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“Oh, Claire, ye do break my heart wi’ loving you.”
“Och, easy, Sassenach. If ye can stand up, you’re not drunk.” He let go of the mantelpiece, took a step toward me, and crumpled slowly onto the hearth, eyes blank, and a wide, sweet smile on his dreaming face.
Lol
“Blood of my blood,” he whispered, “and bone of my bone. You carry me within ye, Claire, and ye canna leave me now, no matter what happens. You are mine, always, if ye will it or no, if ye want me or nay. Mine, and I wilna let ye go.”
“For I give ye my spirit, ’til our life shall be done.”
“But I talk to you as I talk to my own soul,” he said, turning me to face him. He reached up and cupped my cheek, fingers light on my temple. “And, Sassenach,” he whispered, “your face is my heart.”
“What have you done, Sassenach?” he demanded. He was staring under my arm. “Shaved,” I said proudly.
Haha oh jamie
“And what’s wrong wi’ the way ye smell?” he said heatedly. “At least ye smelt like a woman, not a damn flower garden. What d’ye think I am, a man or a bumblebee?
Haha
“If it was a sin for you to choose me … then I would go to the Devil himself and bless him for tempting ye to it.”
Lying on the floor, with the carved panels of the ceiling flickering dimly above, I found myself thinking that I had always heretofore assumed that the tendency of eighteenth-century ladies to swoon was due to tight stays; now I rather thought it might be due to the idiocy of eighteenth-century men.
I love her writing!
“All right. And ye wish it, I shall punish you.”
Yaaas
“Jamie—I won’t … I can’t … I bloody won’t live without you, and that’s all!”
