I kissed his cheek, damp and salty. I could feel his heart beating against my ribs, and wanted nothing more than to stay there forever, not moving, not making love, just breathing the same air.
He grinned wryly at his nephew. Ye’ll amount to something for your mother’s sake—if it kills us both.
What I say to thee now is that I do love thee. And if thee hunts at night, thee will come home.
The lad’s offering to take the girl’s punishment for her, she said absently, peeking around a spectator in front of us.
Open your eyes and tell me yourself, Sassenash, said a deep urgent voice somewhere close.
He kissed my forehead gently. Loving you has put me through hell more than once, Sassenach; I'll risk it again, if need be. Bah, I said. And you think loving you has been a bed of roses, do you? This...
Indeed, Jamie said politely. I believe that was the Crown’s notion in executing my grandsire on Tower Hill after the Rising. Verra effective, too; all my relations have been quite well behaved since.
They had had no opportunity to speak, though—and he could not seem to invent a pretext, let alone think what he might say if he found one. He felt amazingly self-conscious, like a boy unable to say an...
Vain of his hair, which was blond and thick, he didn’t commonly wear a wig, choosing instead to bind and powder his own for formal occasions. The present occasion wasn’t formal in the least. With the...
Mmphm, he said. Hell of a choice, there. A stick up the cock, or a finger up the backside, eh?
Men would eat horse droppings, if ye served them wi' butter.
Why? I shrieked, hitting him again and again, and again, the sound of the blows thudding against his chest. Why, why why!.Because I was afraid! He got hold of my wrists and threw me backward so I fell...
Lord, that she might be safe, he prayed. She and the child.
Nothing is lost ... only changed.
I am a Highlander, Jamie said bleakly. He glanced once more at the far bank, where occasional glimpses of tartan showed through the mist, and then back. The shouting echoed from the fog. And I am the...
The ancient savagery that men call motherhood, who mistake its tenderness for weakness.
He wanted to ask whether she were insane, but he had been married long enough to know the price of injudicious rhetorical questions.
Relatively few who could be described as a Red-haired dejenerate Pox-ridden Usuring Son of a Bitch who skulks in Brothels when not drunk and comitting Riot in the Street, I imagine.
Jews are— He made an equivocal gesture, palm flattened. But they dinna really hunt them in France, or exile them anymore, and the captain says they dinna even arrest them, so long as they keep quiet....
I suppose I am asking whether you believe in fate, Lord John went on. The ghost of a smile wavered on his face. You, of all people, would seem best suited to say.
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