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Legible or not, the date at the top of the page sprang out at me as though written in letters of fire: 20 April, 1743.
I remembered a sensation of physical struggle, as though I were caught in a current of some kind. Yes, I had deliberately fought against it, whatever it was. There were images in the current, too, I thought. Not pictures, exactly, more like incomplete thoughts. Some were terrifying and I had fought away from them as I … well, as I “passed.” Had I fought toward others? I had some consciousness of fighting toward a surface of some kind. Had I actually chosen to come to this particular time because it offered some sort of haven from that whirling maelstrom?
“Ye wouldna expect me to be less bold than a wee Sassenach lassie, now would ye?”
“Oh. It’s Fraser. James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser.”
’Til death us do part.” The words rang out in the quiet chapel with a startling finality.
‘Ye are Blood of my Blood, and Bone of my Bone. I give ye my Body, that we Two might be One. I give ye my Spirit, ’til our Life shall be Done.’
Dangerous thing, infatuation. I had felt it, several times, but had had the good sense not to act on it. And as it always does, after a time the attraction had lessened, and the man lost his golden aura and resumed his usual place in my life, with no harm done to him, to me, or to Frank.
“I meant it, ye know,” he said softly. “I will protect you. From him, or anyone else. To the last drop of my blood, mo duinne.”
Twenty-seven years of propriety were no match for several hundred thousand years of instinct. While my mind might object to being taken on a bare rock next to several sleeping soldiers, my body plainly considered itself the spoils of war and was eager to complete the formalities of surrender.
In body or soul, somewhere he struck a spark, and an answering fury of passion and need sprang from the ashes of surrender.
“Sandringham? Ah, old Willie the arse-bandit,”
Lol
“That,” I said primly, “is an areola, and you know it, because I told you last week.” “So ye did,” he murmured. “And there’s another one, fancy that.”
Jamie fraser the comedian
“Because I wanted you.” He turned from the window to face me. “More than I ever wanted anything in my life,” he added softly.
“Rub them for me, Jamie,” she begged. “You’re better at it than Ian.”
I always felt slightly uncomfortable with jamie and jennys relationship
Her voice was lower now, and her hands rose again to her breasts, heavy and compelling under the light bodice.
Like youre fondling your breasts and rubbing your nipples infront of your bro? I know it was a different time but still
“English by birth, Scots by marriage,” I said firmly. “My name is Claire Fraser. My husband is a prisoner in Wentworth.”
“I rather think his arse is beyond saving by this time; it’s his neck I’m concerned with. The English mean to hang him in the morning.”
Poor jaime
