Written in My Own Heart's Blood (Outlander, #8)

by Diana Gabaldon

Roger shrugged. “Law’s a corrupt power but one acceptable to men by reason of having arisen from men—it’s a way of getting on wi’ things, is the best ye can say for it.”

“The law’s a necessary evil—we canna be doing without it—but do ye not think it a poor substitute for conscience?

“Constructed?” he echoed, surprised. “Who builds God?” That actually made Roger laugh, which made him feel a little better, if only momentarily. “We all do,” he said dryly. “If God makes man in His image, we all return the favor.” “Mmphm.” Buck thought that one over, then nodded slowly. “Wouldna just say ye’re wrong about that. But God’s there, nonetheless, whether we ken quite what He is or not. Isn’t He?”

“Ye’ve made your peace with what I am, ye think—but I think ye dinna ken what that means. To be what I am doesna mean only that I’ll spill my own blood when I must. It means I must sacrifice other men to the ends of my own cause—not only those I kill as enemies, but those I hold as friends … or as kin.”

I didn’t know what it was about red hair, but many years’ experience with Jamie, Brianna, and Jemmy had taught me that while most people became irritable when hungry, a redheaded person with an empty stomach was a walking time bomb.

To remember for Sophia.

“And two—speaking as a woman with some experience—I can tell you that nobody knows what being married’s going to be like until you find yourself in the midst of it.”

Pointless to spend too much time in planning, anyway, given the propensity of life to make sudden left-hand turns without warning.

“Mmphm. Well, I suppose men can make all the laws they like,” he said, “but God made hope. The stars willna burn out.” He turned and, cupping my chin, kissed me gently. “And nor will we.”