thank the saints, because Toran wasn’t above tossing someone down the steep incline.
Jenny led him at a run down the corridor to her room and thrust it open, shoving him against the wall inside before crushing her body and mouth to his.
Tugging at her frock coat, he still managed to shut the door and flick the key in the lock. They stripped each other in desperate, frantic movements, tossing clothes to the floor and stumbling toward the bed, their mouths claiming one another over and over. Toran tumbled them to the bed, Jenny’s legs coming up around his hips at the same time he entered her.
They cried out together in pleasure at the heated contact, both too far gone with desire and need to be quiet or to go slowly. He pumped into her. A hand on her breast, massaging, the other beneath her rear, lifting her higher so he could drive deeper.
Their coupling might have been hurried, desperate, but no less pleasurable for all that. Jenny raked her nails down his back, arching her spine as she broke apart beneath him, her slick channel tightening in rapid flutters around his cock and pushing him over the edge.
“Dinna withdraw from me,” Jenny demanded.
Toran obeyed her command, shuddering into her.
They collapsed onto the bed, both still breathing hard. Toran rolled to the side, tugging her with him, where he tucked her perfectly against him. This was a dream, exactly where he wanted to be for all the days of his life. How the hell had he gotten so lucky?
“I’m happy, Toran.”
“Me too, mo chridhe, me too.”
His heart.
* * *
They were married the following morning with Prince Charles and much of her Jacobite army present. Despite the cold and snow, great bonfires were lit from one end of the Mackintosh lands to the other.
Fiona and Annie arrived just before the nuptials began, hugging her tightly and squealing about her being the first of them to wed and what luck to have wed a man such as Toran Fraser.
In the week following her wedding, Jenny felt like her face would crack from how much she’d been smiling. Her body was sore from making love morning, noon, and night. But the ache was good, and she’d be just fine if it never went away. The prince took his men—and several of hers—northward to try to rally more support among the Highlanders, and so far, her brother had yet to return to Cnàmhan Broch. That seemed inevitable, however. The man would not allow her to win. And if he wasn’t chasing after the prince, she could expect him at her doorstep any day now.
Twenty-Seven
One Week Later…
Toran sat on the same rise he’d been on a few months before, looking down at the curling smoke of Dùnaidh Castle. He’d not heard from his uncle since he’d left his castle with Isla and Camdyn in tow.
But he couldn’t wait any longer. It was time to confront his uncle about the lies he’d told and the treachery.
Behind him were Dirk, Mac, Archie, and a shackled Simon. The old Fox wasn’t the only one who could barter a life.
They descended the hill and waited outside the gate while the men ran to find his uncle, for he refused to go inside and be set upon.
“Bring out the old man, bring his guards, I dinna care, but we’re no’ coming in.”
The Fox appeared a quarter hour later, one man by his side on horseback. They rode through the gate and met Toran on his terms.
“Let’s no’ beat around the bush, lad. What do ye want in exchange for my son?”
That was surprising. Toran had honestly assumed his uncle would tell him to take Simon to hell with him. But he managed not to show his surprise. “I know ye’ve secretly aligned with Boyd, which means ye’ve got information that might be useful to me.”
“I know nothing.” His uncle’s voice was thick with mucus, and he coughed on the last note.
“Ye lie. Let’s talk about my mother.”
Not even a flash of guilt crossed the man’s face. He remained completely unaffected. “What about her?”
“Ye lied to me about her death.”
The Fox waved his hand in the air as if there was a fly buzzing about his head. “She had it coming. And ye served your purpose well.”
Toran tightened his hands on the reins, imagining he was wringing his uncle’s neck. It took every ounce of willpower he had not to launch himself over the horse and run the bastard through. But to