The Highwayman of Tanglewood (22 page)

Once inside, she closed her chamber door. Leaning back against the door, she placed a hand over her bosom where her heart pounded, frantic. Tears filled her eyes, and she allowed them to escape into tiny rivulets over her cheeks.

She placed her hand over her tender lips, still trembling with the blissful sensation of Lochlan Rockrimmon’s kiss. In truth, the kiss had been so fierce it had nearly been uncomfortable in its application—far different than the passionate kiss of the Highwayman, yet wholly passionate in its own right.

Faris sobbed as frustration, self-scolding, and all manner of confusion overtook her. What manner of an appalling, disloyal, dishonest woman allowed such a kiss from her master when her heart already held another man close? Yet she had not allowed it; it had been forced. Had it not? What wickedness was overtaking her that she could experience such pleasure in Lochlan Rockrimmon’s kiss when her very soul belonged to the Highwayman?

Perhaps it was the knowledge—the fear—of knowing the Highwayman was so wholly unobtainable. Perhaps, Faris mused, that for the sake of knowing deep in her heart that the Highwayman could never freely belong to her, perhaps her heart had been momentarily tempted by another. But another who could no more belong to her than the Highwayman? There was no sense in it.

She should run—run to Bainbridge—beg him to tell her the truth. Was Bainbridge the Highwayman of Tanglewood? Oh, how she longed for him to confide in her. If she could wake, sleep, and breathe knowing her beloved Highwayman was a breath away—knowing he was there—in the stables at Loch Loland—perhaps it would soothe her confusion and fears.

“A letter was delivered for you this evening at the back kitchen door, after supper, while you were riding with Graybeau,” Sarah whispered.

A letter! She studied the wax seal before opening it—a symbol, perhaps—family crest? She was not certain for the low light. Quickly she lit the candle at her bedside and broke the seal. Unfolding the parchment, she saw, for the first time, the elegant hand of the Highwayman of Tanglewood.

“What words?” she whispered to herself. What words, indeed. What words would the Highwayman of Tanglewood pen in a secret letter? Allowing her fingertips to caress the first few words on the parchment, she read:

Fair Faris of Loch Loland Castle…’tis I…the twilight-lover you own
…

The Fruit of Provocation

The Highwayman’s first words found her tears abundant. He had written to her! He had dared to deliver, or have delivered, a letter to her! How her heart soared with the knowledge he had penned the message himself. What hope it gave her—what respite from her confusion of feelings over Lochlan Rockrimmon’s kiss! This was the Highwayman of Tanglewood’s own written word. He cared for her. He did! She knew he did, and it warmed her—soothed her fevered mind.

She read the first words of the letter once more.

Fair Faris of Loch Loland Castle…’tis I…the twilight-lover you own
…

Sighing with delight and an odd sort of relief, she continued to read.

And I can no more delay thoughts of you lingering in my mind than I can delay the rising of the sun. I think only of a violet-curtained dwelling where last I met the evening beauty who holds captive my heart. You own my heart, fair Faris of Loch Loland Castle. As surely as if you clasp it in your very hands, you own my heart. And in owning my heart…you own me. Believe all I tell you—you own me, and my greatest desire is to own you.

I must hold you in my arms once more! I must taste the berry-flavor of your kiss! And yet, my determination to fight great injustice may well place you in the path of danger if I am not full cautious. Therefore, we must plan well: we must be secretive and ever wary. It is even I am anxious in writing to you and feel it necessary to plan our next rendezvous through understanding of the past, rather than in terms any eyes might interpret. Therefore, I propose this: four nights hence we shall rendezvous, yet let us meet where once we met before, where the color of sunset runs forever, where the silver of moonlight illuminates legend, where entwine the branches of true and everlasting love. You know well the place I mean, I am certain. We have met where the color of sunset runs forever. We have conversed where the silver of moonlight illuminates legend, and we have tasted sweet kisses beneath branches of true and everlasting love.

Four nights hence, fair Faris. Meet me when the sun is nearly set. I will find you and administer to you kisses of such fiery passion as to render you breathless in my arms…helpless against my any purpose. Four nights hence, fair Faris. I will find you there.

Your Servant, Your Secret, Your Lover
.

Faris sighed, brushing tears from her cheeks. All would be well. She would meet the Highwayman in four days’ time—in four days she would be in his arms again! The knowledge renewed her happiness; it settled her mind. After all, Lochlan Rockrimmon had meant nothing in kissing her. The young master of Loch Loland only desired to best Kade Tremeshton at another turn—and in truth, he had. Furthermore, Faris inwardly admitted to herself that if there were to be a nobleman to steal a kiss from her, far better it was the likes of the handsome Lochlan Rockrimmon than a devil the likes of Kade Tremeshton.

Pressing the Highwayman’s letter to her lips, Faris kissed it softly. She would cherish the letter all the days of her life—hold it as her greatest treasure. Carefully, she tucked it into the small wooden box she kept, her box of cherished things. There she hid the letter from her lover—the letter from the Highwayman of Tanglewood—beneath the worn ribbons that had once belonged to her mother.

Great fatigue overtook Faris suddenly. Wearily she nestled into her warm bed. Four days—a simple time to pass. She would see the Highwayman once more, and in seeing him, her fears would be soothed once more.

Closing her eyes, Faris tried to envision the Highwayman astride his black steed—tried to imagine him riding through the purple heather near the ruins of Castle Alexendria. She tried to imagine him reining in at Loch Loland Castle’s stables, stripping himself of his black attire to don the clothing he wore by day—the clothing of Lord Rockrimmon’s master stableman, Bainbridge Graybeau. She thought of Lillias’s desire that Lord Gawain Kendrick be, in secret, the Highwayman of Tanglewood. She thought of Lochlan Rockrimmon then—wondered if Lady Rockrimmon had managed to efficiently tend to the wound at his forehead. Her next thought was of Lochlan Rockrimmon’s rakish kiss. She inwardly scolded herself when the thought of his kiss brought a tingle to her lips and caused goose bumps to ripple over her flesh. She wondered if Lochlan truly planned to wed Tannis Stringham. The thought disturbed her somehow, and she returned her musings to the Highwayman of Tanglewood. His letter was tucked safely away, and the knowledge soothed Faris as she drifted into slumbering.

❦

“He’s only being polite,” Sarah said. “That’s the truth of it.”

“He’s planning to ask for her hand, I tell you,” Mary insisted.

Faris tried to ignore the conversation between Mary and Sarah, tried to concentrate on finishing her own supper. Yet the speculation as to the reason for Lady Stringham and her daughter’s impending visit was running fierce and free at Loch Loland Castle. Most of those who labored therein supposed their young master Lochlan was planning to propose marriage to Tannis Stringham, while the others supposed he was only being polite—extending a coerced invitation.

Whatever the reason—and Faris preferred to believe the second—she felt unsettled, anxious for her young master’s happiness. Still, Faris had her own concerns. She glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall—sighed at the slow pace of the pendulum. Four days and three nights until dusk would find her out in search of her lover. Yet after four days and three nights, she would know reassurance as to the affections and adoration of the Highwayman.

How did lovers endure being parted? She often wondered at it. Since meeting the Highwayman one year previous—after his stealing a kiss from her in the meadow—since that night Faris had not known serenity. Since that night, although she had owned a joy beyond measure, she had not a moment of feeling free from care.

Furthermore, it seemed to her now that her moments of peace had lessened all the more since Lochlan Rockrimmon had returned to his ancestral home. The talk of his possible marriage to Tannis Stringham caused everyone to feel unsettled.

“Master Lochlan would never marry with the likes of Tannis Stringham. Of that I am certain,” Sarah said. “Although, she is very beautiful,” she added, a scowl puckering her brow.

“Beautiful like a perfumed poison,” Mary mumbled.

“What do you think, Faris?” Sarah asked.

Faris shrugged her shoulders and answered, “I-I am not as well acquainted with Master Lochlan as are you.” She felt the heat rising to her cheeks—for although she did not know the fact of it, she suspected Lochlan Rockrimmon had never stolen a kiss from Sarah. The thought caused Faris to realize she was indeed better acquainted with Lochlan Rockrimmon than was Sarah. “And—and I have no acquaintance with this Tannis Stringham.”

“Yet I hear you may know Master Lochlan far better than you have led us all to believe,” Sarah said, smiling. Her eyes twinkled with friendship and mischief—twinkled with a secret cached.

“What?” Faris exclaimed, feeling flushed and uncomfortable. Had Sarah witnessed the event of the night before? Had Sarah seen Lochlan Rockrimmon kiss her?

“Willeen tells us she was walking by Master Lochlan’s chambers only yesterday morning when she saw him bolt his chamber door—bolt you in with him,” Sarah said. She arched one eyebrow, smiling at Faris.

“He—he is a terrible tease. Certainly, you know him well enough to know it is true,” Faris said. Still, she felt overly warm and uneasy. She knew well the dislike that befell a favored servant. Further, she did not like the manner in which her stomach fluttered at the memory.

“And you know Willeen well enough to think better than to believe everything she says, Sarah,” Mary added.

“Still, I think Master Lochlan favors his chambermaid,” Sarah said. She giggled and patted the back of Faris’s hand in the manner of friendship. “I’m only teasing you as well, Faris. I am most certain Maser Lochlan had good reason for—”

“Mary!” All three women startled, gasping as Lochlan entered the kitchen fairly shouting Mary’s name. “Mary! I need pie,” he growled.

Faris winced at the sight of the wound on his forehead. Indeed, Lady Rockrimmon had done a fair job of sewing, but it still stood bruised and painful in appearance.

“Of course, sire,” Mary said, rising from her chair and going to the counter to retrieve a pie.

“A plate is not necessary, Mary,” Lochlan said, sitting down hard in a chair at the table next to Faris. “Just bring me a pie and some sort of utensil to devour it with.”

Faris sat perfectly still, uncertain as to whether or not to flee. Sarah seemed paralyzed with uncertainty as well, for she did not move even a breath.

“Have you had a taxing day then, Master Lochlan?” Mary said, placing a pie and fork on the table before him.

“I have,” he grumbled. “Lord Gettings has taken Robert Gorham’s crop! Taken his crop as punishment for unpaid tenant taxes—taxes that are criminal, in point!”

“No!” Mary gasped. “Robert is such a kind and good man. A hard worker too.”

Lochlan shook his head and plunged the fork into the middle of the pie. “That he is. And not deserving of such treatment or loss. I have offered him a cottage near Loch Loland, and he has accepted. Still, he is too proud to accept any else. I fear we will be bringing many a food basket to the Gorham tenant this winter.”

“If you will excuse me then, sire,” Sarah said, finding her voice at last.

“Of course,” Lochlan mumbled, waving his fork in her direction in a gesture she was free to leave. “Mary, another fork if you would—Faris is wanting to share my pie.”

“Oh, no, no, no, sire,” Faris began. “I am not in the least hungry.”

“Hunger has nothing whatsoever to do with it, girl,” he grumbled. “Another fork, if you would, Mary.”

“Of course, Master Lochlan,” Mary said, winking at Faris. Her amusement was thinly masked. No doubt she had witnessed the young master in such a state of upheaval before. No doubt it was the reason Mary seemed to have a perpetual supply of fresh pies since his return. “And then, if you don’t mind, sire, I’ll be about planning tomorrow’s meals.”