The Highwayman of Tanglewood

by Marcia Lynn McClure

  “And Tannis Stringham is as haughty as any spoiled she-cat with sharp-ended claws,” Mary added.

  “Then why,” Faris ventured, “if Master Lochlan is as wonderful as you paint his portrait to be—why would he invite her and her mother for a holiday?”

  “Mary! Joseph! In fact, everyone!” Lady Rockrimmon exclaimed as she entered the room. Her cheeks were pure pink with excitement. “I’ve the most wonderful news!”

  “Yes, milady?” Old Joseph asked.

  “Lochlan is coming home! This very week!” Lady Rockrimmon said.

  “Wonderful news, indeed, milady,” Mary said, smiling.

  “Yes, is it not?” Lady Rockrimmon sighed. “After two long years away! It will be heaven to have him home again!”

  “Indeed, milady,” Old Joseph agreed.

  “Now, Faris,” Lady Rockrimmon said. “First thing tomorrow—do not trouble yourself tonight, of course—however, first thing would you please see to Lochlan’s chamber and give it a thorough going-over for dust—especially the draperies?”

  “Of course, milady,” Faris said, full catching the contagious smile resplendent on Lady Rockrimmon’s lovely face!

  “Thank you, dear,” Lady Rockrimmon said. “I’m—I’m just overwhelmed with delight!” All the servants smiled as their mistress left the room in a whirl of satin and excitement.

  “How she’s missed him,” Mary sighed.

  “How we all have,” Sarah added.

  Faris relaxed in her chair, her stomach satisfied by an abundance of Mary’s lamb stew and warm bread. Lochlan Rockrimmon. What would he be? Solemn and boorish, as his portrait? Surely not, else what would be the cause for all the excitement at his return?

  Faris thought of the Highwayman besting this Lord Stringham, whose daughter Lochlan Rockrimmon seemed to have interest in. She closed her eyes for a moment, remembering the purple light of the evening meadow, the scent of lilacs and green meadow grass. To see him again—it was her greatest wish—a wish which would be granted in less than an hour’s time. In meeting the Highwayman, her joy would be at its pinnacle.

  “What are you smilin’ at, Joe?” Mary asked, drawing Faris’s attention from her own thoughts and back to the conversation at hand.

  “I’m thinking of Lord Stringham,” Old Joe answered. “How I would have liked to have seen his face when the Highwayman of Tanglewood was upon him!”

  “As would I,” Sarah said as the others at the table turned to their own conversation. “Lord Stringham is far too arrogant for anyone’s good.”

  “I would give anything to see the Highwayman best any one of the corrupt nobles,” Mary mumbled, slathering a large helping of butter onto her bread.

  “Oh, thanks be to heaven for the Highwayman of Tanglewood,” Old Joseph sighed. “I don’t know what poor folks in this country would do without him for their champion.”

  Faris found herself nodding in unison with Mary and Sarah.

  “’Til there be another way to keep those that prey on the weak and poor in hand, thanks be to heaven for him that does—whatever his methods,” Joseph said.

  Faris smiled. What a heroic tale the Highwayman of Tanglewood would be to tell one day. Those who had lived in his time would repeat the tales of his adventures, of his heroics, for years and years to come.

  Faris glanced out the window. Lavender light was descending; twilight would settle soon. “I fancy an evening walk in the sunset,” Faris said, pushing her chair back from the table and standing. “Thank you for the delicious meal, Mary.”

  “You’re welcome, love,” Mary said.

  “A twilight walk, is it?” Old Joseph asked. “Pray keep an open eye. We wouldn’t want to hear of that rascal rogue the Highwayman of Tanglewood kidnapping our pretty Faris, now would we?”

  Faris smiled. “Oh, perhaps it would not be a bad thing—to witness the Highwayman about his business.”

  “I think every girl for one hundred miles ’round dreams of meeting the Highwayman of Tanglewood,” Sarah said.

  “And your being one of them?” Mary teased.

  “Of course,” Sarah answered, smiling.

  “Well, if I see him as I walk, I’ll be certain to send him best regards from all of us,” Faris said.

  “You do just that,” Old Joseph chuckled.

  “Goodnight then,” Faris said.

  As she stepped from the kitchen and into the lavender light of early dusk, Faris inhaled the sweet smell of evening grass. The sky was beautiful! Lavender and pinks, blues of royal hues—all swept across the sky as an artist’s brush stroke.

  “’Tis a beautiful evening, this,” Graybeau said as he appeared, leading Jovan by the bit. Again his eyes were intent upon her for several moments. Faris fancied she liked the way his dark hair fell across his forehead—windblown and tousled.

  “Yes,” Faris said. As he passed, Faris noticed he yet limped just as he had earlier in the day. “Have a good evening, Mr. Graybeau.”

  “And you, miss,” he said as he led the horse toward the stables.

  The night birds were calling to one another, and Faris could smell the rich scent of the evening fires burning in the hearths of Loch Loland. Glad she had remembered to bring a shawl, Faris started out—started out toward the old ruins near the cemetery and a secret rendezvous with the Highwayman of Tanglewood. The night birds called, the grass lent its fragrance to the air as Faris’s feet trod upon it, and lavender light drifted into a shimmering amethyst sunset.

  Where the Heather Runs Forever

  The silver crescent moon was rising as Faris made her way along the path toward the ruins and cemetery where the heather ran forever. The purple heather grew thick and far-reaching on either side of the small path she trod. Faris wondered if the parent plants of the same heather had been witness to the destruction of the great edifice now lingering in ruin and rubble before her. What battles had been fought on this path? What lives had been born and taken by death during the time before the ruins and rubble of the old castle? Faris imagined gallant knights laden in heavy chain mail, riding heavy horses toward the old castle, banners and colors billowing in the evening breeze as they rode. Perhaps a noble lady had once stood at the towering turrets watching such an advance, hoping for a beloved knight to return with her silken colors adorning his arm. Indeed, as Faris approached the ruins, her mind’s eye could almost envision such a scene—almost imagine the outline of a once-grand castle against the amethyst of evening sky.

  As she reached the crest of the last small hill and descended toward the ruins, her heart began to hammer. Would the Highwayman of Tanglewood be waiting there for her? Would he come riding through the heather toward her, his dazzling smile flashing in the purple twilight of sun’s set?

  Her heart fell a moment when she stopped on the hill’s crest and looked below to the forever-running heather, the cemetery, and the old castle ruin. The ancient, crumbling castle walls, the worn tombstones, and entwined willows—they stood alone. There was no Highwayman amid them, waiting as a grand and heroic knight of old. With a disappointed sigh, Faris made her way down the hillside, meandering through the heather toward the old castle. How different this was—far different than Loch Loland Castle with its strength, warmth, and inviting appearance. Loch Loland rose like a beacon, while the old ruin before her now lay as the slumbering dead—as those in the graves surrounding it. Though nearly as old as the ruins before her, Loch Loland had weathered the attacks that had destroyed the old castle nearly two hundred years before—so Faris had been told. She felt sad for the old ruin as if it were an aged man—once a strong and capable soldier, now wounded and infirm, waiting to draw final breath.

  Faris gasped as a gloved hand suddenly covered her mouth from behind—a strong arm slipping about her waist to hold her fast. A man’s low and raspy voice, breath warm on her neck, whispered in her ear, “Be still. The Highwayman of Tanglewood owns ya now.”

  Faris smiled beneath the man’s hand and tried to push it from her mouth that she m
ight turn and look at him. But the Highwayman tightened his grip, coaxing her to lean back against his strong body as he whispered, “Do not struggle. I’ll not harm ya, lass. I simply intend…to have ya.”

  Faris’s heart beat madly! His breath on the flesh of her neck was titillating, and she wanted nothing more than to stay thus in his hold. She felt the Highwayman’s arm tighten at her waist, and he bent, resting his chin on her shoulder for a moment before nuzzling into her neck playfully.

  “Come away with me, sweet Faris,” the Highwayman whispered. “What say ye?” he added, letting his hand slide from her mouth, caressing her neck, and finally letting it rest at the hollow there.

  “I say, who are you, Highwayman?” Faris breathed, unable to believe the euphoric spell he was weaving over her. All romantic thoughts of knights riding to win the fair lady were driven from her mind. A rogue’s manner was vastly more delightful!

  “Aye! But that ye should know, sweet Faris,” the Highwayman whispered. For a moment, Faris searched her shallow knowledge of him, searching for some shred of evidence. Did she indeed know him? Was the Highwayman of Tanglewood Bainbridge Graybeau? Did the Highwayman approach her from behind in order she would not see his familiar limp?

  “I know you not, sir,” Faris said in a whisper. “Surely I would remember such a shape of a man.” He was playful, toying with her, and she was delighted. She would continue as a player in his act.

  “Indeed, would ya, lass?” he asked.

  “I would, sir,” she answered.

  “And the taste of his kiss, me sweet lass?” the Highwayman whispered. “Would ya surely remember such a taste of a kiss?” Faris shivered with delight as the Highwayman placed a moist kiss on her neck. “’Tis well ya know who I am, fair Faris,” he whispered, kissing her neck again. “I am the Highwayman of Tanglewood—come to compromise ya here in the heather.”

  Gasping with delight at his playful manner, Faris turned to face him. Indeed, he wore his black, including his mask. He smiled at her, his white teeth flashing in the evening light of violet.

  “But—but how came you here?” Faris asked. “I heard nothing of your approach.”

  The Highwayman clicked his tongue twice, and Faris saw his black steed appear from behind the old ruin beyond. “It’s me way, it is,” he said. “Quiet, unseen.” He smiled and took her hand in his, raising it to his lips and kissing the back of it. “Come with me now, lass. ’Tis dangerous out in the open heather,” he said.

  Faris followed the Highwayman as he led her through the heather and toward the old castle ruin. Her heart was beating so fiercely she was most certain she would faint. Yet she did not—even for his touch—for the glove on his hand kept flesh from meeting flesh.

  He led her through the crumbling walls of the old ruins to a corner, dark and secluded. Removing his hooded cloak and spreading it on the ground, he motioned her to sit upon it. He joined her, propping one arm on one leg, his head tipping to one side as he seemed to consider her.

  “Now, fair Faris,” he began, “tell me yar story.”

  Faris smiled and shook her head, uncertain as to his meaning. “My…my story?” she asked.

  “That be it,” he said, smiling. “If I’m to be meetin’ ya in the purple of evenin’, if I’m to be stealin’ yar kiss the like I have, it’s wantin’ to know yar story, I am.”

  Faris smiled, pausing still. He was magnificent! So grand, so dark! In his attire of midnight black, it seemed he was nearly one with the evening. It was difficult to make out any specific feature of him. In those moments, it seemed he was no more than a ghostly voice drifting with the other spirits lingering in the old ruined castle. Still, Faris could feel the warmth of his body, hear his movements as he shifted.

  “I’ll help ya with the beginnin’ of it, I will,” the Highwayman chuckled.

  “With the beginning of it?” Faris asked. In her study of the dark Highwayman and his shroud of darkness, her mind had wandered.

  “With the beginnin’ of your story, fair Faris,” the Highwayman chuckled. “It begins thus: I am Faris, and I was born.”

  Faris nodded. “Ah, yes,” she said smiling as she began, “My name is Faris, and I was born in a cottage some hundred miles from here in Heathmoor. Do you know of it?”

  The Highwayman nodded. “I do. ’Tis well I know it.”

  Faris smiled, pleased he was familiar with the place of her birth.

  “I was born at Heathmoor and lived there until the death of my parents when I was twelve,” she explained. “Soon after they died, I was placed in service at the home of a grand lord and lady there, Lord and Lady Middleton.”

  The Highwayman nodded, seeming to recognize the names.

  “They also were lost,” he said.

  Faris smiled again, further amazed at his range of acquaintance. “Some years later, yes. It was after Lord and Lady Middleton’s passing that I found myself at Tremeshton Manor,” she explained.

  “Near in the evil clutches of Kade Tremeshton,” the Highwayman offered.

  “Thanks to the heavens and Milady Rockrimmon—for I never found myself fully in his clutches,” Faris explained. “Though I knew…I knew…”

  “He planned to find ya there?” he said.

  Faris felt humiliation wash over her like a heated rain as she nodded and said, “Yes. Had it not been for Lady Rockrimmon…I-I shrink to think what might have become of me.”

  “Ya would’ve found the courage to evade him—at any cost,” the Highwayman stated.

  “Yes,” Faris said. “Though I fear the cost would’ve been destitution had Lady Rockrimmon not taken pity on me.”

  “And so ya quit yar station at Tremeshton, for the greener grasses of Loch Loland Castle?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Faris said, smiling at him. “And…and that’s when I first met you.”

  “Aye. From the clutches of Kade Tremeshton to the clutches of the Highwayman of Tanglewood,” he chuckled. “Was it a wise trade do ya think?”

  “The very wisest,” Faris said. His voice, though masked low and rasping, was of such a comfort as Faris had never known. She smiled, wondering at the odd paradox—for she felt more safe in the presence of a thieving rogue than ever she had in the presence of any other man.

  “I bested that blackguard Tremeshton, ya know,” the Highwayman said.

  “Yes! Twice, and I was glad to hear of it,” Faris admitted.

  “Not a fortnight ago, I bested him at sabers and then fists and sent him home beaten and bloodied and without the gold he’d stolen from his tenants,” the Highwayman said. Faris noted the somewhat of a growl that had entered the intonation of his voice as he spoke of Kade Tremeshton. “And I thought of ya too, lass, in the doin’ of it. I beat him worse because of ye.” He rose to his feet and began angrily pacing back and forth. “Of the many men who do wrong by the people in this country, Kade Tremeshton is bound to breed into one of the worst, he is. And to think of his coward’s manner day before here—demanding two wee stablemen draw swords against me.”

  “And he surrendered his purse as a coward too,” Faris said.

  “Aye,” the Highwayman said. “I hope to heaven to rein in me temper when next I cross him—for I’ve never yet murdered a man, even any deserving of it.”

  “It was the last you saw him? Yesterday—when you bested him in the broad sunshine?” Faris asked.

  The Highwayman paused. He seemed to study her for a moment, and she noticed the way his left hand rested for a moment on his left thigh.

  “Yes,” the Highwayman said. “Yes…yesterday when I bested him and his poor stable hands. I wish it were the last I ever saw of him.”

  Faris felt the hair on the back of her neck prickle as the Highwayman took his seat on the ground before her once more. She did not imagine the way he seemed to favor his left leg as he did so—the way his hand lingered on his thigh as if he were rubbing at an uncomfortable wound.

  “I can well envision it—your besting him,” Faris said. She did not wish
for him to know of her suspicions. If he had not met Kade Tremeshton the night before, then why did he favor his left leg? Yet if he had met Kade Tremeshton, why did he keep the truth from her?

  She did not want to know. Faris did not care. The Highwayman of Tanglewood had rested his eyes upon her, and she would not drive him from her simply because his rogue’s ways meant he must keep some secrets.

  “Every day I am thankful for Lady Rockrimmon’s benevolence,” she said, attempting to draw any suspicion toward her from him. “Every day I am grateful for my timely escape.”

  “Timely it was,” the Highwayman said. She could feel his piercing gaze upon her, though she could not see his eyes for the darkness enveloping them.

  “Even now, when he visits Loch Loland Castle, I tremble in his presence,” Faris sighed.

  It was true. It was unfortunate that on several occasions Lord Rockrimmon, forced to deal in business with the man, had accepted the villain into his home. With each visit, Lord Kade Tremeshton would find a way of seeking out Faris, glaring at her with an expression of threat, intended harm. Faris smiled, thinking of Lillias and her referring to Lord Tremeshton as Kade the Heinous. It was the perfect title for him—far more fitting than the undeserved title of Lord Kade Tremeshton.

  “He is welcomed into Loch Loland?” the Highwayman exclaimed of a sudden. The rage was instantly apparent in his voice. “Lord Rockrimmon is tolerant of him?”

  “N-no,” Faris stammered. His outburst and sudden change of demeanor startled her. “Well, yes—only to the point of necessity in the transference of property and tenants. Lord Rockrimmon has purchased several properties from Kade Tremeshton.”