The Fiery Cross (Outlander, #5)

by Diana Gabaldon

“Who that, Grand-mère?” Germain, escaped as usual from parental custody, popped up near my feet, pointing curiously at the Reverend Caldwell. “That’s a minister, darling. Auntie Bree and Uncle Roger are getting married.” “Ou qu’on va minster?” I drew a deep breath, but Jamie beat me to it. “It’s a sort of priest, but not a proper priest.” “Bad priest?” Germain viewed the Reverend Caldwell with substantially more interest. “No, no,” I said. “He’s not a bad priest at all. It’s only that … well, you see, we’re Catholics, and Catholics have priests, but Uncle Roger is a Presbyterian—” “That’s a heretic,” Jamie put in helpfully. “It is not a heretic, darling, Grand-père is being funny—or thinks he is. Presbyterians are …” Germain was paying no attention to my explanation, but instead had tilted his head back, viewing Jamie with fascination. “Why Grand-père is making faces?” “We’re verra happy,” Jamie explained, expression still fixed in a rictus of amiability. “Oh.” Germain at once stretched his own extraordinarily mobile face into a crude facsimile of the same expression—a jack-o’-lantern grin, teeth clenched and eyes popping. “Like this?” “Yes, darling,” I said, in a marked tone. “Just like that.” Marsali looked at us, blinked, and tugged at Fergus’s sleeve. He turned, squinting at us. “Look happy, Papa!” Germain pointed to his gigantic smile. “See?” Fergus’s mouth twitched, as he glanced from his offspring to Jamie. His face went blank for a moment, then adjusted itself into...

mirth from TFC

“Seas ri mo làmh, Roger an t’òranaiche, mac Jeremiah MacChoinneich!” Stand by my hand, Roger the singer, son of Jeremiah MacKenzie. Roger stood stock-still for a moment, eyes dark on Jamie, then moved toward him, like one sleepwalking. The crowd was still excited, but the shouting had died down, and people craned to hear what was said. “Stand by me in battle,” he said in Gaelic, his eyes fixed on Roger, left hand extended. He spoke slowly and clearly, to be sure of understanding. “Be a shield for my family—and for yours, son of my house.” Roger’s expression seemed suddenly to dissolve, like a face seen in water when a stone is tossed into it. Then it solidified once more, and he clasped Jamie’s hand, squeezing hard.

I love the deepening of Jamie and Roger

“The past is gone—the future is not come. And we are here together, you and I.”

“D’ye ken that the only time I am without pain is in your bed, Sassenach? When I take ye, when I lie in your arms—my wounds are healed, then, my scars forgotten.” I sighed and laid my head in the curve of his shoulder. My thigh pressed his, the softness of my flesh a mold to his harder form. “Mine, too.”

Brianna reached for the child, taking him to her breast even before she lay down. Never one to refuse nourishment at any hour, Jemmy accepted the offer with alacrity, curling up into an apostrophe of content against his mother’s stomach as she settled on one side. Roger slid into bed behind her, and echoed his son’s posture, bringing up his knees behind Brianna’s, curling his body in a protective comma around her. Thus securely punctuated, Brianna began slowly to relax, though Roger could still feel the tension in her body.

I never thought punctuation could be so exciting!

“It’s only that I may not have another time.” Before Roger could expostulate, he went on. “If there is nay free choice … then there is neither sin nor redemption, aye?” “Jesus,” Roger muttered, shoving the hair back from his forehead. “Come out with Hawkeye and end up under a tree with bloody Augustine of Hippo!”

I realized that my breasts had begun to tingle and stiffen in response to the crying, and smiled, a little ruefully. Strange, that instinct went so deep and lasted so long—would I come one day to a point when nothing in me stirred to the sound of a crying baby, to the scent of a man aroused, to the brush of my own long hair against the skin of my naked back? And if I did come to such a point—would I mourn the loss, I wondered, or find myself peaceful, left to contemplate existence without the intrusion of such animal sensations? It wasn’t only the glories of the flesh that were the gifts of the world, after all; a doctor sees the plentiful miseries flesh is heir to, as well—and yet … standing cool in the flood of late summer’s air from the window, the boards smooth under my bare feet and the touch of wind on bare skin … I could not wish to be a pure spirit—not yet.

This is strong foreshadowing for Claire’s own near death experience from illness. Soon she too will understand the quandary that Jamie has recently endured

“You recall Laurence Sterne?” Jamie asked, evidently reminded of the naturalist by the sounds.

First mention since Voyager

Laurence Sterne,”

Second mention since Voyager

I shook my head, to clear it, and looked up to find Ian’s eyes on me, soft brown and full of speculation. “Yes,” I said baldly, in answer to his look. “I am. Brianna and Roger, too.” Jamie, who had paused to disentangle a phrase, looked up. He saw Ian’s face, and mine, and reached to put his hand on mine.

Ian learns about time trival and Claire, Bree and Roger

I think there are times for men of peace—and a time for men of blood, as well.”

“When the day shall come, that we do part,” he said softly, and turned to look at me, “if my last words are not ‘I love you’—ye’ll ken it was because I didna have time.”