No,” I agreed dryly. “I don’t suppose he’d have been pleased, no matter what you said.” “He wasn’t. He backhanded me across the mouth, to shut me up.
Amo, amas, I love a lass, As cedar tall and slender; Sweet cowslip’s grace Is her nominative case, And she’s o’ the feminine gender.
Marketing with a small baby was more like a ninety-minute expedition into Darkest Borneo, requiring massive amounts of equipment and tremendous expenditures of energy.
He pulled himself gently from my grasp without answering and stood back, suddenly a figure from another time, seen in relief upon a background of hazy hills, the life in his face a trick of the shadowing rock, as if flattened beneath layers of paint, an artist’s reminiscence of forgotten places and passions turned to dust.
Rain was roaring on the tin roof now, and lightning struck close by, blue-white and sharp with ozone. We rode it together, forked and light-blind, breathless, and the thunder rolled through our bones.
I bent to pick up the dirk. “Serve you right if I did,” I remarked. “Cocky bastard.” The grin visible beneath the crook of his arm widened still further. “Sassenach?” I stopped, dirk still in my hand. “What?” “I’ll die a happy man.
I drew a deep breath and sighed, shaking my head. “I do not understand men.” That made him chuckle, deep in his chest. “Yes, ye do, Sassenach. Ye only wish ye didn’t.
It wasn’t a very.
There are only two people in this world to whom I would never lie, Sassenach,” he said softly. “Ye’re one of them. And I’m the other.
English dragoons.
We come and go from mystery and, in between, we try to forget. But a breeze passing in a still room stirs my hair now and then in soft affection. I think it is my mother.
Stephan’s hand left his breast, and reached out. Grey took it, and felt love flow between them. He thought that heart and body must be entirely melted – if only for that moment.
Often people who are very ill, but are near their birthday, seem to wait until it’s passed before dying. I.
He was right, of course. Bloody man, he was almost always right.
I had come to the conclusion – based on experience – that the only real way of learning to write a novel was probably to write a novel.
The simple act of writing Fraser’s name had given him a sense of connexion, and he realized that the desperate need for such connexion was what had driven him to write it.
And it was, as Dougal explained, convenient to the pillory, a homely wooden contraption that stood on a small stone plinth in the center of the square, adjacent to the wooden stake used – with thrifty economy of purpose – as whipping post, maypole, flagstaff and horse tether, depending upon requirements.
If ever you find yourself in the midst of paradox, you can be sure you stand on the edge of truth,” his adoptive father had told him once. “You may not know what it is, mind,” he’d added with a smile. “But it’s there.
My sobs lessened and I began to calm myself, leaning tiredly into the curve of his shoulder. No wonder he was so good with horses, I thought blearily, feeling his fingers rubbing gently behind my ears, listening to the soothing, incomprehensible speech. If I were a horse, I’d let him ride me anywhere.
I was becoming slightly bored.