Lochlan smiled, his emerald eyes flashing with triumph. “Then will you share a kiss with me, fair Faris?” he asked.
Faris smiled, touched by his sentiment. Still, she worried for his well-being and strength. “You are very wounded, sire…and very fatigued,” she told him, taking his arm and cuddling closer to him.
“Aye, that I be,” he said in the Irish brogue of the Highwayman of Tanglewood. “But I be never too wounded or tired for the taste of yar mouth, lass.” He smiled, and Faris raised herself on her elbow. Studying the handsome contours of his face, she hovered over him, tracing his lips with her fingers.
“I…I am frightened somehow,” she confessed. “You—you are Lochlan Rockrimmon, after all.”
“I am he who loves you, Faris. He who would gladly die for you…and I am he who will be your husband when next the sun rises,” he whispered.
Faris felt tears brimming in her eyes. She shook her head, unable to believe what he was saying. “You mean to tease me, sire,” she whispered.
“I mean to marry you, Faris. I mean to have you…all of you…always…I promise it,” he said. He raised a trembling hand to her face, taking her chin and drawing her mouth to his. His kiss spoke of hope, of life, and of love. Faris realized his kiss had ever been—had ever felt the same. It was her own uncertainty that had deemed Lochlan’s kiss dissimilar from the Highwayman’s. Yet now she knew him, recognized the flavor of his mouth, the manner in which his hands were lost in her hair.
“Oh, how I love you, fair Faris,” he whispered against her cheek.
“Oh, how I love you…Lochlan,” she whispered.
He took her face between his hands, searching her countenance. “And there it is,” he said.
“What?” she asked.
“My own image, reflected in your eyes.”
Lochlan drew Faris to him. Taking her mouth with his own, he proved the depth of strength in body and spirit of the Highwayman of Tanglewood—the depth of his own promise to have her—the immeasurable depth of Lochlan Rockrimmon’s true love.
Epilogue
Faris Rockrimmon stood over her baby’s cradle, gazing lovingly into the peaceful face of her son. Each time she looked at him, whether awake or asleep, as he was now, she was ever amazed at how perfectly he carried his father’s likeness. Awake, his eyes were green, flashing like emeralds when he smiled. His hair was ever the same shade of soft brown, and his toothless grin promised to be rivaled only by that of the man who fathered him.
“Good night, sweet Kenner,” Faris whispered, kissing the babe’s tender brow. At the touch of her kiss to his forehead, Kenner Rockrimmon’s lips pursed, his small mouth suckling in his sleep.
Faris breathed a deep sigh of contentment. Never could she have imagined such fulfillment—such blissful happiness. Whether she held her precious Kenner in her arms or her beloved Lochlan held her in his, contentment and happiness were hers.
Faris pondered then all those at Loch Loland—all she knew and loved there. She smiled, thinking on her darling Lillias. Oh, how beautiful Gawain and Lillias’s daughter Claire was! With the lovely countenance of her mother and the quiet strength of her father, little Claire Kendrick was as perfect as any sweet princess in a fairy tale. Faris thought then of Bainbridge Graybeau—of his and Lord Gawain Kendrick’s selfless loyalty to the secrets and tasks of the Highwayman of Tanglewood—to Lochlan himself. She was happy to think of Bainbridge—admired him for his loyalty and secrecy in order to protect Lochlan as the Highwayman. It was glad she was that Bainbridge had taken Sarah to wife. Sarah’s heart and dreams were fulfilled in such a man as was Bainbridge Graybeau.
Suddenly, many memories traveled through her mind. First she thought of the day Lillias had appeared so utterly emotional and out of countenance, causing Faris to suspect Lord Kendrick himself was the Highwayman. Gawain had indeed informed Lillias of his alliance with the Highwayman of Tanglewood. This had unsettled Lillias, causing her great concern over Gawain’s safety. Furthermore, Lochlan had confided in Lillias that same morning of his love for Faris. Thus, when Faris had confessed to Lillias of being the Highwayman of Tanglewood’s lover, Lillias—having witnessed the passionate exchange between Faris and Lochlan following Lady and Tannis Stringham’s comeuppance—at once realized her brother was in fact the Highwayman! Though the sudden awareness had frightened Lillias—caused her anxiety over her brother’s well-being—Lillias realized Faris did not yet know the Highwayman’s true identity and that it was Lochlan’s accountability and place to confess. Therefore, Lillias had remained silent of her sudden knowledge, choosing an attempt to sway Faris toward Lochlan instead. In those moments, Lillias had known Faris was in love with only one man, not two. Yet, she did not, she could not reveal.
Faris smiled. What confusion, wonder, and frustration Lillias must have known in understanding such secrets and being unable to speak of them. How glad she was of such a true friend.
Faris thought tenderly of Old Joseph—of his yet familiar and endearing habit of wandering Loch Loland at night. She thought gently of Mary—of her maternal nature and of the delicious mutton stew she had served for dinner that very evening. Faris’s affectionate thoughts lingered then on Lord and Lady Rockrimmon. Subsequent to Lochlan’s being so terribly wounded by Kade Tremeshton’s dagger, Lord Rockrimmon had thrice ridden as the Highwayman of Tanglewood. Faris giggled as she thought of Lady Rockrimmon’s expression the last time he had ridden as the Highwayman—so admiring, so resplendent with love and admiration for her husband and his noble and daring heroics. She sighed as her thoughts lingered on Lady Rockrimmon then—the woman she now knew as mother, the mother who had once endeavored to save a chambermaid in the house of Tremeshton. These were they Faris loved—these were they she whispered gratitude for each night in her prayers.
Leaving the baby’s room, she stood the door ajar as she joined Lochlan in their own bedchamber.
Faris smiled as she felt two gloved hands encircle her throat from behind.
“Aye, lass…ya are in danger of bein’ compromised this night, ya are,” came the Highwayman’s raspy, whispered brogue.
“Is it you then?” Faris asked, a delighted smile spreading across her face. “For legend has it the Highwayman of Tanglewood has not been seen in more than a year. Some say he was killed…and some say his cause was for naught when the last of the greedy lords lost their lands and titles by law debated to change by the dashing Lochlan Rockrimmon.”
“Aye, ’tis he I be…the Highwayman of Tanglewood…come back to claim what belongs to me,” he said.
Faris giggled as Lochlan’s strong hands slid from her neck, over her shoulders, finally settling at her waist. Nuzzling her neck from behind, Lochlan nudged the shoulder of her nightdress with his chin until it slipped, allowing him to place a lingering kiss on her tender flesh. Faris turned in his arms, running her hands up over his shoulders to his neck, letting her fingers caress the soft silk of his black Highwayman’s mask.
“Kenner—he looks so like you,” she whispered as Lochlan smiled down at her. “Like me?” Lochlan asked. “When that rascal Lochlan Rockrimmon is his father?”
Faris laughed. Reaching up, she stripped the mask from his head, running her fingers through the soft brown of his tousled hair.
“He looks like you,” Faris repeated.
“Ah, the poor lad,” Lochlan sighed, still smiling.
“The poor chambermaids!” Faris said.
Lochlan chuckled for a moment, brushing Faris’s hair from her cheek as he gazed at her with infinite adoration.
“What a virtuous good-witch my mother is, eh?” he whispered. “She swears she knew you would win me the moment she saw you at Tremeshton.”
“I…I still cannot believe that I did,” Faris whispered, tears of joy filling her eyes.
“I am every day thankful you forgave my deception, fair Faris of Loch Loland,” he whispered. He closed his eyes, wincing, and added, “Every day thankful.”
“There was nothing to f
orgive,” Faris told him, caressing his cheek with the back of her hand. Lochlan smiled, drawing her fingers to his lips and kissing them. Quickly, he retrieved the Highwayman’s mask, slipping it over his head once more.
“I be the Highwayman of Tanglewood, lass,” Lochlan said. Tenderly he pushed Faris backward, sitting her soundly on their bed. “And I beg no fargiveness for what I am about this night.”
“And what might that be?” Faris giggled.
“Aye, ye well know it lass…far I be about stealin’ far more than a kiss!”
Lochlan gently laid Faris down on the bed, stretching himself out the length of her. He bent, kissing her cheek and pulling a strand of her hair between his lips.
“Oh, how mad I am for you, Faris! How desperately I love you,” he whispered.
Faris took his handsome face between her hands, studying its perfection for long moments.
“I think you were in every fanciful, romantic dream I ever in my life had, Lochlan. How came I to be here, in your arms, loving you with every part of my being?”
“Ya’ve none but the Highwayman of Tanglewood to thank far it, lass,” he whispered.
Faris smiled as his lips lingered a breath from her own.
“So, thank him.”
As their lips met, their mouths working a spell of perfectly shared affection, Faris Rockrimmon sighed. The stuff of legends was in her arms—she alone owned the Highwayman of Tanglewood.
Author’s Note
Several years ago I wrote a story entitled An Old-Fashioned Romance. Released as an e book just in time for Christmas in 2004 (has it really been that long?), I was overwhelmed by the positive feedback I received! Loosely based on me and four of my greatest and most treasured friends, An Old-Fashioned Romance somehow managed to strike a nerve with readers. To this day, many friends still tell me An Old-Fashioned Romance is one of their favorites of my stories.
Although I’m sure the light-hearted nature of the story, the friendship between the heroine and her “gal-pals,” and of course the romance between Breck McCall and her handsome hero were the basis for the popularity of the book, there is one scene in An Old-Fashioned Romance that seems to stand as most favored—the scene wherein the “Highwayman of Tanglewood” arrives at Marcelli’s Italian restaurant for Breck’s birthday.
How do you know this is a favorite scene for readers? you ask. Well, there is a simple enough answer to that question: the receipt of hundreds of e-mails inquiring as to where and when the book mentioned in An Old-Fashioned Romance—that being The Highwayman of Tanglewood—might be available!
Where can I get it? Is it out-of-print? Did you write it? Is it real?
All of these questions began arriving via e-mail shortly after An Old-Fashioned Romance was released in printed form. I was overwhelmed with inquiries! In truth, I had always planned to write a “highwayman” story, but the excitement over the would-be The Highwayman of Tanglewood pressed me to pen as soon as possible!
The original version of The Highwayman of Tanglewood was, I realize now, a simple, loose, rather skeletal version of the story playing out in my head. Approximately 35,000 words in length, The Highwayman of Tanglewood e-book was met with great excitement and delight from readers. Everyone seemed to love it! One dear reader even composed a melody to accompany the lyrics of the song Faris is singing when Lochlan surprises her in his chambers. The 35,000-word e-book version of The Highwayman of Tanglewood seemed to bring closure to all who wondered what the book was like after having seen it quoted in An Old-Fashioned Romance.
Still, to me it was unfinished. I was not anywhere close to being satisfied with the result and wanted to rework the story to more closely resemble what played out in my mind. Behold—the 88,773 word novel-version of The Highwayman of Tanglewood sitting in your hands at this very moment!
Perhaps the true and complete tale of the Highwayman of Tanglewood will illuminate the reasons for its standing as Breck McCall’s favorite book in An Old-Fashioned Romance. Furthermore, as an expression of my gratitude to all who encouraged me to write The Highwayman of Tanglewood, I give you this author’s note—the story behind the story behind the story—the true inspiration for the Highwayman of Tanglewood.
I have always been intrigued with certain heroic characters—the swashbuckling type who do not possess any superpowers or other strange anomalies. Any hero in chain mail wielding a sword and fighting for a good cause (especially a woman’s virtue and love) holds my attention and heart captive (Robin Hood—how romantic!). Furthermore, ever since I was a youngster, I’ve adored the idea of highwaymen! A good highwayman, of course—rogues who battle tyranny and such. Black attire and a mask intrigue me as well. Thus, Zorro—how I have always loved the idea of Zorro! And it was actually my husband (and Zorro too) who inspired the favored scene in An Old-Fashioned Romance, giving birth to the Highwayman of Tanglewood.
At the risk of causing my husband to roll his eyes and sigh with exasperation, I give you the tale of my thirty-third birthday, celebrated with a few intimate friends in my favorite Mexican restaurant, Chihuahua’s:
Something was amiss—of this I was certain from the beginning. Rhonda, Tara, Kathy, and I were meeting at Chihuahua’s Mexican Restaurant to celebrate my turning thirty-three. I noticed the girls seemed a little unsettled—especially Tara. She kept checking her watch and glancing up at the door. In addition, Kathy must’ve left the table three or four times to “call and check on the kids,” and Rhonda’s big brown eyes held their familiar “twinkle of mischief” we all know so well. Oh, certainly I knew what was coming—the sombrero! How many times have we each had to endure “the wearing of the sombrero” as the waiters and waitresses in a restaurant sing “Happy Birthday” to us? By thirty-three—a few times, right?
So, there I sat, awaiting my fate—the wearing of the sombrero. Still, as the minutes ticked, Tara seemed to become quite agitated. Finally, she fairly leapt from her seat and rushed from the room with the excuse that she too must “call to check on the kids.” Meanwhile, Kathy, Rhonda, and I enjoyed conversation and a generous helping of tortilla chips and pico de gallo. Kathy sat grinning—her rosy cheeks fairly blushing with delight—and Rhonda remained atwinkle with mischief. A few minutes lapsed, and then it happened—the waiters and waitresses arrived with the sombrero, and there I sat—mortified with self-consciousness as everyone sang “Happy Birthday.”
Tara returned shortly after “the wearing of the sombrero,” and I assumed it had been she who had set the waiters, waitresses, and sombrero upon me. It was over! Whew! I had endured the wearing of the sombrero and seemed none-the-worse for wear.
Suddenly, I sensed someone approach me from behind. An entity, attired all in black—black breeches, black cloak, black shirt, black hat, and a rogue’s black mask—whispered something delicious in my ear and pressed a bouquet of fragrant crimson roses ’gainst my cheek. I turned, gasping with delighted awe as Zorro then gathered me into the powerful strength of his embrace! Holding me firm against the solid contours of his body, the handsome and mysterious rogue then captured my mouth in a moist, driven, passion-fanned kiss. Such the stuff of dreams I had never before known in conscious wakefulness!
As each patron of the restaurant applauded—cheered in chanting, “Zorro! Zorro! Zorro!”—my three friends drew the rogue near to them! To be in the company of the dashing rogue Zorro—it was the making of their evening!
With one last kiss to my tender lips, he vanished—hastening from the restaurant with gallant legerdemain and leaving a cheering wave of awe in his heroic wake! Ah! Such a night it was—the night I first met and kissed him that was, in truth, the Highwayman of Tanglewood!
Now—it is very necessary that all who read of my romantic and epic encounter with “Zorro” understand that my husband (Kevin) is not one to seek after attention or notice. Tall, dark, and handsome, Kevin possesses a unique wit and sense of humor, as well as a sheer naiveté to his magnetism. To dress up as Zorro, race through a crowded restaurant, and delive
r such a scene—mortifying! This was the reason for Tara’s unsettled appearance—Kevin was an hour late in appearing as Zorro, having had to draw upon every ounce of courage known to mankind!
Dressed in the less-than-perfect rental costume (the only one Tara could find in the tiny town of Bellingham, Washington), Kevin stood for long moments before the mirror in our master bathroom contemplating his rogue’s ride! In fact, he made two phone calls to other men—acquaintances who might offer support. Both friends encouraged him, and he was finally able to make it out to the car and drive to the restaurant. It was there that Tara found him—sitting in the car—having been there for over thirty minutes, attempting to find the nerve to run through the crowded restaurant dressed as Zorro.
At long last, Tara was able to convince Kevin to go.
“Is there anyone in there from work?” he asked (as if Tara would be in any way familiar with Kevin’s business associates).
Tara assured Kevin there was not (as if Tara would be in any way familiar with Kevin’s business associates).
“Just run in, say your line, hand her the flowers, and run out!” Tara ordered.
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