Cameron Highlands Quotes

She strove for poised composure, despite feeling like a powerless pawn in a despicable game of human chess, played for the amusement of those who enjoyed tragic endings at the expense of someone else’s happiness—no—their very existence.

It was just one of the many absurdities she discovered being married to Alexander Cameron: having everything she had ever wanted yet having nothing at all.

Indeed. And here is a new one for you: I love you, Alexander Cameron. More than common sense or decency should allow. Your strength frightens me and your stubbornness angers me, and I believe you to be a truly dangerous threat to a woman's inbred gentility, but there you have it. And unless you are prepared to give me several honest and convincing reasons why I should do otherwise, I intend to remain here at Achnacarry as your wife, as your lover if you will have me, as the mother of your sons, of which -please God- there will be many.

She didn’t want to see the blow coming, but refused to take the coward’s way. She raised her lashes, meeting his gaze with a steady one of her own, even though her knees threatened to buckle from fear. “You’ve made me very angry, Miss Constance,” he said. “No one disrespects the name Lachlan. Not without paying a price.” And then he did something she had not anticipated. He kissed her.

Huge azure eyes with flecks of gold around the pupils sparked with that inner fire he’d just witnessed. Then her hand extended toward him. “What’s your name?” Angus looked at the hand angled as a man might extend his hand in greeting. He took her fingertips between his, turned her palm down, bowed, and lightly brushed his lips across her knuckles, “Angus Brian Cameron, at your service m’lady.” Even her hand smelled like a field of wild flowers.

Cameron's fingers curled around the arms of the chair, although the urge to throttle was slowly and unexpectedly giving way to the urge to smile. He had called her bold and brazen, but he was thinking now that the characterization was too mild. She was sitting naked, with only a blanket between her and ruin, yet she dared to defy him with those huge violet eyes and that soft pout mouth--both of which were sorely undermining his efforts to ignore the fact that she was sitting there naked in front of him with only a thin layer blanker protecting him from ruin.

Her scent filled his nostrils. He was shocked to feel his throat tighten with a primal hunger. She smelled like her mother, but fresher, sweeter somehow. Some primitive male instinct warned him this was a bloom still on the vine, fragrant and tender and ripe. He scowled. She might be nectar to a another man, but to a MacDonnell, Dougal Cameron's daughter would be more deadly than nightshade.

a long line of men, each with a torch, all dressed in the finery of the Highland chieftains. They were barbarous and splendid, decked in grouse feathers, the silver of swords and dirks gleaming red by the torchlight, picked out amid the folds of tartan cloth. The pipes stopped abruptly, and the first of the men strode into the clearing and stopped before the stands. He raised his torch above his head and shouted, “The Camerons are here!” Loud whoops of delight rang out from the stands, and he threw the torch into the kerosene-soaked wood, which went up with a roar, in a pillar of fire ten feet high. Against the blinding sheet of flame, another man stepped out, and called, “The MacDonalds are here!” Screams and yelps from those in the crowd that claimed kinship with clan MacDonald, and then— “The MacLachlans are here!” “The MacGillivrays are here!” She was so entranced by the spectacle that she was only dimly aware of Roger. Then another man stepped out and cried, “The MacKenzies are here!” “Tulach Ard!” bellowed Roger, making her jump. “What was that?” she asked. “That,” he said, grinning, “is the war cry of clan MacKenzie.” “Sounded like it.” “The Campbells are here!” There must have been a lot of Campbells; the response shook the bleachers. As though that was the signal he had been waiting for, Roger stood up and flung his plaid over his shoulder. “I’ll meet you afterward by the dressing rooms, all right?” She nodded, and he bent suddenly and kissed her. “Just in case,” he said. “The Frasers’ cry is Caisteal Dhuni!” She watched him go, climbing down the bleachers like a mountain goat. The smell of woodsmoke filled the night air, mixing with the smaller fragrance of tobacco from cigarettes in the crowd. “The MacKays are here!” “The MacLeods are here!” “The Farquarsons are here!” Her chest felt tight, from the smoke and from emotion. The clans had died at Culloden—or had they? Yes, they had; this was no more than memory, than the calling up of ghosts; none of the people shouting so enthusiastically owed kinship to each other, none of them lived any longer by the claims of laird and land, but … “The Frasers are here!” Sheer panic gripped her, and her hand closed tight on the clasp of her bag. No, she thought. Oh, no. I’m not. Then the moment passed, and she could breathe again, but jolts of adrenaline still thrilled through her blood. “The Grahams are here!” “The Inneses are here!” The Ogilvys, the Lindsays, the Gordons … and then finally, the echoes of the last shout died. Brianna held the bag on her lap, gripped tight, as though to keep its contents from escaping like the jinn from a lamp. How could she? she thought, and then, seeing Roger come into the light, fire on his head and his bodhran in his hand, thought again, How could she help it?

the Cameron Highlanders were ordered to muddy their spats because they were a dazzling white target for the Hun. Within 24 hours the order was countermanded by the Big Chief Cameron of Lochiel who presumably didn’t want his Highlanders to look slovenly when dead.

Her protests died in her throat as Conall suddenly covered her mouth with his in a searing kiss that made her forget the long list of reasons that were lining up in her head for why they shouldn't marry here and now. That wasn't all she forgot either. She forgot that her father stood beside her, that hundreds of soldiers surrounded them and, worst of all, that Father Cameron stood just feet away, witness to her horrible, sinning ways when she melted against Conall, wrapped her arms around his neck and sighed and moaned as he devoured her mouth. When Conall's hands slid down her back, pressing her body firmly against his and then curved under her bottom and lifted her off the ground, Claray instinctively wrapped her legs around his hips, then gasped into his mouth as he began to walk, his body rubbing against her core with each step.

Are you troubled by me making ye enjoy it?" Claray flushed, but admitted honestly, "I was at first. But I've resigned meself to it." "Resinged yerself?" he asked with concern. "Should I stop---?" "Nay!" Claray interrupted quickly, and then scowled. "Do no' you dare stop. I love the pleasure ye give me, and if 'tis wrong, then I'll happily serve me time in hell fer it." "Ye will, will ye?" he asked with a faint smile. Claray nodded, and then added, "But I do' think the church is right about this. I love ye, and the loving is an expression of that. 'Tis beautiful and precious." Pausing, she smiled slightly, and added, "Besides, ye ordered me to enjoy it, and Father Cameron did make me vow to obey ye. I can hardly be punished fer keeping vows the church made me make." The concern easing from his face, Conall chuckled and hugged her close. "I do love ye, Claray. Yer beautiful, and clever, and sure to drive me mad and scare me witless at times. But I'd have it no other way." "Neither would I, husband," Claray murmured, hugging him back. "Neither would I.