by Eliza Knight
“Sip.” He held a flask to her lips, and she drank greedily, the warmth of the liquor swirling in her belly and helping her to forget just how cold she was. Toran continued to massage her frozen fingers and toes until prickles of feeling came back and then finally warmth.
Toran put her hose back on, replaced her boots, and then pulled her onto his lap, tucking her beneath his own plaid. She closed her eyes in a wash of grateful warmth.
“Thank ye,” she murmured, pressing a kiss to his chin.
“Ye need not thank me for taking care of ye, lass. I vow to do it for the rest of our lives.”
Toran pressed his lips to hers in a gentle kiss and then tucked her head beneath his chin against his chest. Jenny burrowed closer, wrapped in a safe cocoon of warmth.
“Even if ye deny ye want me to,” he added.
Jenny smiled, snuggling into his warmth. “I’d have it no other way.”
She jolted awake in the middle of the night, instantly on alert, her heart pounding. Footsteps sounded outside.
When she tried to move, Toran held her tight. “Dinna move,” he whispered in her ear.
The rest of the men had woken as well, the whites of their eyes shining in the moonlight that reflected off the snow in the croft.
The footsteps were light and stuttered, edging closer and closer to the door.
Toran slowly shifted her from his lap, and they both pulled out their pistols, her men doing the same. If they were about to be ambushed, they would face it head-on.
One by one, they slowly and silently rose to their feet. The door and shutters on the window were closed to keep out the cold, though the caved-in roof blocked their view outside.
Toran tapped Jenny and pointed to himself and then at the door, indicating that he was going to open it and confront whoever was on the other side. She shook her head vigorously and mouthed, “Nay.” There could be hundreds of King George’s men out there!
He nodded again, and she again denied him. Opening that door, if there were enemies outside, was just asking for an attack.
“The horses,” he whispered back. “They will know we’re in here.”
Jenny had forgotten about the horses. Mo chreach, but they would have to fight.
She pointed to herself, then the door, and then the rear window and Toran. If they were going to do this, then they were going to repeat the rout they’d done before—her distracting the enemy and him running.
Toran tried to argue, but she simply turned from him and walked toward the door, his fingertips brushing against her arm.
Her hand on the handle, she turned back to see him glowering. They stood for a moment, a complete argument in a stare only. Toran stalked forward and stood right behind her. “I’m not leaving ye,” he murmured.
Jenny gave in to that. There was no use in arguing with him, and she could use his strength at her back. With the rest of her men in position and ready to fight, she slowly opened the door and peered outside—only to find four frightened deer staring back at her, heads turned her way, bodies as still as marble statues, eyes as wide as the moon itself.
“Deer,” she murmured, a rush of relief flooding her, and gave a short laugh. “We were ready to go to battle with a herd of doe.”
The men laughed, and so did she, the tension leaving their bodies. She started to close the door, certain she’d not be sleeping tonight, when one of the animals let out a piercing cry. The doe fell to the ground, an arrow through her neck. The remaining deer took off in terror, and Jenny felt the chilling thread of fear scaling her spine, vertebra by vertebra.
Whoever had just felled the deer could have just as easily felled her.
Toran yanked her back inside and stepped in front of her, pistol raised, as he scanned the woods.
Another of her men heaved open the window to stare outside, his musket poised on his shoulder.
There was a whirring noise in the air, and then flaming arrows blanketed the sky, some landing on the roof of the croft, others falling through the gaping holes to lodge inside.
“Get to your horses,” Jenny ordered.
The men scrambled to do as she bid, holding their targes over their heads as they ran toward the stable to get their mounts. She was glad now she’d told them to keep their horses ready to go should they come under attack. She only wished she’d also thought about keeping the mounts inside the croft for easier access.
Jenny ran with her men, keeping her head low, her targe raised up in protection.
A volley of arrows hit the ground around them, one of them piercing the calf of a Mackintosh soldier. He cried out but didn’t stop running, batting out the flames with his hands and breaking off the shaft before leaping onto his horse.
They rode away as swiftly as they could in the snow. For a breathless hour she veered this way and that, trying to avoid a pursuing enemy who would surely be able to follow their tracks in the snow. Finally, Jenny called a halt. There was no one behind them. No pursuer, and she wondered if there might never have been—if those who’d shot at them never intended to follow.
Who would attack and then not pursue?
One name came to her mind. One person who would want to toy with her—Hamish. If it were the English, they’d have come after the rebels, rushed them when they gathered their horses. They would have done more damage—and with bullets. If it were outlaws, they would have given chase, if only to rob them.
Jenny burned with rage. Had Hamish really fallen so low?
A small part of her had hoped that when she was finally able to confront him, she could convince him to come back to the Jacobite cause. That she could remind him of their father’s and grandfather’s legacy, prove to him that this had all been a big mistake. Maybe Hamish was confused, lured by the treasure trove of coin he had been promised, the titles, the land. It was greed that spurred him on, not allegiance to the pretender on the throne.
“They dinna follow,” Toran mused.
“Nay. But dinna doubt they are behind us.” Jenny gritted her teeth. “I’m certain ’twas my brother.”
The men grumbled, their irritation with Hamish already at a high level after his constant drain on their provisions.
“He wants Cnàmhan Broch back. A stronghold in the Highlands for his English puppet masters.”
Toran cursed under his breath. “We’re not far now.”
“Aye. If we ride through the day, we can make it by midnight.”
“The horses will be exhausted.”
She nodded. “’Haps when we reach MacPherson lands, they’ll allow us to trade them out.”
After tending to the warrior with the wounded leg, they continued on, changing out the horses at a MacPherson croft and updating them about the battle at Falkirk.
When at last Jenny and her men arrived at Cnàmhan Broch, Lady Mackintosh, Isla, and Camdyn greeted them with massive embraces. Mac gave her an update on all that had happened while she was away, which was thankfully void of any conflict.
Jenny ordered the men who’d arrived with her to get some warm food, ale, and rest and had those on guard duty lock up the gates tight and double their forces, telling them to look out for any signs of her brother or his impending arrival.
Inside the castle, Jenny’s mother ordered her a hot meal from the pottage that still boiled in an iron kettle in the kitchen from their own dinner. Toran had gone out to sit with the men, and she wished he was inside with her now.
“Ye need a bath.”
“Aye, a hot one,” Jenny said, feeling the grime that was caked to her skin and the chill in her bones that just wouldn’t go away. She remembered Toran’s whispered words the night they’d made love, saying she needed a hot bath, and the wicked side of her wished he would climb into the tub with her now that she had the chance for one.
Between bites, Jenny filled her mother in on the events of the batt
le and her intentions for the next few days.
“Eat the rest of your supper and I’ll have a bath drawn up for ye.”
After scraping the last of the pottage from her bowl with the remaining hunk of her bread, Jenny climbed the stairs with heavy legs to her chamber, achingly aware of her exhaustion, grateful for the castle’s staff, and reflecting on how damn lucky she was to be home when she could have died so many times over. To have escaped unscathed save for a few minor scrapes was a miracle.
In her chamber a steaming bath awaited her, strewn with dried rose petals and herbs. A fire had been built up high in the hearth, and already her room was feeling toasty.
“I’ve laid out a clean night rail and some thick woolen hose to keep ye warm,” her mother said. “Do ye want me to wash your hair?”
Jenny smiled and tossed herself into her mother’s arms. “I love ye, Mama. And I know I must stink to the very depths of the netherworld, so thank ye for being so kind.”
“There is no other way for a mother to be, sweet lass.” Lady Mackintosh stroked her hair.
“I’m fine. Ye’ve done enough. Go and rest yourself.”
“Are ye sure?” Reluctance filled her mother’s features.
“Aye. I’m home and safe, and I can see from the circles under your eyes that ye’re in need of a good rest.”
“I’d stay awake for another month if ye wished it. I’m so glad ye’re all right.”
Jenny cracked a smile. “I’d never ask ye to do that, Mama. I’m just glad to be alive and that we beat Hamish here. I’d never be able to forgive myself if something had happened to ye.”
“Likewise, my love. And Toran?” Her mother’s brows raised in hopeful question.
“He stayed by me, even when I pushed him away.”
A wistful smile crept onto Lady Mackintosh’s lips. “He’s a good man.”
“Aye, Mama, he is.” She bit the inside of her cheek, feeling the scars from where she’d torn her mouth apart during Toran’s beating. “I’m fairly certain I’m in love with him.”
Lady Mackintosh’s mouth fell open in surprise, and she touched Jenny’s cheek before her surprise melted into a smile. “’Tis a wonderful feeling, is it not?”
There was no censure from her mother, no pressure to fall into the duties of a wife and mother. She was allowed to simply bask in the glow of loving and being loved in return.
“Ye’d best get in that tub before all the heat is gone from it.”
Jenny tore off her grimy clothes and sank into the glorious water. She laid her head back against the rim of the tub and closed her eyes, allowing the heat to thaw her bones. With the cloth laid over the side of the tub and a ball of scented soap, she scrubbed away the grime of battle and travel.
After bathing, she dressed and sat before the hearth to brush and dry her hair. The servants took away the tub, leaving her with a jug of wine and a plate of sweet biscuits. She nibbled on the treat and sipped at the wine, feeling warm and safe but still full of worry.
A soft scratch came at the door, and her entire body lurched with anticipation. Was it Toran? Was it a warning that her brother had been spotted? Something worse?
“Come in,” she called anxiously, setting down her wine glass and leaving her biscuit half-eaten on the plate.
He entered the room slowly, scanning the chamber before closing the door and leaning against it.
“Toran,” she said softly. “What’s happened?”
“I wanted to be certain ye were all right.”
Her heart melted a little at his concern. “As well as I can be, given the circumstances.” She indicated the plate of sweet biscuits and wine. “Care for dessert?”
“Thank ye.” He came forward and sat on the chair opposite her, taking a bite of a biscuit. “Dear God, how did we survive on the road without these?”
Jenny laughed. “’Haps we ought to take a barrel next time, aye?”
“Without a doubt.”
She nudged her wine glass toward him, and he sipped, watching her over the rim.
His gaze was full of heated promise, and Jenny found herself rising from her chair to close the few feet of space between them. She’d ached to be in his arms since leaving their haven at Dunipace. Toran set down the glass and pulled her onto his lap, his mouth crashing against hers as she wrapped her arms around his neck. Her fingers dove into his wild, thick hair, her body pressing against his muscular form. She shifted so that her legs were on either side of his hips, wanting to be closer to him, the apex of her thighs crushed to the part of him that was quickly growing firm with want.
“I canna wait for the war to be over,” she murmured against his mouth. “I need ye. Now.”
“Aye, lass, I want ye.”
His hands on her thighs shifted her night rail up around her hips as she lifted his kilt up and stroked her hand along his turgid length. His firm grip closed over her hand, and together they guided his arousal with eager intent into the wet heat of her. Toran thrust up inside her, filling her, rocking her with the pleasure of his invasion.
“Toran,” she groaned, her head falling back as he leaned forward and pressed his lips to her breasts.
His fingers curled into the ribbons that tied her night rail closed, and he slowly unthreaded them, capturing her mouth with his again. The frenzied rocking of their bodies slowed, and her body pulsed around him with desperate need.
Velvet hot lips roved over her breasts until the fire of his tongue branded her nipples. Her fingers threaded in his hair, pushed and tugged all at once, uncertain if she wanted more or relief from the pleasure.
“Och, Jenny, ye feel so good,” Toran groaned against her flesh. “I missed ye.”
“Every second out of your arms has been a torment.” She couldn’t stay still, needed to move. She rocked back and forth, eager for more of the sensations the movement brought as his shaft slid in and out of her body. His fingers dug into her hips, willing her to stop, but Jenny couldn’t. She needed more.
Her hands anchored against his shoulders, her toes on the floorboards, she took control, rising up and down, rocking back and forth, finding a rhythm that left her moaning and panting with pleasure. She moved faster and faster, and Toran’s forehead fell to her chest, his groans a mirror to her own.
A hot bath, a warm meal, the safety of her keep’s walls, all were needs that had to be met—but this, their bodies together, the pleasure, this was a need only Toran could satisfy for her.
She nuzzled her way to his lips as they rocked, kissing him as frantically as she moved her hips. Those first bursts of pleasure rocketed her to the ultimate pinnacle of rapture.
Toran groaned against her lips, thrusting harder before he freed himself from her and let himself go, spending against the flat of his belly.
Jenny collapsed against him, her ear pressed to his heavily beating heart. “I love ye,” she whispered, curling against him. The words came naturally to her, not hidden or full of fear but the truth and an admission that needed airing.
Toran held her tighter. “Ye have no idea how verra much I love ye, lass.”
* * *
Toran couldn’t believe she’d said the words. More so, he couldn’t believe the incredible lurching in his chest at hearing them spoken.
She loved him. She’d come to him, made love to him. He tugged one of the linen napkins from where her snack had been set on the table and used it to wipe his seed from her skin.
“I want ye to be mine,” he murmured against her lips as he made a feast of her sweet mouth. “I want to be yours.”
“I already am,” she whispered back.
And he knew she meant it, but still, he wanted her for more than just kissing, more than just making love.
“When this war is over, say ye’ll be my wife,” he said. “Marry me.” It wasn’t a demand but a request.
She was quiet for a long moment, her eyes cast down, long fringed shadows on her cheeks from her lashes.
Toran pressed a finger to her chin and gently tilted her face up. “I dinna intend to take anything from ye, lass, only give ye all of myself. Raise a family, if ye’re willing. I just know that I love ye and want to spend the rest of my life seeing ye smile, fighting battles beside ye, making love to ye.”
“I want that too,” she whispered.
“Ye need not give up your vows or your place as laird. Allow me to stand beside ye.”
She bit her lip. Something was still holding her back, and he’d be lying if he said it didn’t hurt to think that she might not trust him enough.
“Ye dinna have to answer just yet.” He kissed her gently on the lips, hoping to forestall her denial. “But we canna keep this up, else I’ll think ye’ve been taking advantage.”
She giggled. “I, take advantage of ye?” There was mischief in her eyes. “Take me to bed so I can do it again.”
Toran growled low in his throat and reached forward to nip gently at her lip. “I am thoroughly debauched.”
He stood, lifting her with him and carrying her to bed. She laughed, head tossed back, the most beautiful sight he’d ever beheld.
Twenty-Five
Jenny bolted awake the following morning—except it was most certainly morning no longer. The sun beamed through the window of her chamber onto her bed, blinding in its winter vibrancy.
The spot beside her where Toran had finally slept was empty, and when she pressed her hand to the mattress, it was warmed only from the sun.
Tossing back the covers, she wriggled her sore body over the edge of the bed and stood on shaky legs. As though her maid had been waiting for just that moment, the slightest sound of her arising, there came a soft tap at the door and a call of “My laird?”
Laird? Jenny whipped her head toward the door, staring at the wood as though it would answer her question.
She had claimed her brother’s title and her people had agreed, but then she’d ridden out to battle, and her men had called her Mistress J as they always had. It was clear, at least, that the staff honored her title.