better as she retraced her steps back to the common room.
Cole and John Reeve were standing near the fire, warming their bodies and drinking a tankard of Meg's special hot-buttered rum.
"Feeling better?" asked Cole.
Marcie nodded.
"Good. We've made the transfer and must be setting off again," he said. He finished off the tankard, then reached for his gloves.
Meg fussed over him, even going so far as to wrap up several sweetcakes into a square of snowy linen for him. Into the top button of his greatcoat, she placed an early-flowering primrose.
"My way of saying happy Saint Valentine's Day to you."
Cole surprised—and pleased—the older woman by planting a quick kiss on her plump cheek. "And to you," he said. He reached inside his pocket and pulled forth a prettily wrapped package.
Meg cooed with delight, tearing open the package to find two new knitting needles. She began to cry.
Cole Coachman lifted one hand and gently dashed away a tear with his thumb. "I hadn't meant to make you cry, Meg," he said.
Meg waved one hand at him, crying all the more. "Scat, then, before you see me cry a bucketful of tears! Though I've nourished a legion of coachmen, not a one has thought to bring me such a gift. God bless you, Cole Coachman."
"And God bless you, Meg, for you've warmed my heart with your light banter and generous ways. Too, I love your sweetcakes."
Meg blushed, looking like a schoolgirl, though she was a woman grown and wizened by life. "Go on," she said. "Get. And be sure to stop here on your way back to London. I promise to have a feast prepared for you on your way back through."
"It is a date I will race to make, Meg." Cole then made a motion towards the door. John Reeve was the first to move, nodding his thanks to both the innkeeper and to Meg.
Marcie, however, found herself quite rooted to her spot. She was gazing at Cole. He was framed by firelight, his muscled form clearly outlined, and his face made even more handsome by the genuine friendship he felt for the woman named Meg.
The man was indeed a puzzle, thought Marcie. He could be cold and gruff as well as warm and wonderful. He could bark about being
Similar Books
