Scots Love Quotes

I love you, Eveline," he whispered, though he knew she could not hear him. "Somehow, I'll make you hear me and you'll know that I love you as fiercely as it's possible for a man to love a woman.

Elizabeth’s entire body started to tremble as his lips began descending to hers. and she sought to forestall what her heart knew was inevitable by reasoning with him. “A gently bred Englishwoman,” she shakily quoted Lucinda’s lecture. “feels nothing stronger than affection. We do not fall in love.” His warm lips covered hers. “I’m a Scot,” he murmured huskily. “We do.

‎Those who aren't following Jesus aren't his followers. It's that simple. Followers follow, and those who don't follow aren't followers. To follow Jesus means to follow Jesus into a society where justice rules, where love shapes everything. To follow Jesus means to take up his dream and work for it.

My lady, I don’t simply care for her. I love her. She is my entire life. Without her, I am nothing. I have nothing.

My love for her is stronger than my hatred of you.

there were lovely things in the world, lovely that didn't endure, and the lovelier for that... Nothing endures.

You care for my daughter.” “My love for her is stronger than my hatred of you. ’Tis why I’ll not raise arms against you today. Instead I ask your aid in the battle against the McHughs.

He curled his finger under her chin as he rasped, "I'm goin' tae get it right this time, you know." "I believe that, Scot." She gazed up at him with all the love she felt. "That's why you're still the dark horse I'm betting on.

Americans may say they love our accents (I have been accused of sounding 'like Princess Di') but the more thoughtful ones resent and rather dislike us as a nation and people, as friends of mine have found out by being on the edge of conversations where Americans assumed no Englishmen were listening. And it is the English, specifically, who are the targets of this. Few Americans have heard of Wales. All of them have heard of Ireland and many of them think they are Irish. Scotland gets a sort of free pass, especially since Braveheart re-established the Scots' anti-English credentials among the ignorant millions who get their history off the TV.

The love of books was an instant connection, and a true boon for a girl who tended toward shyness, because it was a source of endless conversation. A hundred questions sprang up in her mind, jostling with each other to reach the front of the queue. Did he prefer essays, dramas, novels, poems? How many books had he read, and in which languages? Which ones had he read again and again?

Bold words, befitting the mistress of the Montgomery clan,” Graeme said in approval. “Come, wife. Let’s go home. I have a need to show my lass just how much her laird loves her.

Fundamentalist Christianity: fascinating. These people actually believe that the world is twelve thousand years old. Swear to God. Based on what? I asked them. "Well, we looked at all the people in the Bible and we added 'em up all the way back to Adam and Eve, their ages? Twelve thousand years." "Well, how fucking scientific, OK. I didn't know that you'd gone to so much trouble there. That's good. You believe the world's twelve thousand years old?" "That's right." "OK, I got one word to ask you, a one word question, ready?" "Uh huh." "Dinosaurs." You know, the world's twelve thousand years old and dinosaurs existed, and existed in that time, you'd think it would been mentioned in the fucking Bible at some point: And O, Jesus and the disciples walked to Nazareth. But the trail was blocked by a giant brontosaurus... with a splinter in its paw. And the disciples did run a-screamin'. "What a big fucking lizard, Lord!" "I'm sure gonna mention this in my book," Luke said. "Well, I'm sure gonna mention it in my book," Matthew said. But Jesus was unafraid. And he took the splinter from the brontosaurus paw, and the brontosaurus became his friend. And Jesus sent him to Scotland where he lived in a loch, O so many years, attracting fat American families with their fat fuckin' dollars to look for the Loch Ness Monster. And O the Scots did praise the Lord: "Thank you, Lord! Thank you, Lord!" Twelve thousand years old. But I actually asked this guy, "OK, dinosaur fossils-- how does that fit into your scheme of life? What's the deal?" He goes: "God put those here to test our faith." "I think God put you here to test my faith, dude. I think I've figured this out." Does that-- That's what this guy said. Does that bother anyone here? The idea that God might be fucking with our heads? Anyone have trouble sleeping restfully with that thought in their head? God's running around burying fossils: "Ho ho! We'll see who believes in me now, ha ha! I'm a prankster God. I am killing me, ho ho ho!" You know? You die, you go to St. Peter: "Did you believe in dinosaurs?" "Well, yeah. There were fossils everywhere. (trapdoor opens) Aaaaarhhh!" "You fuckin' idiot! Flying lizards? You're a moron. God was fuckin' with you!" "It seemed so plausible, aaaaaahh!" "Enjoy the lake of fire, fucker!" They believe this. But you ever notice how people who believe in Creationism usually look pretty unevolved. Eyes really close together, big furry hands and feet? "I believe God created me in one day." Yeah, looks like he rushed it. Such a weird belief. Lots of Christians wear crosses around their necks. You think when Jesus comes back he's gonna want to see a fucking cross, man? "Ow." Might be why he hasn't shown up yet. "Man, they're still wearing crosses. Fuck it, I'm not goin' back, Dad. No, they totally missed the point. When they start wearing fishes, I might show up again, but... let me bury fossils with you, Dad. Fuck 'em, let's fuck with 'em! Hand me that brontosaurus head, Dad.

Sixsmith. I climb the steps of the Scot monument every morning and all becomes clear. Wish I could make you see this brightness. Don't worry, all is well. All is so perfectly, damnably well. I understand now that boundaries between noise and sound are conventions. All boundaries are conventions, waiting to be transcended. One may transcend any convention if only one can first conceive of doing so. Moments like this, I can feel your heart beating as clearly as I feel my own, and I know that separation is an illusion. My life extends far beyond the limitations of me.

Given her choice of any three words to hear from Logan's lips, Maddie probably would have chosen I love you. But she had to admit, Lift your skirts had an undeniable appeal.

Oh, Logan. I hate to tell you this. But I think we're cuddling." She nuzzled into the linen of his shirt. "You're doing a wonderful job of it, too." The little minx. Very well, she'd finally gotten her way. They were cuddling. And Logan rather liked it. He loved it. -Maddie & Logan's thoughts

So it was that she knew she liked him, loved him as they said in the soppy English books, you were shamed and a fool to say that in Scotland.

Release Lady Mirabelle and the kitten or I’ll run you through, skewering your belly, pinching out your life.

Being happy boils down to three things. Something to do. Someone to love. And something to look forward to.

Lady Jane Gray, who tho' inferior to her lovely Cousin the Queen of Scots, was yet an amiable young woman & famous for reading Greek while other people were hunting....Whether she really understood that language or whether such a study proceeded only from an excess of vanity for which I beleive she was always rather remarkable, is uncertain.

(Golden Globe acceptance speech in the style of Jane Austen's letters): "Four A.M. Having just returned from an evening at the Golden Spheres, which despite the inconveniences of heat, noise and overcrowding, was not without its pleasures. Thankfully, there were no dogs and no children. The gowns were middling. There was a good deal of shouting and behavior verging on the profligate, however, people were very free with their compliments and I made several new acquaintances. Miss Lindsay Doran, of Mirage, wherever that might be, who is largely responsible for my presence here, an enchanting companion about whom too much good cannot be said. Mr. Ang Lee, of foreign extraction, who most unexpectedly apppeared to understand me better than I undersand myself. Mr. James Schamus, a copiously erudite gentleman, and Miss Kate Winslet, beautiful in both countenance and spirit. Mr. Pat Doyle, a composer and a Scot, who displayed the kind of wild behavior one has lernt to expect from that race. Mr. Mark Canton, an energetic person with a ready smile who, as I understand it, owes me a vast deal of money. Miss Lisa Henson -- a lovely girl, and Mr. Gareth Wigan -- a lovely boy. I attempted to converse with Mr. Sydney Pollack, but his charms and wisdom are so generally pleasing that it proved impossible to get within ten feet of him. The room was full of interesting activitiy until eleven P.M. when it emptied rather suddenly. The lateness of the hour is due therefore not to the dance, but to the waiting, in a long line for horseless vehicles of unconscionable size. The modern world has clearly done nothing for transport. P.S. Managed to avoid the hoyden Emily Tomkins who has purloined my creation and added things of her own. Nefarious creature." "With gratitude and apologies to Miss Austen, thank you.

Cum să fac să nu o iau în brațe când o văd trecând prin univers? îmi fac o listă: de pus mereu în buzunar un trotuar de rezervă, când o văd că se apropie de mine scot trotuarul și trec pe partea cealaltă mă prefac neatent, întorc capul spre zid mă zidesc în el trec prin zid sau: mă întorc brusc și o iau la fugă înapoi, toată lumea va înțelege, (am uitat ceva esențial, undeva, cu zece douăzeci treizeci de ani în urmă, fug înapoi spre copilărie) sau, și mai bine, când o văd că se apropie de mine îmi ridic brațele, le transform în aripi, descopăr brusc că sunt capabil să zbor, la revedere, Domnișoară nu mai sunt obligat să mor dacă nu vă iau în brațe sau, și mai bine, nu mă mai nasc, nu mai scriu nimic nici măcar acest poem nu mai există nu, nu pot să-i fac asta, ea trăiește cu un poem pe zi mai bine mă prefac în poem se va parfuma cu mine, se va lipi de mine la micul dejun mă va citi poate de mai multe ori…

Logan lowers his head close to mine. 'Just know this, Ivy Calhhoun,' he begins. 'If I werena a ghost I would open all door for you, properly.

In answer, he bent his head toward hers. "Wait." She ducked away from the kiss. "What are you doing?" "Nothing unless you want it.

Submitted for your approval--the curious case of Colleen O’Brien and the gorgeous time traveling Scot who landed in her living room.” – Rod Serling

The Jesus Creed teaches us that a disciple’s responsibility is to love God by following Jesus. You only follow someone else when your own lights or sense of direction are not good enough.

Will you still love me even if all of England despises me?" Hazel said. "We're Scots, Hazel," Jack said, a smile extending across his face. "If England hates you, we can hate them right back.

Too many people think repenting means feeling terrible about something someone has done. Feeling bad is fine, and it often accompanies repentance, but repentance is not so much about what we feel but the twofold prong of owning up to our own injustices and failures to love, and starting all over by living justly and lovingly.

Community is like peace in that it is a result instead of an action. Peace results from acts of justice and behaviors of love. Community also emerges out of loving behaviors—like compassion and an embrace and forgiveness — and out of acts of justice.

God gave the Bible not so we can know it but so we can know and love God through it.

Love can end. It isn’t permanent by nature, whatever the weavers of fairy tales want to suggest. Forever takes hard work, and is destroyed by lies.

She loved to draw anything. Well, almost anything. She hated drawing attention to herself.

The love of books was an instant connection, and a true boon for a girl who tended toward shyness, because it was a source of endless conversation.

Once upon a time there was a Scottish SAS soldier in Kabul. He met a Soviet Spetsnaz soldier. They were enemies first, then shagged for nine years, fell in love at some stage. Dragons, battles, and damsels in distress in between, until an evil wizard took the Spetsnaz away. The Scot and the damsel battled the vile foes, until the Russian returned, but the evil spell still hat him in its claws. More dragons, battles, knights in not-so shiny armour later, the spell got broken, the Princes got reunited, and our Russian and Scotsman kind of lived happily ever after." (Dan)

Logan. Oh, Logan, that's so..." A moan caught her words and stole them away. "So lovely." "You're lovely." He kissed her just where he knew she needed it. "Beautiful." Made a tender pass of his tongue. "Perfect.

Once you marry me, none of it is a lie," he pointed out. "It will be exactly as though you've told the truth all these years." "Except for the part where we love each other." He shrugged. "That's a minor detail. Love is just a lie people tell themselves.

Though the continued march of intellect and education have nearly obliterated from the mind of the Scots a belief in the marvelous, still a love of the supernatural lingers among the more mountainous districts of the northern kingdom; for 'the Schoolmaster' finds it no easy task, even when aided by all the light of science, to uproot the prejudices of more than two thousand years. ("The Phantom Regiment")

Many think Jesus came to earth so you and I can have a special kind of spiritual experience and then go merrily along, as long as we pray and read our Bibles and develop intimacy with the unseen God but ignore the others-oriented life of justice and love and peace that Jesus embodied.

What thought engendered the spirit of Circe, or gave to a Helen the lust of tragedy? What lit the walls of Troy? Or prepared the woes of an Andromache? By what demon counsel was the fate of Hamlet prepared? And why did the weird sisters plan ruin to the murderous Scot? Double, double toil and trouble, Fire burn and cauldron bubble. In a mulch of darkness are bedded the roots of endless sorrows - and of endless joys. Canst thou fix thine eye on the morning? Be glad. And if in the ultimate it blind thee, be glad also! Thou hast lived.

To truly know death, you'd have to have loved.

For once, I’d love if someone reacted unpredictably to death. Chant or somersault or fucking yodel to show me you have a mind of your own.

Bring it all down, love. Let it all burn.

Hate is easy. Love is hard. Because love makes us vulnerable.

He had the three ingredients to happiness right in the palm of his hand and he knew it—something to do, someone to love, and something to look forward to.

If you love no one, no one can hurt you,” she whispered.

First rule of love: dinna panic.

loving others includes brushing up against the thorns of injustice in society. Love wants them removed.

He kissed Mathilda like he needed her to breathe. I would've died for wanting the same." - James Fitzroy

You don’t love someone once. Love isn’t something you lose. Once it’s born, it stays. Sometimes dormant. Sometimes hidden. But it’s always there.

She'd dreamed of him. Her imagination, unfettered in her sleep, had featured him. He'd been gloriously naked and her hands had explored the whole of him, delighted to discover that the handsome man was even more magnificent without clothes. Drumvagen might be set into the Scottish wilderness, but what furnished her with a great deal of knowledge she otherwise might not have had. She listened to the maids discussing their love lives with a frankness they never would have had they known she was eavesdropping. Then, there was the sight of the handsome Scots lads bathing in the sea. The books she read from Mairi's library had strengthened her imagination, adding details otherwise missing from her personal experience.

Grace is more than being lucky to be on God’s side. Grace is God’s goodness showered on people who have failed. Grace is God’s love on those who think they are unlovable. Grace is God knowing what we are designed to be. Grace is God believing in us when we have given up. Grace is someone at the end of their rope finding new strength. But there’s more to grace. Grace is both a place and a power. Grace is God unleashing his transforming power. Grace realigns and reroutes a life and a community. Grace is when you turn your worst enemy into your best friend. Grace takes people as they are and makes them what they can be. Grace ennobles; grace empowers. Grace forgives; grace frees. Grace transcends, and grace transforms.

Let the Church remember this: that every maker and worker is called to serve God in his profession or trade—not outside it. Whatever we are called to “do” is not a “job” but a sacred vocation.

Say it again, Aden,” she whispered after a too-long moment. “All of that?” “I will punch you, you know.” That made him grin. Remarkable, this lass. “I love ye, Miranda. I like ye, I admire ye, and I love ye.

There fermented in that sublimated brain plans so vast, projects so tumultuous, that there remained no room for any capricious or material love—that sentiment which is fed by leisure and grows with corruption.

When sonneteering Wordsworth re-creates the landing of Mary Queen of Scots at the mouth of the Derwent - Dear to the Loves, and to the Graces vowed, The Queen drew back the wimple that she wore - he unveils nothing less than a canvas by Rubens, baroque master of baroque masters; this is the landing of a TRAGIC Marie de Medicis. Yet so receptive was the English ear to sheep-Wordsworth's perverse 'Enough of Art' that it is not any of these works of supreme art, these master-sonnets of English literature, that are sold as picture postcards, with the text in lieu of the view, in the Lake District! it is those eternally, infernally sprightly Daffodils.

Her husband’s family were not a lovely people, descendants of every kind of Floridian from original Timucua through Spanish and Scot and escaped slave and Seminole and carpetbagger; mostly they bore the look of overcooked Cracker.

With ye, I don’t want your land or money. I don’t need power or prestige. I just want ye. I love ye, Aella. I love it when you’re angry and outspoken and killing things. I love ye when ye claw my back to ribbons and scream to wake the dead. I love that ye are not meek or mild, or willing to let others make your decisions.” “Even if it does drive you mental and I need to have the last word?” “Because ye do those things.” “So we’re stuck together forever?” “And ever.” “Seal it with a kiss?” she asked with a sensuous smile. Her Scot did better than that. He made short work of their clothes, his powerful hands ripping them from their bodies while she laughed, a young, girlish sound, carefree and wanton.

Refusing to lean back against him, Colleen sat ramrod straight until they reached the road. “I guess I should say thank you for saving my life,” she muttered then turned and slapped Faolán hard across the face. “And that’s for you having to save it in the first place. And I’m not your woman, you big, arrogant, lying, betraying…faery loving…” She searched for the perfect insult and couldn’t find one, “…Scot.” She gave a very unladylike snort. “Happy now? That fiery enough for you?

For Mother Teresa, love is only of use if it is seen in action. Her famous words are: “Do ordinary things with extraordinary love: little things like caring for the sick and the homeless, the lonely and the unwanted, washing and cleaning for them.” And, “You must give what will cost you something.” Her creed—call it her Shema—is simple: The fruit of silence is prayer. The fruit of prayer is faith. The fruit of faith is love. The fruit of love is service. The fruit of service is peace.

She lifted one shoulder and lowered it. 'Because love is for 'lucky among us. 'What does that mean?' he said, her words rioting through him, unwelcome in their eerie truth. 'Only that I am not counted among the lucky. Everyone I have ever loved has left.

A recognisable picture of a spoilt 22-year-old girl experiencing her first love affair, knowing that she is infatuated with a totally unsuitable man who will alienate her friends and eventually cause herself serious damage, yet determined to press ahead whatever the cost.

I love my wife, Kris; I do not love Kris’s words. I encounter Kris through her words, but I am summoned to love her, not her words. Sometimes I say to her, “I love what you say to me,” but that is a form of expression. What I’m really saying is, “I love you, and your words communicate your love for me.

We can begin to focus on the eternal if we live to love God and others (the Jesus Creed), if we pursue justice as the way we are called to love others as God’s creations, if we live out a life that drives for peace as how loving people treat one another, and if we strive for wisdom instead of just knowledge or bounty.

He went slowly at first. But slowly didn't last long. Soon a more urgent rhythm took hold as his thrusts increased in both speed and intensity. The force of his passion took her breath away, but Maddie would be damned before she'd ask him to stop. She loved feeling just how much he wanted her, just how desperately his body needed hers to be complete.

Simple acts are more valuable than extraordinary powers or spiritual gifts. For Jesus there is a categorical difference between charismatic giftedness and the ordinary fruit of love, compassion, and mercy. Perhaps we need to learn to ask ourselves, particularly if we are gifted leaders, if we value our gifts more than love, if we value the performance of a gift for the good of others or the gift of love for the good of others. When Jesus used “fruit” over against mighty charismatic gifts, he was getting at what mattered most. Do you show love to your neighbors, to your enemies, and to all those who happen to be on your path? Jesus is saying here that if you don’t do the latter, he doesn’t particularly care about your charismatic giftedness.

Yet a little country in a big land has a small future. I knew that. To our north was Constantine’s Alba, which we called Scotland, and Constantine feared the Saxons to our south. The Saxons and the Scots were both Christians, and Christians tell us that their god is love, and we must love one another and turn the other cheek, but when land is at stake those beliefs fly away and swords are drawn.

Love was nothing but a lie people told themselves. But lust? Lust was real, and he was feeling it. Feeling it to his core. As he held her to him, his blood pounded with the fiercest, most primal kind of need. One that spoke of possession and claiming and mine. She made him wild. Surely it was simply because he'd gone so long without female company. Madeline wasn't even his usual sort. Given his choice, he would have said he favored a bonny Scots lass with fiery hair and a knowing gleam in her eye. Not a shy, proper English gentlewoman just learning the taste of her first kiss. But beneath the shyness and reserve, she possessed a natural, earthy sensuality. He couldn't help but think of what that might mean in bed- when all the rules and corsets were shed, and the dark freed her from propriety.

Her brows furrowed. “Where in the world were you? Is something amiss? Something more, I mean?” “Nae for me. For ye, well, it could be. I meant to wait until ye had yer life free from Vale, until ye had choices, real choices, in front of ye again. But I love ye, and I have for some time now. If I dunnae tell ye how I feel right now, then I’m liable to shout it out loud the next time I set eyes on ye.

Be the queen of my castle. The proud wearer of my plaid. The one to feed me when I hunger, and not just for blood. For everything. Love, sex, companionship. I want ye to be the one. My one.” “You’re asking an awful lot. What do I get out of this?” “Ye want more? I’m giving you my heart. My love. My loyalty and my life. What more do you want?” She knew the answer to that one thanks to Sasha. “I want forever.

You wouldn't believe it,' Rauve said as his shadow fell across the stable entrance. 'All black like Lucifer the thief was. Fast as the Devil, too, whist-whist-whist, leaping, kicking. Still, I could've caught the bastard if I hadn't been protecting my lady love.' 'The Scots say he can't be caught,' Adric said. 'They say he's not of this world.' 'Well, if he's not of this world, then what does he need my silver for?

. "Why do you not want to marry John the Scot?” “I do not like him, Mama.” Exasperation and bafflement—familiar emotions to Joanna where her daughter was concerned. “But you do not know him well enough to make a judgment like that,” she pointed out, striving for patience. Elen tossed her head. “His eyes are too close together. And he has a weak chin.” “Elen, for the love of God! What does that have to do with marriage?” Elen knew her mother was right; marriages were based upon pragmatic considerations of property and political advantage.

It was time to take the best bits from them all and build something delicious: the spirituality of the Hindus, the community spirit and family ties of the Muslims, the ancient wisdom of the Chinese, the love of freedom and equality of the Afro-Caribbeans, the work ethic of the Jews, the bloody-mindedness and wry humour of the Australians, the blarney of the Irish, the passion of the Scots, the unorthodoxy of the Welsh, combined with our own English love of justice, fair play and democracy. Put them all together and you had a vision for the future, a direction, which Bokononism could exploit.

That's the way it is when you love. It makes you suffer, and I have suffered much in the years since. But it matters little that you suffer, so long as you feel alive with a sense of the close bond that connects all living things, so long as love does not die! I would gladly exchange every happy day of my life, all my infatuations and great plans, provided I could exchange them for gazing deeply once more into this most sacred experience. It bitterly hurts your eyes and heart, and your pride and self-esteem don't get off scot-free either, but afterwards you feel so calm and serene, so much wiser and alive.

The jolt of arousal was immediate. Electric. The moment his hand closed around his rigid staff, her own breeding parts went soft and quivering. Perhaps she ought to have felt embarrassed- and to be truthful, she did, a bit. But she couldn't look away. The visible proof of his arousal, the strength of his grip, the tension in the sinews of his neck as he stroked up and down... She'd caused that. All of it. The surge of power was intoxicating. Most thrilling of all was the way he looked at her, or rather looked through her. Inside her. Somewhere beyond those eyes, he was making love to her in bold, passionate strokes. And something told her it wasn't the first time he'd been lost in that particular fantasy. The idea was wildly arousing.

Fourth, this list concerns the person’s relational disposition. It is easy to think of the “blessed” as those who are in proper relation to God alone. But what stands out in the Beatitudes is one’s relation to God as well as to self and others. When Matthew adds “in spirit” to “poor,” we find what we also find in the third blessing (“meek”): an inner disposition that relates to God and others because of a proper estimation of oneself. Furthermore, some blessings are for those who relate to others in a loving disposition: “mourn” and “merciful” and “peacemakers.” Others are concerned more directly with one’s relation to God: “hunger and thirst for righteousness” and “pure in heart” and probably those who are persecuted. But the blessed people are noted by godly, loving relations with God, self, and others.

Lotto began to smile and she saw he was her tiny image with her dimples and charm, she forgave him. A relief, to find her own beauty there. Her husband’s family were not a lovely people, descendants of every kind of Floridian from original Timucua through Spanish and Scot and escaped slave and Seminole and carpetbagger; mostly they bore the look of overcooked Cracker. Sallie was sharp-faced, bony. Gawain was hairy and huge and silent; it was a joke in Hamlin that he was only half human, the spawn of a bear that had waylaid his mother on her way to the outhouse. Antoinette had historically gone for the smooth and pomaded, the suave steppers, the loudly moneyed, but a year married, she found herself still so stirred by her husband that when he came in at night she followed him full-clothed into the shower as if in a trance.

Besides, if you wouldn’t duel with Lord Everly when he called you a cheat, you certainly wouldn’t harm poor Lord Howard merely for touching my arm.” “Wouldn’t I?” he asked softly. “Those are two very different issues.” Not for the first time, Elizabeth found herself at a loss to understand him. Suddenly his presence was vaguely threatening again; whenever he stopped playing the amusing gallant he became a dark, mysterious stranger. Raking her hair off her forehead, she glanced out the window. “It must be after three already. I really must leave.” She surged to her feet, smoothing her skirts. “Thank you for a lovely afternoon. I don’t know why I remained. I shouldn’t have, but I am glad I did…” She ran out of words and watched in wary alarm as he stood up. “Don’t you?” he asked softly. “Don’t I what?” “Know why you’re still here with me?” “I don’t even know who you are?” she cried. “I know about places you’ve been, but not your family, your people. I know you gamble great sums of money at cards, and I disapprove of that-“ “I also gamble great sums of money on ships and cargo-will that improve my character in your eyes?” “And I know,” she continued desperately, watching his gaze turn warm and sensual, “I absolutely know you make me excessively uneasy when you look at me the way you’re doing now!” “Elizabeth,” he said in a tone of tender finality, “you’re here because we’re already half in love with each other.” “Whaaat? she gasped. “And as to needing to know who I am, that’s very simple to answer.” His hand lifted, grazing her pale cheek, then smoothing backward, cupping her head. Gently he explained, “I am the man you’re going to marry.” “Oh, my God!” “I think it’s too late to start praying,” he teased huskily. “You-you must be mad,” she said, her voice quavering. “My thoughts exactly,” he whispered, and, bending his head, he pressed his lips to her forehead, drawing her against his chest, holding her as if he knew she would struggle if he tried to do more than that. “You were not in my plans, Miss Cameron.” “Oh, please,” Elizabeth implored helplessly, “don’t do this to me. I don’t understand any of this. I don’t know what you want.” “I want you.” He took her chin between his thumb and forefinger and lifted it, forcing her to meet his steady gaze as he quietly added, “And you want me.” Elizabeth’s entire body started to tremble as his lips began descending to hers, and she sought to forestall what her heart knew was inevitable by reasoning with him. “A gently bred Englishwomen,” she shakily quoted Lucinda’s lecture, “feels nothing stronger than affection. We do not fall in love.” His warm lips covered hers. “I’m a Scot,” he murmured huskily. “We do.” “A Scot!” she uttered when he lifted his mouth from hers. He laughed at her appalled expression. “I said ‘Scot,’ not ‘ax murderer.” A Scot who was a gambler to boot! Havenhurst would land on the auction block, the servants turned off, and the world would fall apart. “I cannot, cannot marry you.” “Yes, Elizabeth,” he whispered as his lips trailed a hot path over her cheek to her ear, “you can.

I suspect, however, that the thing that confuses you about Ian is that he’s half Scot. In many ways he’s more Scot than English, which accounts for what you’re calling a ruthless streak. He’ll do what he pleases, when he pleases, and the devil fly with the consequences. He always has. He doesn’t care what anyone thinks of him or of what he does.” Pausing, Jordan glanced meaningfully at the couple who’d paused to look at a shrubbery on the front lawn. Ian was listening to Elizabeth intently, an expression of tenderness on his rugged face. “The other night, however, he cared very much what people thought of your lovely friend. In fact, I don’t like to think what he might have done had anyone actually dared to openly insult her in front of him. You’re right when you aren’t deceived by Ian’s civilized veneer. Beneath that he’s a Scot, and he has a temper to go with it, though he usually keeps it in check.” “I don’t think you’re reassuring me,” Alex said shakily. “I should be. He’s committed himself completely to her. That commitment is so deep that he even reconciled with his grandfather and then appeared with him in public, which I know was because of Elizabeth.” “What on earth makes you think that?” “For one thing, when I saw Ian at the Blackmore he had no plans for the evening until he discovered what Elizabeth was going to do at the Willingtons’. The next I knew, he was walking into that ball with his grandfather at his side. And that, my love, is what we call a show of strength.” She looked impressed by his powers of deduction, and Jordan grinned. “Don’t admire me too much. I also asked him. So you see, you’re worrying needlessly,” he finished reassuringly. “Scots are a fiercely loyal lot, and Ian will protect her with his life.” “He certainly didn’t protect her with his life two years ago, when she was ruined.” Sighing, Jordan looked out the window. “After the Willingtons’ ball he told me a little of what happened that long-ago weekend. He didn’t tell me much-Ian is a very private man-but reading between the lines, I’m guessing that he fell like a rock for her and then got the idea she was playing games with him.” “Would that have been so terrible?” Alexandra asked, her full sympathy still with Elizabeth. Jordan smiled ruefully at her. “There’s one thing Scots are besides loyal.” “What is that?” “Unforgiving,” he said flatly. “They expect the same loyalty as they give. Moreover, if you betray their loyalty, you’re dead to them. Nothing you do or say will change their heart. That’s why their feuds last from generation to generation.” “Barbaric,” Alexandra said with a shiver of alarm. “Perhaps it is. But then let’s not forget Ian is also half English, and we are very civilized.” Leaning down, Jordan nipped her ear. “Except in bed.

My brave husband came back from fighting the Turks and brought me a robe of silk and a necklace of human teeth. He sat up at night by his hearth telling tales of battle. Apparently the Turks are ten times more ferocious and fearless than the Scots. 'Perhaps we should invite them here to drive the Scots back,' I suggested, and he laughed, but he didn't kiss me. That's when I learned the truth about scars. A man with a battle scar is a veteran, a hero, given an honoured place at the fire. Small boys gaze up fascinated, dreaming of winning such badges of courage. Maids caress his thighs with their buttocks as they bend over to mull his ale. Women cluck and cosset, and if in time other men grow a little weary of that tale of honour, then they call for his cup to be filled again and again until he is fuddled and dozes quietly in the warmth of the embers. But a scarred woman is not encouraged to tell her story. Boys jeer and mothers cross themselves. Pregnant women will not come close for fear that if they look upon such a sight, the infant in their belly will be marked. You've heard of the tales of Beauty and the Beast no doubt. How a fair maid falls in love with a monster and sees the beauty of his soul beneath the hideous visage. But you've never heard the tale of the handsome man falling for the monstrous woman and finding joy in her love, because it doesn't happen, not even in fairytales. The truth is that the scarred woman's husband buys her a good thick veil and enquires about nunneries for the good of her health. He spends his days with his falcons and his nights instructing pageboys in their duties. For if nothing else, the wars taught him how to be a diligent master to such pretty lads.

May you ever cherish and treasure this thought. Christ is made a servant of sin, yea, a bearer of sin, and the lowliest and most despised person. He destroys all sin by Himself and says: “I came not to be served but to serve” (Matt. 20:28). There is no greater bondage than that of sin; and there is no greater service than that displayed by the Son of God, who becomes the servant of all, no matter how poor, wretched, or despised they may be, and bears their sins. It would be spectacular and amazing, prompting all the world to open ears and eyes, mouth and nose in uncomprehending wonderment, if some king’s son were to appear in a beggar’s home to nurse him in his illness, wash off his filth, and do everything else the beggar would have to do. Would this not be profound humility? Any spectator or any beneficiary of this honor would feel impelled to admit that he had seen or experienced something unusual and extraordinary, something magnificent. But what is a king or an emperor compared with the Son of God? Furthermore, what is a beggar’s filth or stench compared with the filth of sin which is ours by nature, stinking a hundred thousand times worse and looking infinitely more repulsive to God than any foul matter found in a hospital? And yet the love of the Son of God for us is of such magnitude that the greater the filth and stench of our sins, the more He befriends us, the more He cleanses us, relieving us of all our misery and of the burden of all our sins and placing them upon His own back. All the holiness of the monks stinks in comparison with this service of Christ, the fact that the beloved Lamb, the great Man, yes, the Son of the Exalted Majesty, descends from heaven to serve me. —Martin Luther

Damn, Mari, it’s cold!” Carrow chafed her arms. “I dig the whole Narnian vibe you’ve got going on, I do. And I’ve been dutifully keeping an eye out for talking beavers wearing armor—but come on, this is getting ridiculous! If you miss the Scot so much, then just break free.” Elianna said, “Do you know he’s bought the property just next door to Andoain so he can scent you the minute you come home. And, well, because his house got blown up.” “Look, Mari, you have to come out of this and do something,” Carrow said. “Put him out of his misery—or—allow me to make him fall in love with dryer lint. You decide.” She shrugged. “I know you’d worried about Bowen not wanting to come near the coven, but we can’t get him to leave. Apparently, some of the witches admitted to him that you’re on a different plane—he can be really dogged with the questions—and now he’s determined to reach you here. Interestingly, he believes the information about the plane’s existence—but not about the fact that he can’t travel to it.” “He returns to Adoain daily, sometimes hourly, researching witchery,” Elianna said. Carrow glared, “Well, maybe if you and the others would stop sneakily setting out food for him, he wouldn’t keep coming back!” Crossing her arms over her chest, Elianna said in a mulish tone, “He wouldn’t eat otherwise.” “Whatever. But seriously, Mari, he’s having such a hard time with all this that even Regin feels sorry for what he’s been through.” Elianna added, “He’s watched your graduation video so many times, I’m sure he’s memorized your school’s alma mater.” “I don’t know what he does with the videos of your college cheerleading he brings back to his place”—Carrow waggled her eyebrows—“but I have suspicions.” Elianna coughed delicately. “Now that you’ve done what you were Awaited to do—well, part one at least—everyone’s grasping about for a new name for you,” Carrow said. “If you don’t kick this enthrallment, then I’m going to campaign for Mariketa the Glass Witch, or ‘Glitch.’ Come kick my ass if you don’t like it, otherwise . . .” Elianna squinted at Mari and sighed. “I think she wants to be called Mariketa MacRieve.

When a little of his strength returned he moved onto his side, taking her with him, still a part of her. Her hair spilled over his naked chest like a rumpled satin waterfall, and he lifted a shaking hand to smooth it off her face, feeling humbled and blessed by her sweetness and unselfish ardor. Several minutes later Elizabeth stirred in his arms, and he tipped her chin up so that he could gaze into her eyes. “Have I ever told you that you are magnificent? She started to shake her head, then suddenly remembered that he had told her she was magnificent once before, and the recollection brought poignant tears to her eyes. “You did say that to me,” she amended, brushing her fingers over his smooth shoulder because she couldn’t seem to stop touching him. “You told me that when we were together-“ “In the woodcutter’s cottage,” he finished for her, recalling the occasion as well. In reply she had chided him for acting as if he also thought Charise Dumont was magnificent, Ian remembered, regretting all the time they had lost since then…the days and nights she could have been in his arms as she was now. “Do you know how I spent the rest of the afternoon after you left the cottage?” he asked softly. When she shook her head, he said with a wry smile, “I spent it pleasurably contemplating tonight. At the time, of course, I didn’t realize tonight was years away.” He paused to draw the sheet up over her back so she wouldn’t be chilled, then he continued in the same quiet voice, “I wanted you so badly that day that I actually ached while I watched you fasten that shirt you were wearing. Although,” he added dryly, “that particular condition, brought on by that particular cause, has become my normal state for the last four weeks, so I’m quite used to it now. I wonder if I’ll miss it,” he teased. “What do you mean?” Elizabeth asked, realizing that he was perfectly serious despite his light tone. “The agony of unfulfilled desire,” he explained, brushing a kiss on her forehead, “brought on by wanting you.” “Wanting me?” she burst out, rearing up so abruptly that she nearly overturned him as she leaned up on an elbow, absently clutching the sheet to her breasts. “Is this-what we’ve just done, I mean-“ “The Scots think of it as making love,” he interrupted gently. “Unlike most English,” he added with flat scorn, “who prefer to regard it as ‘performing one’s marital duty.’” “Yes,” Elizabeth said absently, her mind on his earlier remark about wanting her until it caused him physical pain, “but is this what you meant all those times you’ve said you wanted me?” His sensual lips quirked in a half smile. “Yes.” A rosy blush stained her smooth cheeks, and despite her effort to sound severe, her eyes were lit with laughter. “And the day we bargained about the betrothal, and you told me I had something you wanted very badly, what you wanted to do with me…was this?” “Among other things,” he agreed, tenderly brushing his knuckles over her flushed cheek. “If I had known all this,” she said with a rueful smile, “I’m certain I would have asked for additional concessions.” That startled him-the thought that she would have tried to drive a harder bargain if she’d realized exactly how much and what sort of power she really held. “What kind of additional concessions?” he asked, his face carefully expressionless. She put her cheek against his shoulder, her arms curving around him. “A shorter betrothal,” she whispered. “A shorter courtship, and a shorter ceremony.

Knowing God’s love, knowing God’s goodness, and learning to embrace those attributes of God prompt us to pray.

2. Our possessions: Luke 3:10–11 The Bible speaks often of money because it is with money that we exercise the freedoms of choice. This is hard for many Western Christians, because so many of us are soaking in what J. I. Packer calls “hot tub religion.” The unquenching human desire for more—bigger houses, spiffier cars, trendier clothes—is what led St. Francis to renounce possessions, what led the Mennonites to a simple lifestyle, and what leads some to urge all Westerners to live more with less.

The love of books was an instant connection, and a true boon for a girl who tended toward shyness, because it was a source of endless conversation. A

In his incarnate life, when he becomes one with us, Jesus recapitulates, or relives, Israel’s (our) history. He becomes one of us. In fact, he becomes all of us in one divine-human being. Jesus is all Adam and Eve were designed to be, and more; he loves the Father absolutely and he loves himself absolutely and he loves others absolutely and he loves the world absolutely. He is the Oneness Story in one person.

Hear O Israel, the Lord our God. The Lord is One. Love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, with all your mind and with all your strength. The second is this: Love your neighbor as yourself. There is no commandment greater than these.

As an illustration of her empathy, an English volunteer once said of her: “Whoever she’s talking to, that person becomes the most important person.” For Mother Teresa, love is only of use if it is seen in action. Her famous words are: “Do ordinary things with extraordinary love: little things like caring for the sick and the homeless, the lonely and the unwanted, washing and cleaning for them.” And, “You must give what will cost you something.” Her creed—call it her Shema—is simple: The fruit of silence is prayer. The fruit of prayer is faith. The fruit of faith is love. The fruit of love is service. The fruit of service is peace.

Sometimes death is a gift. Sometimes it's like the end of a good book. You turn the last page and think, jeez that was a great story. You don't want it to end. You never want it to end. When a boy dies... when a boy drowns it's like the pages have been torn from the book and you feel ripped off. The story doesn't make any sense. It might take ages for you to realise that it was meant to be a short story. A sad story. Eddy's death was the perfect end to an amazing story. The story of her life. I guess you're all part of the story, like me. I guess some of you are even feeling the same way I do. Bit sad. Bit hollow inside and so, so happy that Eddy was part of my life. Could you think of a more beautiful, peaceful way to die? To just go to sleep and never wake up? Wouldn't surprise me if she'd planned it. She taught me so many things. So many things about life. About fear and courage and being yourself and love. She taught me about love. She taught me these things without trying. Every day. She lived every day like it mattered. She wasn't perfect. Who is? ... I hope it's okay to feel a bit happy as well as a bit sad. The book of Eddy had some beautiful moments and a lovely ending. I'll keep it in the library of my heart just in case I need a bit of laugh or some wisdom.

Prayer is not informing God of something unknown but drawing oneself in the divine life of the Trinity and into the very mission of God in this world — this God loves us and invites us into his presence with our petitions.

To this day, Richmond, Indiana, is second only to the City of Brotherly Love in total Quaker population. Nestled among communities of Germans, Scots-Irish, English Methodists, Moravians, Amish, and others, the Quakers had found a cultural landscape almost identical to that of southeastern Pennsylvania.5

To be an Eikon means, first of all, to be in union with God as Eikons; second, it means to be in communion with other Eikons; and third, it means to participate with God in his creating, his ruling, his speaking, his naming, his ordering, his variety and beauty, his location, his partnering, and his resting, and to oblige God in his obligating of us. Thus, an Eikon is God-oriented, self-oriented, other-oriented, and cosmos oriented. To be an Eikon is to be a missional being – one designed to love God, self, and others and to represent God by participating in God’s rule in this world. We are now back to perichoresis: to be an Eikon means to be summond to participate in God’s overflowing perichoretic love – both within the Trinity and in the missio Dei with respect to the cosmos God has created. When we participate in this missio Dei we become Eikonic. To be an Eikon means to be in relationship.

the God of the Bible is so immense, omnipotent, and omniscient that for God, knowing each of us in the depths of our beings is an afternoon walk in Sydney’s botanical garden. The God of Jesus knows us by name, knows our minds and hearts and emotions, loves us (anyway), and summons us, as it were, into the divine presence to lay out our requests.

Jesus reduced the Torah to two points — loving God, loving others (the Jesus Creed) — not to abolish the many laws but to comprehend them and to see them in their innermost essence

J. I. Packer, in his potent study of what the Bible teaches about God, develops the subtle distinction between knowledge about God (mind) and knowledge of God personally (mind and heart—as well as soul and strength). If eternity is eternal fellowship with the Father (and not a theology test), then we need to get started right now in knowing this One with whom we will share the table. As Packer says it, “The rule . . . is that we turn each truth that we learn about God into a matter for meditation before God, leading to prayer and praise to God.

Michael Green cuts through church cant: “God’s church exists not for itself but for the benefit of those who are not yet members. . . . [and] the church which lives for itself will be sure to die by itself.” The church is not a religious club and it does not have a secular mission. Instead, it is a worshipping and sending community.

Salon writer Scot Sea, who said that his experience with his own autistic daughter helped him understand why a California man named Delfin Bartolome had shot his son and then himself. “The odor has finally made its way down the hall. When you see the balled-up pants and diaper on the floor, you know you are too late,” Sea began ominously. “A bright red smear across the door, the molding, the wall. Turn the corner and the bedroom is a crime scene. An ax murder? In fact, it is only your daughter at her worst.” He described a scene worthy of a slasher movie: “Splashes of blood glistening like paint, black clots, yellow-brown feces, and a 3-foot-in-diameter pond of vomit that your daughter stands in the middle of . . . hands dripping, face marked like a cannibal.” Parents in previous eras were spared these horrors, he explained, because “idiot” children were promptly “tossed down the well or thumped against the fence post.” For “educated” families in more recent times, he added, at least there was a way out—institutionalization. But now, desperate parents had to find their own ways out, as Bartolome had been forced to do with a handgun when he ran out of options. This was the harsh reality of raising a child with autism, according to Sea. (He neglected to mention that weeks before the shooting, Bartolome—described by his relatives as a loving and devoted father—had been laid off just before retirement, shunting him into a series of temporary jobs and putting his son’s future care at risk.) Shannon felt herself becoming physically ill while reading Sea’s article. Was this her family’s future? IV

Molesworth’s patron, Lord Shaftesbury. That word was politeness. Shaftesbury took a term associated with the world of jewelers and stonemasons (as in “polished” stones and marble) and elevated it to the highest of human virtues. Being polished or polite was more than just good manners, as we might say. Politeness for Shaftesbury encapsulated all the strengths of a sophisticated culture: its keen sense of understanding, its flourishing art and literature, its self-confidence, its regard for truth and the importance of intellectual criticism, and, most important, an appreciation of the humane side of our character. The motto of the Shaftesburys was “love, serve.” Kindness, compassion, self-restraint, and a sense of humor were, for Shaftesbury, the final fruits of a “polished” culture.

You don’t choose who you love.

Show me the boy who rose from nothing to become boss of the Apolli. Show me the king who built an empire from thin air. Show me the most powerful mage in this Nyx-forsaken world. Show me the soul who struggles every fucking second for sanity but still manages to rise above everyone else. And show me how much that man loves me, if he loves me at all.

That’s why I hate love. Love limits. Love judges. Love holds you to a higher standard. It’s a psychopath’s worst nightmare.