Free The Highwayman of Tanglewood by Marcia Lynn McClure

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.