The Highwayman of Tanglewood

by Marcia Lynn McClure

  Faris smiled. For all the impropriety of the situation, she had begun to realize she was in no danger of being compromised. Lochlan Rockrimmon was of a different mettle than Kade Tremeshton. Furthermore, what interest would such a man ever find in a simple chambermaid?

  Gathering the shirt, Faris said, “Of course, sire.” She rose from the bed, taking hold of her opportunity to escape—for he yet unnerved her greatly.

  “Oh, not now, Faris,” he said, pushing her shoulder and causing her to sit on the bed once more. “Afterward—I’ve plenty enough shirts to last the day. If you would only mend it for me later, we can continue.”

  “Yes, sire,” she said, nervously sighing. She looked up when she heard him laugh.

  “Fear not, Faris,” he said. “I have no intention of heaping ruination upon you—at least not here and now.”

  Faris felt her eyes widen, astonished by his obvious flirting.

  He laughed again and added, “And I am no Kade Tremeshton. Were I to want you, I would win you—make no mistake—but I would not go about it in any manner akin to his.”

  It was further affirmation of his noble character. Yet Faris was somewhat miffed at his implying he did not want her. She comforted herself by reminding herself she secreted a liaison with the Highwayman of Tanglewood, and even the dashing Lochlan Rockrimmon could not compete for a woman’s affections with such as the Highwayman for a rival.

  Yet so miffed did Faris find herself that she in fact found her mouth speaking seemingly without her conscious permission. “And in what manner would you go about it?” she asked. Quickly she added, “Sire?”

  “Oh, a tender nerve has been plucked,” he said, smiling as he pulled another shirt from his wardrobe, threading his arms into the sleeves. “But you mistake me, pretty girl,” he added. “I did not mean I flatly did not want you—I meant I did not want to…to harm you.”

  He leaned forward then, placing a hand on either side of her where she sat on the bed. He tilted his head to one side as he studied her, his face mere inches from her own. Faris tried not to look at the bareness of his chest and stomach, but his shirt hung freely open, and it was difficult to ignore.

  “I mean to say—lovely girl with soft, berry lips—I would like nothing more than to corrupt you…but I won’t,” he whispered. He lingered before her for a moment, his lips a breath from her own. Then smiling, he stood once more and said, “Still, I’ve wandered from the subject of our conversation. Now you know my knowledge of you. What is yours of me?”

  Faris swallowed hard, still undone by what had just passed. Goose bumps fairly consumed her body! She did not approve of her physical reaction to Lochlan Rockrimmon. She would indeed scold herself thoroughly once he had left her to her own tasks once more.

  “Come now,” he urged as he began buttoning the new shirt. “Surely you know something. If you know nothing, then tell me what you’ve heard of me. Still, I would value your own thoughts far more.”

  Faris did not know how to begin. Could he truly have any care for what her thoughts of him were?

  “I-I think you are good,” she said, softly. “A bit of a tease, the stripe of a rascal running the length of your back, perhaps—but good at the core.” He laughed, and Faris could not help but smile.

  “Better a rascal’s stripe than a coward’s, Faris,” he said, smiling at her as he finished the task of buttoning his shirt.

  “Yes, sire,” she said, smiling. She wondered for a moment why he did not have a valet, and she spoke the thought aloud. “Why do you not employ a valet, Master Lochlan?”

  He smiled and asked, “Why do you think I do not? Let us see if you know me that well.”

  Faris smiled, dazzled by his charm, his attractiveness, his pure masculinity. “I think…I think it is because you find…that you believe…” she stammered, afraid to speak her thoughts.

  “Go on, Faris,” he said. “You’ll not offend me.”

  Faris inhaled a deep breath of courage and said, “Perhaps you find it weak—a man who must have another to assist him with simple and personal tasks, such as dressing for the day.”

  “Well done, Faris! Bravo!” he said, smiling and clapping his hands three times. “I find it…disturbing—any able-bodied man having another dress him, having another perching about like a sick crow.” His brow puckered for a moment, and he said, “But will you still mend the shirt for me?”

  Faris giggled, completely delighted by his sudden boyish manner. “Yes, of course, sire,” she said.

  “Thank you,” he said. “And with that…we’ll have to suspend our conversation for now. I’ll be late for my appointment.” He leaned forward again and whispered, “I’m off to clean Kade Tremeshton’s pockets in a game of cards.”

  Faris smiled. How could she refuse a smile?

  “Naturally,” Lochlan continued, “He does not know that Lord Montegue has asked me to join the game, and I hope I am able to keep my temper and avoid breaking his nose a second time.” He smiled the smile of a rapscallion and added, “Yet if father will not allow me to defend a woman’s honor with my fists, then I suppose my wits will have to do.”

  “I-I do thank you for your help, sire,” Faris said, humbly remembering his championing her where Kade Tremeshton was concerned.

  “It is I who should thank you, Faris,” Lochlan said. “I’ve wanted to put a fist to Kade Tremeshton’s face for as long as ever I can remember. I should thank you for providing the venue.”

  “Yet in truth, I thank you, sire,” Faris said.

  “And thank you, Faris,” he replied. “And now, I’m off to best the blackguard at cards.” He strode to the door and unbolted it, yet paused before he took his leave. “Please don’t mention the shirt mending to my mother. She gets terribly put off with me for being all too rough on things.” Faris smiled as he nodded at her and took his leave of the room.

  Faris remained seated on his bed for a few more moments, trying to smooth her ruffled nerves. He was indeed dangerous, and she was disgusted with herself for letting him unsettle her so. What would her Highwayman think of her weakness?

  Quickly, Faris hopped up, smoothed her skirt, and went about her remaining tasks. After tidying Lochlan’s room, she found the rogue button from his shirt and tucked it into her apron pocket. Tucking Lochlan’s shirt under her arm, she left his bedchamber and made her way to Lillias’s room. Oh, how she wished the Highwayman were near. Perhaps he was! Faris was yet suspicious of Bainbridge Graybeau being the Highwayman. At breakfast that morning, Old Joseph had mentioned that Bainbridge had returned from Saxton the night before—the same night the Highwayman of Tanglewood had come upon her near the cottage. Could it be Bainbridge Graybeau had been riding back to Loch Loland, having bested Lord Brookings as the Highwayman of Tanglewood? Could that be why the Highwayman had happened upon her the way he did? Further, Old Joseph had informed Faris of Bainbridge’s request she meet him after supper for another riding lesson. Perhaps this was the way the Highwayman would contact her! Perhaps, now that the Highwayman knew she suspected Bainbridge of being he, perhaps he meant to confess the truth to her! Even if he did not confess, she would test him once more—study him more closely. How wonderful it would be to know her beloved Highwayman was so close at hand. Yet surely she would have known him on their last meeting. Would she not?

  “Faris, darling!” Lillias exclaimed as Faris entered her chamber. “Wherever have you been? I could not find you last evening to tell you of the Highwayman and his besting of Lord Brookings in Saxton!”

  Certainly, Faris already knew the story of the Highwayman of Tanglewood and his ride to Saxton. Yet why not allow her friend the satisfaction of telling the tale? Furthermore, it was Faris’s experience that, in storytelling, one presenter often neglected details another might not.

  And so she said, “Tell me, Lillias! You must!”

  “Gawain said it was a brilliant besting! The most brilliant the Highwayman has ever performed.” Lillias began.

  Faris smiled and list
ened until Lillias had poured out the tale with far more excitement and detail than had Old Joseph told it the night before. Still, the story was the same—more dramatic in the telling perhaps—but the same.

  “Isn’t it a marvelous tale, Faris?” Lillias asked.

  “Indeed it is,” Faris agreed.

  Lillias sighed, smiling with delighted excitement. “Of course, I hope Gawain did not neglect any important details in the telling of it,” Lillias said. “He was ever so fatigued last evening when he told me—having ridden all the way back to Loch Loland Castle from Heathmoor yesterday.”

  Faris felt the hair on the back of her neck stand on end. “Heathmoor?” she asked. “Why—why was Lord Kendrick in Heathmoor?” Heathmoor, as Faris well knew, was on the road to Saxton.

  “What?” Lillias asked, still dreaming of the adventures of the Highwayman of Tanglewood, no doubt.

  “Lord Kendrick,” Faris said. “Did he have business in Heathmoor?”

  “Indeed!” Lillias exclaimed. “Odd, isn’t it—that Gawain should be at Heathmoor when the Highwayman of Tanglewood was at Saxton. They are not so very far apart, I understand—though I have never been to either place. Though—you were born in Heathmoor, Faris, were you not? Did you ever have cause to be in Saxton?”

  “No,” Faris said. “Never.”

  Faris was suddenly quite anxious. Was it purely coincidence that Lord Kendrick was in Heathmoor—so close to Saxton—at the very same time the Highwayman of Tanglewood was riding out against Lord Brookings?

  “Lord Kendrick is not the Highwayman of Tanglewood. He cannot be,” Faris mumbled to herself.

  “Oh, I know it,” Lillias sighed. “Still, I like to pretend that he is. I like to imagine that my Gawain is the Highwayman of Tanglewood and riding for the livelihood of others.”

  “Oh, I did not mean—” Faris began.

  “No, Faris, you are right to keep me from being so foolish,” Lillias said. “Still, I did think it intriguing to imagine Gawain attired in black and astride a black steed calling out Lord Brookings—his rapier at Lord Brookings’s throat.”

  “Graybeau has been absent from Loch Loland as well,” Faris said.

  “When?” Lillias asked.

  “These three days past,” Faris added. “He has been to Saxton to inquire of his mother.”

  Lillias’s eyes fairly glistened with merriment and mischief. “Graybeau has been to Saxton?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Faris said. “I am told he returned last night. I am to have a riding lesson today.”

  “Oh, Faris!” Lillias squealed in an excited whisper. “You think Graybeau is the Highwayman, don’t you?”

  “I-I admit to wondering at it,” Faris whispered.

  “Oh, would not it be simply perfect?” Lillias giggled. “And if Graybeau happened to be the Highwayman—well, he has taken an interest in you, has he not? It may well be you are in line to be the sweetheart of the Highwayman of Tanglewood, Faris! Is that not too delicious for words?”

  “Far too delicious for words,” Faris giggled. How she wished she could confide in Lillias! How she wished she could! Yet she could not. She could not endanger the Highwayman, or his cause, in any manner.

  And so, Faris simply sat in delightful speculation and conversation with Lillias for some time. Such happy times Faris could not remember—for other than the Highwayman of Tanglewood, there was no better companion in her heart or her mind.

  ❦

  “And how fares your mother, Mr. Bainbridge?” Faris asked as Bainbridge Graybeau assisted her in dismounting Lady Violet. The low light of dusk lent a certain warmth and peace to the earth as she smoothed the back of her dress and tucked a stray strand of hair behind one ear.

  “She is well,” Bainbridge said. “She has her garden and entire flock of cats to keep her company, she does.” He chuckled, and Faris smiled at the jolly sound.

  Bainbridge was yet clean-shaven, and Faris quickly studied the square angle of his jaw—endeavoring in vain to find some resemblance to that of the Highwayman of Tanglewood. In that moment, she was reminded of how truly vague the Highwayman’s features were to her. Having only seen the Highwayman in the least of moonlight, it was nearly impossible to discern whether or not his jaw owned the same angle and square manner as Bainbridge’s.

  For a moment, she thought, I’ll kiss him! I’ll certainly know then! After all, had not the Highwayman granted her permission to kiss the man she had guessed was he? Still, she was uncertain.

  “Still, my sister is not so far away,” Bainbridge added, drawing Faris’s attention from her musings and to their conversation once more. “She is married and lives in Heathmoor. Perhaps you know her husband—he is William Terry, and he was born in Heathmoor the same as you.”

  Faris’s heartbeat increased in its rhythm. Frantically, she tried to recall whether or not she had ever mentioned to Bainbridge Graybeau that she was born in Heathmoor. Had she? Indeed, she had mentioned it to the Highwayman of Tanglewood, and Lillias knew the truth of it. But had she ever told Bainbridge the fact of it? Had the Highwayman of Tanglewood only just revealed the smallest trace to his true identity? Why could she not find the courage to simply ask him? She had asked the Highwayman himself—asked if he were Bainbridge Graybeau. Then why could she not now ask Bainbridge Graybeau if he were the Highwayman of Tanglewood?

  “I will saddle Lady Violet for you again tomorrow if you have the time, lass,” Bainbridge said.

  Faris smiled at him. Oh, it must be he! It must be!

  “I would like that very much, Mr. Bainbridge,” Faris said. “Thank you for this evening’s lesson.”

  “It is ever my pleasure, Faris,” he said, smiling at her.

  Ask him! Ask him! Ask him! her heart pounded. But she could not find the courage.

  “Then…then I will leave you to your business,” Faris said. Yet she lingered. Would he hand her a letter? Would he whisper the secret of their next meeting to her? Was Bainbridge Graybeau her Highwayman lover?

  “Good night, then,” he said. Then with another smile in her direction, he led Lady Violet back to the stables.

  Faris nearly burst into tears, so frustrated was she. She wanted her Highwayman—wanted him near to her every moment! It was painful to be so separated from him—frightening in not knowing when next they would meet.

  Feeling the threat of defeat lingering at her heels, Faris returned to the house. There was not to do but wait.

  ❦

  “Keep your voice, Lochlan!” Faris heard Lady Rockrimmon whisper. The hour was late. Faris had determined to mend Lochlan’s shirt before retiring, in the small chance he should inquire about it on the morrow. Now, sitting in the sewing room, mending by candlelight, she heard heavy footsteps in the hallway—heard Lady Rockrimmon’s worried whisper.

  Curiosity led her to leave her chair and linger in the doorway. She gasped when, in the next moment, Lady Rockrimmon and a very battered and bloodied Lochlan stumbled into the sewing room.

  “Oh! Faris!” Lady Rockrimmon gasped, obviously startled herself. “We…we came in search of—”

  “A needle, Faris. And some thread,” Lochlan growled.

  “Oh, milady!” Faris exclaimed. “Whatever happened?”

  “Cards,” Lady Rockrimmon said, irritated. “A silly, boyish game. Loch’s final hand beat Kade Tremeshton’s, and this is the result.”

  “He bested you?” Faris whispered, astounded at the thought.

  “Of course not!” Lochlan fairly shouted.

  “Hush, Loch!” Lady Rockrimmon scolded. “You’ll wake the entire house!”

  “He’s a coward—drew a dagger when I bested him at the game. He very nearly took my eye in the process,” Lochlan explained. He removed the hand he had been holding to his forehead to reveal a devilish laceration just above his right brow.

  Faris gasped, her hands covering her mouth in astonishment.

  “He won’t see a physician, Faris. He insists I can mend it far better,” Lady Rockrimmon expla
ined.

  “You are perfectly capable, Mother. You or Faris,” he growled, snatching the needle and thread Faris had been holding from her hand.

  Lady Rockrimmon shook her head and said, “Stay with him, Faris. Keep him calm if you can. I’ll bring some warm water.”

  “B-b-but, milady,” Faris stammered.

  “He’s a filthy bast—” Lochlan began. “He’s a filthy blackguard!” he corrected himself. Faris almost smiled, amused by his being careful of his verbiage in her presence. “I bested him in the game!”

  “But not in the consequence?” Faris asked.

  “In the consequence as well!” he assured her. “But not before the coward drew a dagger.”

  “Then…then he looks the worse than you, sire?” Faris ventured. She smiled when Lochlan smiled and nodded.

  “Oh, much,” he said, still smiling. “Much worse. His repulsive broken nose is now joined by much bruising and swelling and all manner of damage done by fisticuffs.”