The Highwayman of Tanglewood (36 page)

Slowly her gaze traveled the length of him—over his soft brown hair to the set of his jaw to the blood-soaked boots he wore. The rise and fall of his chest again reassured her he yet lived, but there was no other reassurance to be given her. Her beloved Highwayman, the rogue Highwayman of Tanglewood, was lost to her forever—and yet, there was Lochlan Rockrimmon, her champion and hero. The battle that had raged inside her, the confusion of her heart, was vanquished at the knowledge she had not been untrue to her lover. In fact, what better dream made real could there be? The two valiant men she so desperately loved—the two magnificent men her heart and mind had struggled to understand, struggled to choose between—these two were one. It should have been her comfort—her joy. It should well have been the most wonderful knowledge of her life long. Yet there could be no owning Lochlan Rockrimmon. The Highwayman of Tanglewood may have been anyone—peasant, smithy, or stablemaster. The Highwayman of Tanglewood may have married with a young chambermaid, but Lochlan Rockrimmon was born of greatness, to greatness, and to great expectation. If not Tannis Stringham, he would marry the like of her—beautiful, graceful, wealthy, and with a vast dowry and lineage.

Faris brushed the tears from her cheeks. Still, it was a vain attempt, for more tears followed in their wake. Reaching forth, she dared run her fingers through the soft brown hair of Lochlan Rockrimmon. The sensation was a dream made truth, for she had never seen her Highwayman without the mask covering his head and face. Trailing her fingers over his cheek, his jawline, his lips—she took his limp, lifeless hand in hers, lacing their fingers and placing a tender kiss to the its back

Faris leaned forward, pressing her lips to his—surprised when his feverish voice mumbled, “Faris…my fair Faris…you promised.”

“I promised to love you,” she whispered, “not to endure being unable to own you.”

She grimaced, tears stinging her eyes as she released his hand. Retrieving the discarded mask he had worn only a short time before, she stood—yet gazing down at him in the moonlight. Faris Shayhan knew not where she would go or how she would arrive there. Still, she knew she would go, for her lover was lost to her. In being assured of the Highwayman’s true identity, she had lost the hope of his promised love. When she had seen him safe, knew he was well and cared for—she would flee.

“Faris!” Lady Rockrimmon cried.

Faris gasped when she saw Lady Rockrimmon rushing toward her. The great lady wore only her nightdress. Her hair hung freely about her shoulders.

“Darling!” Lady Rockrimmon exclaimed, reaching out and taking Faris’s hands in her own. “Tell me he will live, Faris! Promise me he will live!” Lady Rockrimmon released only one of Faris’s hands as she dropped to her knees beside her son.

“Oh, my darling!” she cried. “My darling Loch!”

“She means to leave me, Mother,” Loch growled. His eyes opened for only a moment as he commanded in a weak voice, “Do not lose sight of Faris, Mother. Have Joseph bind her if he must—but…but do not lose sight of her.”

Pulling her hand from Lady Rockrimmon’s grasp, Faris was certain she was about to swoon. Her breathing was labored, too rapid. The world seemed about a mad spin.

“Hold her fast, Joseph!” Lady Rockrimmon cried. Instantly, Faris found herself held fast in the surprisingly strong arms of Old Joseph. “Hold her!”

“Let me go, Joseph. Please. I will not leave until his fate is known,” Faris sobbed. She felt weak—knew she had no strength left in her.

“He will surely die if you leave him, Faris,” Joseph said. His voice was calm, yet determined.

Faris’s fevered mind could resist no longer, and as she slipped into the darkness of unconsciousness, she thought,
Oh, let him live. Please let him live
.

❦

“His lordship Lord Rockrimmon will ride, milady. Graybeau is already too suspect.” It was Old Joseph’s voice breaking the silence of Faris’s unconscious state. “Milord will ride…make certain he is seen as the Highwayman.”

“After all he has already endured, Mr. Standard? Can he…can he endure your smoldering the wound?” Lady Rockrimmon said. Her fearful voice was nearly a whisper.

“I must cauterize it now, milady, lest infection sets in directly,” the man said. The man looked then to Faris, speaking yet to Lady Rockrimmon. “He is feverish and fitful, milady…worrisome over the girl, in want of her company. I see she is awake. Might she be persuaded to—”

“Of course! Faris—you must go with Mr. Standard. Lochlan must have you. He has been in such a state ever since he regained consciousness! Such a state, Faris!” Lady Rockrimmon brushed a strand of hair from Faris’s forehead, caressing the place lovingly with the back of her hand. “He loves you, Faris. It is long I have known Lochlan Rockrimmon loves you—not so long I have known his Highwayman loves you too.”

“He—he cannot love me, milady,” Faris said, tears filling her eyes. “For I—I am but a chambermaid.”

“As was I, Faris—a chambermaid in the very house you are chambermaid in now. But that was before the young master of Loch Loland Castle fell in love with me—before he made me his bride,” Lady Rockrimmon whispered.

Faris squeezed her eyes tightly shut, afraid to believe the woman’s assurance. Young masters did not marry chambermaids. They did not. Ill-treated them, as Kade Tremeshton had, teased them perhaps—but never did they take them to wife.

“Quickly, miss. He is in a bad way yet,” the physician said.

“Go to him, Faris,” Lady Rockrimmon said. “The rest can be sorted out once he is well enough.” Faris nodded. Mr. Standard and Old Joseph assisted her in rising from the bed. Her arms and legs were heavy, as was her spirit—her heart.

Lochlan was pallid—as pale as death where he lay in a bed in an adjoining room. Yet his emerald eyes flashed when first he caught sight of her. Faris wondered how she had not recognized the flash of his green eyes when she met him as the Highwayman. Still, their meetings had ever been under the cover of twilight and darkness. Coupled with the mask he ever wore, the two small slits made for his sight—all of it had endeavored to hide the brilliant emerald of his eyes.

“Faris!” his breath called to her. “Come to me at once!” he demanded. “At once!”

Faris went to him. He took hold of her wrist, pulling her against his body. “Oh, Faris—Faris!” he breathed into her hair. “I—I thought you had quit me already…not waiting even to see if I lived. And I shall surely die if you leave me.”

“Hush,” she whispered, laying her head against the strength of his chest. “You must endure…and rest.”

“Put the branch in his mouth, Joseph,” Mr. Standard said. “You must remain as still as possible, sire. Do you understand?”

“Do not take Faris from me, Standard. Do
you
understand?” Lochlan growled.

Lochlan shouted. Faris sobbed as she watched the perspiration and pain overtake his handsome face, the sickening smell of seared flesh filling her nostrils. Lochlan’s entire body began to tremble. Yet he did not lose consciousness, and Joseph removed the branch from Lochlan’s mouth.

“Yes, sire. A great deal of rest is needed if you are to regain your strength,” Mr. Standard confirmed. “Miss Faris needs her rest as well. You may see her after you have—”

“I—I will not leave you,” Faris told him. She caressed his whiskered cheek with the palm of her hand, reveling in the blessed sensation of his flesh beneath her touch.

“He will survive and heal,” Mr. Standard said. “If he will rest…and he refuses to rest unless the girl is with him. But I cannot possibly allow—”

❦

In the latest hours of the night, Faris lay still awake—still staring at the handsome face of her beloved Lochlan—the handsome and unmasked face of her adored Highwayman of Tanglewood. She placed her hand to his cheek. It was cooled yet warm—a fine indication he would be well.

“Who did you love best?”

“What?” she gasped—startled at the sound of Lochlan’s voice. “Shhhhh. You must rest, sire,” she whispered, caressing his brow with her fingertips.

“Tell me, Faris,” he said, opening his eyes to look at her. “I must know. Did you love the Highwayman best—or did you best love me?”

Faris smiled. She could see the torment in his eyes, the guilt in him at having lied to her. Further, she saw love—in the emerald flash of his eyes. He loved her. It was evident and certain he did. Whether he would break and defy propriety to marry her or whether she would have to give him up to the demands of his station, still, she knew he loved her.

“I have been lying just here thinking on it,” she whispered.

“And have you come to determination?” he asked. His eyes were tired—yet warm and alive. Their gaze gave cause to goose bumps rising on her arms.

“I loved the Highwayman first,” she told him, “for I met him first, kissed him first, loved him first. But—but from the moment I first saw you…I began to wish he were you. I wished for it so deeply that I kept my wish to myself—a secret to my own soul. Yet, I—I think I knew it from the moment we met…or at least hoped it was so from the moment we met. Therefore, my answer can only be that I love you—the Highwayman of Tanglewood—that I love him, and you are him. I love Lochlan Rockrimmon, and whatever may happen, wherever I may find myself, I will ever love him…I will ever love you. It is why I felt such the betrayer,” she said. “For I loved him first, and in that I clung to my heart’s first loyalty…while in truth…I loved you best.” She had spoken the truth—the truth that had nearly destroyed her in the battle for it.

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.