Scottish Highlands Quotes

In that moment, I finally figured out what kind of handsome he was. He was fiction-handsome. Romance novel handsome; but not the clean-cut (billionaire) alpha male or even the tattooed (billionaire) bad boy archetype. He was the Scottish highlander, Viking conqueror, bodice-ripper historical romance kind of handsome; an unshaven, lion wrestling, mountain man recluse, toss you over his shoulder and plunder your goodies kind of handsome. He was both scary and swoony. I wanted to braid his beard. I also wanted to run away.

In prehistoric times, early man was bowled over by natural events: rain, thunder, lightning, the violent shaking and moving of the ground, mountains spewing deathly hot lava, the glow of the moon, the burning heat of the sun, the twinkling of the stars. Our human brain searched for an answer, and the conclusion was that it all must be caused by something greater than ourselves - this, of course, sprouted the earliest seeds of religion. This theory is certainly reflected in faery lore. In the beautiful sloping hills of Connemara in Ireland, for example, faeries were believed to have been just as beautiful, peaceful, and pleasant as the world around them. But in the Scottish Highlands, with their dark, brooding mountains and eerie highland lakes, villagers warned of deadly water-kelpies and spirit characters that packed a bit more punch.

There's no place on earth with more of the old superstitions and magic mixed into its daily life than the Scottish Highlands.

She spoke the language of the Scottish Highlands (which is like singing).

It was written in those stars that we meet.” His voice gathered a tender fervency that unstitched something from inside Mena’s soul. “We are bound in some inescapable way, thee and me. I’ve known it since I first laid eyes on ye in that dress.

Ever the charmer, eh, Braden? (Sin) Hold your tongue, Sin. (Braden) I would, but with my luck, one of your giant Scottish bugs would land on it. Besides, it makes my hand wet and pruney when I do that. (Sin)

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

He pressed his lips to Akira’s ear. “Hold on, lass, for hell has just made chase.

In her dreams the Hawk would be waiting for her by the sea's edge; her kilt-clad, magnificent Scottish laird. He would smile and his eyes would crinkle, then turn dark with smoldering passion. She would take his hand and lay it gently on her swelling abdomen, and his face would blaze with happiness and pride. Then he would take her gently, there on the cliff's edge, in tempo with the pounding of the ocean. He would make fierce and possessive love to her and she would hold on to him as tightly as she could. But before dawn, he would melt right through her fingers. And she would wake up, her cheeks wet with tears and her hands clutching nothing but a bit of quilt or pillow.

She needed this. For the comfort, for the love, for all the glorious things she did not deserve and yet could not stop herself from wanting.

[Connor to Major Wentworth, grandson of King George] "My fathers were lairds in the Highlands when yours were still farmin' kale back in Germany!

Arms folded across his muscled chest, Lachlan stood way too close to her. "Did you get tired of fighting?" she asked with a hint of a smile. "I'm a lover, not a fighter.

Her honor will come to no harm at my hands,” Jack said. “’Tis not her honor but her tender heart that I worry about,” Alexander said. “She’s a delicate lass,” Hugh added. “Aye,” said Gregor. “A Scottish rose.” “Your tender, delicate rose had me ambushed, knocked unconscious, and forced to wed,” Jack ground out. “Facts you all know, if you’ve spoken to Hamish.” Dougal grinned, his teeth flashing whitely. “She has the devil’s own temper, our Fiona does.

She was tipping her head back to inquire, when two men entered the great hall and the question flew right out of her head. They were simply two of the most gorgeous men she'd ever seen. Twins, though different. They were both tall and powerfully built. One was taller by a few inches, with dark hair that swept just past his shoulders and eyes like shard of silver and ice while the other had long black hair falling in a single braid to his waist, and eyes as gold as Adam's torque. They were elegantly dressed in tailored clothing of dark hues, with magnificent bodies that dripped with raw sex appeal. Oh, my, she marveled, they don't amek men like these in the States. Were these typical Scotsmen? If so, she was going to have to get Elizabeth over here somehow. A connoisseur of romance novels, Elizabeth's favorites were the Scottish ones, and these two men looked as if they'd just stepped straight off one of those covers. "Try not to gape, ka-lyrra. They're only human. Mortal. Puny. And married. Both of them. Happily.

Amelia envisaged that between York and the royal-infested Scottish Highlands there was a grimy wasteland of derelict cranes and abandoned mills and betrayed, yet still staunch, people. Oh and moorland, of course, vast tracts of brooding landscape under lowering skies, and across this heath strode brooding, lowering men intent on reaching their ancestral houses, where they were going to fling open doors and castigate orphaned yet resolute governesses. Or — preferably — the brooding, lowering men were on horseback, black horses with huge muscled haunches, glistening with sweat —

Have ye ever known a female who wasna a bit of a witch in her own sweet way?

He feared her hatred more than any sword.

The rough pad of his thumb dragged across the split on her lip as light as a whisper. She felt his caress in her bones. And elsewhere.

Colleen patted his thigh. "Are you up to baking decadently delicious chocolate treats?" "I am. And eating my fair share, too.

How far they came to perish here, these soldiers and these machines! What bizarre train of events brought youngsters from the Rhineland and Prussia, from the Scottish Highlands and London, from Australia and New Zealand, to butt at each other to the death with flame-spitting machinery in faraway Africa, in a setting as dry and lonesome as the moon? But that is the hallmark of this war. No other war has ever been like it. This war rings the world.... Men fight as far from home as they can be transported, with courage and endurance that makes one proud of the human race, in horrible contrivances that make one ashamed of the human race.

Warmth stole into Murdoch's voice at the memory, and Farah's heart clenched at the picture of her Dougan not yet a man, and yet not a boy, regaling a room full of hardened prisoners about the graveyard capers and bog adventures of a ten-year-old girl in the Scottish Highlands. "He described ye so many times, I feel as though any of us would have recognized ye had we seen ye on the streets. He told us of yer kindness, yer innocence, yer gentle ways and boundless curiosity. Ye became something of a patron saint to us all. Our daughter. Our sister. Our... Fairy. Without even knowing it, ye gave us- him- a little bit of sunshine and hope in a world of shadow and pain.

His eyes touched every part of her. Even parts that may never have been touched before. They flashed with lightning, singing along her nerves with electric currents of heat. A sultry, answering thunder whipped through her, calling forth a storm so unexpected, she almost felt betrayed by her own body.

The softness of her touch, the emerald eyes gazing into his when they held hands and circled, attacked his defenses and flung them aside as if he were a helpless lad. If she'd come at him with a dagger, he might have let her stab him in the heart.

I have so much more t'teach ye." He chuckled, kissing her fully on the mouth, holding her little body in his arms. "More?" Her eyes lit up. "Aye, much, much more," he agreed, eyes alight. "Come wit' me, lass. Let's get cleaned up so we can get dirty again.

Come with me, sweet lass, and I'll make good on me promise to chase ye through the woods like a highlander." Broen spoke in a rich timbre laced with good humor. " Ye there...Lads, be sporting now and let me ravish this charming creature the way only a Scotsman can!

She told me that love has a magic all its own.

What the feckin' hell is PMS, I'd like to ken?" "Petty Male Shit," she yelled.

If ye wear underwear, it's a skirt. If ye dinna, it's a kilt.

Sophie had survived on her own for a long time. She knew she didn't need a man, not even Darius. But she wanted him. That made all the difference in the end.

Truth - although difficult at times - is eventually the path to contentment and peace.

Mairi was searching for her lost wolf. Ronan shook with a bitter chuckle. Little did the woman know, her lost wolf searched for her.

The man needed USDA Prime tattooed up his flank.

She glanced at him over her shoulder with a seductive grin. "Being adventurous is new for me - and a bit scary." "And 'tis my duty to ensure you enjoy it.

Well, if he was already damned, he might as well follow his wicked impulses all the way to hell. At least he’d get to taste her again.

Why can’t I get enough of you?” she asked between kisses. “Do you want to?

Ye might no know this about me…” “But I prefer my women… a wee bit dirty. I’ve imagined more than once what yer foul mouth could do to me.

I pronounce ye married, laird and lady. No’ ’til death will ye part. And now, Toran,” he added with a wink, “ye may kiss the bride.

Ach, lass. Nae matter what happens, I will find you. Even if I must travel through time to a thousand different places, I promise you, I will find you.

If Scotsmen truly didn't wear anything under their kilts, she bet his equipment was frozen solid.

Honey increases sperm count." "Oh, you're so full of it. There's no scientific evidence to support that ridiculous statement." "It's an auld Scottish belief.

His clan, his lands, his title-those were his duty. But Gwyneth was his delight. His reason to smile.

There's nothing sweet about me, love," he said.

Damn, I would give anything to see that man naked," Charlotte whispered. "How could you only say he was 'all right'?

I would like to know the given name of the woman who can kiss me so passionately she makes me want to climb to the roof tops and roar.

Mmm...you smell of lavender." She didn't think it wise to tell the man what he smelled like so she politely nodded.

Love cannot grow between two people when dark secrets simmer beneath.

She’s either a witch or she’s crazier than a featherbrained hen without a roost.

No man returns from Satan’s fire read to dance a reel.

The ruddy chieftain snorted. “You’ve not noticed? I reckon he’s as smitten as a bull in a paddock of heifers in spring.

Geordie stepped forward and took her hand. “I hope you’re not tired, because I intend to keep you on my arm until the music stops.

She moved her hips, his manhood sliding between her wet thighs, rekindling the hot craving at her very core. “How can I bring you pleasure?

I will always find you. You are in my soul.

...His body still craved her touch and he'd had a devil of a time making it down the hill wearing trousers when he was fully aroused. A kilt would have made it so much easier to manage.

In early cultures, it was thought pearls were born when a single raindrop fell from the heavens and became the heart of the oyster. For me, ye have become the pearl, the beat of me heart. The sapphires and emeralds signify me tartan and how I will always surround ye with love, Creigh.

- I like my shirts. - It's plaid. - There are no rules for shirts. Plaid is good. - Plaid is bad. Although, if you went with a Scottish plaid in wool, it might be okay. - I'm not dressing like some damned highlander, Mercedes. - And the lumberjack look is okay? - You don't like my shirt?

He took a step back to distance himself from her wicked, mind-consuming scent. In the future if he wanted to bamboozle an opponent in the karate ring, all he had to do was splash on some eau de Christina.

Web of time Veil of space Carry us to our chosen place Borne of water Trialed by Fire My Sinclair blood claims this power For the good of all With harm to none So as it is spoken So let it be done.

She did not want to have to choose between the legend which had finally made her feel as if her life had meaning and this beautiful, caring man whose soul seemed to echo with the same beats as her own heart.

Why couldn't she have just admitted she couldn't handle the liquor and given up the deception that she could? He sat there for the longest time -- at least it seemed that way to him -- as he tried to decide what to do next. Her head was resting on his groin, which had a mind of its own as it began to react to the woman's touch.

The Highland men and women certainly dress differently than we do, even when we're out in the country. Why do you think the Scotti9sh men wear those ridiculous skirts, George?" Enough was enough. Fagan approached the table and gave her a roguish grin. "'Tisnae a skirt, lass. If I wore something under it, then it would be called a skirt.

I am not chaste." Ruairi pased. She hadn't noticed the strained tone in her voice, but an inner torment began to gnaw at her. The harder she tried to ignore the truth, the more it persisted. She lowered her eyes and waited to be judged. He lifted her chin with his finger and his eyes captured hers. "Then ye are in luck... because neither am I.

Her eyes widened, convinced by the size of it that his shaft was fully erect. She blinked several times. No, she was wrong. The bulge moved, growing as she watched it. "Not that I mind ya staring, love, but I've got an appointment I must keep.

Tell me you doona want this. Tell me that ye didna feel this storm brewing between us since the very first day we met. That a part of ye didna know that this was an inevitability. I knew from the first time I saw ye that it was my destiny to claim ye here in the mists. And ye must take me, Mena... all of me. Make demands of yer own. Lay claim to the pleasure I'm willing to offer ye.

She drove into the inner bailey and saw the sight she had tried to envision on the way here. But nothing had prepared her for this. Hot, hot, hot men in kilts with oiled abs, pecs, and bare legs, and wearing leather boots -- some ancient, others more modern. The men were absolutely drool worthy! The only thing she regretted was that she hadn't been given the opportunity to oil them down.

Duncan grasped Eoin's shoulder and pulled them apart. "You'll not be touching my sister again until you are properly wed." He reached for Helen's left arm. "And you will go home with me." Eoin grasped his lady's right hand. "Oh, no, I'm finished with waiting.

Gram walked between the brothers, and slipped an arm through each man's bent elbow. When she glanced over her shoulder at Paisley, her eyes gleamed with pleasure. "These two are mine, sweet pea. The next man in a kilt is yours. In Scotland, it's every woman for herself.

I want ye,” Lachlan choked out, surprised at his words and the desperate sound of his own voice. He did not look at Bridgette as he spoke but kept his gaze down to the ground as a war between honor and desire raged within him. “I want ye more than I want air to breathe.

She loved the way the wind whipped their kilts about. She caught a gorgeous shot of Grant's very toned, hot ass. That would teach him to go without any briefs on a windy day! Maybe he thought she would be so shocked to see him naked beneath the kilt that she'd run off. Not her.

They stood high on top of the hill overlooking the glen, the water rushing by, the sheep grazing on the green grass across the burn, and white clouds passing overhead against the blue sky. He still had hold of her arm, but then he released her, cupped her face with both hands, and kissed her.

She looked Con up and down. ... "I went to do your stupid ass a favor. Next time I'll decline." She started to turn away when his hand wrapped around her arm to hold her. Rhi looked down at his fingers, then at his face. "I doona trust you." "You never have," she responded coolly. "This is nothing new." He yanked her close so that their faces were inches apart. "If you betray us, there's nowhere you can hid where I won't find you. And kill you." She smiled, briefly debating putting her lips to his and seeing his reaction. Right before she teleported away, she said, "Kiss my grits.

Then she smiled. But there was something different about this one. Like she’d decided something, and it had to do with him. This smile hit Donal like a fist to the gut. He got the distinct impression that he might be in a different sort of trouble than he’d ever been in before. But this trouble, he might come to enjoy.

Before she could face forward again, he caught her gaze with those impossibly light-green eyes of his. “Too late. I’m already charmed, adae. Whether ye dunnae wish me to tell ye so or not.” And she was charmed, as well. If only he’d been the oldest MacTaggert. If only her mother wasn’t mad for a title in the family. If only, if only, if only.

Ciaran broke the silence and spoke quietly. "She means naught to me." A tear fell down her cheek and she wiped it away. "It doesnae matter--truly," she whispered. He reached out and gently brushed her arms. When she closed her eyes to avoid his probing gaze, he raised her chin with his finger. "It matters to me," he said solemnly. He wiped her tears with his thumb. "I told her we were done when I returned to Glenorchy. She wasnae pleased. I didnae know she was there, Rosalia. She saw ye and Aisling and threw her body upon me." She could not help but smirk. "Her verra bare body, my laird." He paused for a moment, a spark of some identifiable emotion in his eyes. "I didnae notice, Rosalia. All I saw was ye.

The little woman, wearing a pink and black zigzag-striped pantsuit over a black turtleneck, resembled a skinny zebra who'd OD'd on Pepto-Bismol.

She had earned his respect as a boy and should be given at least as much respect now that he knew she was a woman.

She looked so cute with her face all swollen and scrunched up like that. It made him think this must be what little evil elves must look like.

Yer true future, the future waiting to set your soul on fire, can only be found in the past.

Lydia Barratt, "táim in grá leat." Erik took a knee. "Say ya will marry me lassie.

Who knew being married was such fun," he panted, pressing a kiss to her temple and swatting her backside simultaneously. She pulled back to look at him, one of her rare, reluctant smiles tugging at the corner of her kiss-reddened mouth. "You probably should have done it years ago." "Nay, lass," he said suddenly feeling very serious. "Then it wouldna have been ye.

Aye, we are. Ye told me that ye loved me, and that this is where ye wished to be. I told ye that I wished for ye to remain here with me. I offered a betrothal, if ye’ll recall, when ye were ready. But I neglected to tell ye the most important thing before our passions overtook us yesterday. I love ye, too, Aileana. I never want to lose ye again. I want ye beside me, always.

Ye should see my massive claymore." "Oh, good heavens," Jane muttered from behind them. "What now?" he asked. "A claymore's a fine weapon, long and heavy, and a wonder when ye ken how to use it correctly." Abruptly Amelia-Rose didn't think they were talking about swords. "And you know how to use yours correctly?" "Aye. I'm something of an artist, ye might say. I'd like to show it to ye, lass.

Lauren closed her eyes, remembering how desperate she had been this morn in Chartres, how she had prayed for divine intervention to stop her wedding. She had never expected that intervention to be riding a black horse and wielding a sword.

The drinking dens are spilling out There's staggering in the square There's lads and lasses falling about And a crackling in the air Down around the dungeon doors The shelters and the queues Everybody's looking for Somebody's arms to fall into And it's what it is It's what it is now There's frost on the graves and the monuments But the taverns are warm in town People curse the government And shovel hot food down The lights are out in the city hall The castle and the keep The moon shines down upon it all The legless and asleep And it's cold on the tollgate With the wagons creeping through Cold on the tollgate God knows what I could do with you And it's what it is It's what it is now The garrison sleeps in the citadel With the ghosts and the ancient stones High up on the parapet A Scottish piper stands alone And high on the wind The highland drums begin to roll And something from the past just comes And stares into my soul And it's cold on the tollgate With the Caledonian Blues Cold on the tollgate God knows what I could do with you And it's what it is It's what it is now What it is It's what it is now There's a chink of light, there's a burning wick There's a lantern in the tower Wee Willie Winkie with a candlestick Still writing songs in the wee wee hours On Charlotte Street I take A walking stick from my hotel The ghost of Dirty Dick Is still in search of Little Nell And it's what it is It's what it is now Oh what it is What it is now

She slapped his shoulder. "You... you go down to breakfast, Gram. I'll be there as soon as I shower and dress." "Have you been exercising? You sound out of breath." Creighton buried his face in a pillow, his body shaking with laughter. Gram knocked on the door. "Do you have a man in there with you?" "No, Gram..." He pushed himself off the pillow and sat, his large hands sweeping dark hair away from his face. "Aye, she bloody well does." Clapping sounded from the other side of the door followed by Gram's bellowing "Born to be Wild.

I've learned that the heart does not lie. The thought of never being with him or having him in my life again shattered me. Not a day went by that I didn't think of his smile or remember his laugh, his touch, and how that alluring Scottish accent always made my knees tremble.

On a crisp, fresh morning in the Scottish Highlands, I had planned a ten-mile run. Both Jon Pratt and I were training a lot that winter, and we were both in good shape. Our run had a delightful and magical quality. My mind was very clear, and I remained completely present, noticing every rock on the trail and even the dew glistening on the pine needles. Every gust of wind invigorated and refreshed me. Even the clear echoes of our feet hitting the trail brought me back to the moment. As we inhaled and exhaled, the vapors created a mist. I felt connected to the sky and the earth.

Naught is simple about the truth. There is the truth of what happened and the truth of what I believe happened and the truth of what I still remember to have happened. And that does not embrace the truths perceived and remembered by others, let alone whether any of us witnessed the fullness of the truth in the first place.

I see this is not the first time you've gotten yourself injured," she said, sounding irritated. "I suppose battle scars are a badge of honor for you Highlanders." He shrugged. "Every scar provides a tale to share around the hearth." "You should be more careful," she scolded. "I am careful," he said with a laugh. "That's why I live to tell the tales.

She leaned her uninjured shoulder against his plump, furry behind and shoved while she bitched to herself, "Four years at the military academy, two years at Kansas State University, survival camp in the swamps of Alabama, more schooling in Florida, and then torture endurance training with the Mossad and all so I could heave a bear's ass into a helicopter. Unfreaking real.

You're not paying attention to me, are you?" "Eh? What's that? Sorry, love, I didn't hear you. Wasn't paying attention. I had my eyes on your perfectly formed arse." Catherine fixed him with a glare worthy of a Scottish schoolmaster. "This is serious business Jamie. If you've to pass for a Highlander, you've got to get the kilt just so," "Bah! You're a hoydenish vixen. You just want to ogle my knees." "Nonsense. I'm sure you'll find the ah... freedom and... utility very appealing once you try it on." "You mean you think I'll like the feel of the family jewels waving free?" Blushing, she spread both great kilts on the ground. "One lays down on it like so. Oh stop grinning, Jamie, and do try." She was so earnest and eager in her lesson that he hadn't the heart to tell her he'd worn a kilt a time or two before.

Falling In Time   When love calls across the ages…   Aspiring writer Lindy Lovejoy knows all about happy endings. But when she travels to Scotland to research Celtic myth and lore, she never expected a chance to live her own storybook romance, until a stop at mystical Smoo Cave whisks her back in time and into the arms of Rogan MacGraith, a Highland hero who’d burn up the pages of the steamiest Scottish romance novel.

At one point the worst thing to happen was the odd stabbing or slashing, the violence that we live with nowadays used to only be seen in Hollywood gangster movies such as Gangs of New York, Menace to Society and Boys and the Hood. Even when we were reading about the crack hitting London, no one in Scotland would have thought in their wildest dreams that it would have taken off in our cities, towns and now even highland villages.

The Hotel dining-room, like most of the others I was to find in the Highlands, had its walls covered with pictures of all sorts of wild game, living or in the various postures of death that are produced by sport. Between these pictures the walls were alert with the stuffed heads of deer, furnished with antlers of every degree of magnificence. A friend of mine has a theory that these pictures of dying birds and wounded beasts are intended to whet the diner's appetite, and perhaps they did in the more lusty age of Victoria; but I found they had the opposite effect on me, and had to keep my eyes from straying too often to them. In one particular hotel this idea was carried out with such thoroughness that the walls of its dining room looked like a shambles, they presented such an overwhelming array of bleeding birds, beasts and fishes. To find these abominations on the walls of Highland hotels, among a people of such delicacy in other things, is peculiarly revolting, and rubs in with superfluous force that this is a land whose main contemporary industry is the shooting down of wild creatures; not production of any kind but wholesale destruction. This state of things is not the fault of the Highlanders, but of the people who have bought their country and come to it chiefly to kill various forms of life.

But if she were still unmarried by war’s end . . . What the bloody hell are you thinkin’, MacKinnon? He was thinking of bedding her. Nay, ‘twas more than that. He was thinking of wooing her. Och! For God’s sake, he was thinking of marrying her. Are you mad, MacKinnon. You barely ken the lass. Even as he rejected the notion, some part of him decided it was not so daft as it seemed. They were both from the Highlands. She was bonnie, strong, and spirited, qualities that would surely pass to her children, while he had the skill to protect her, provide for her—and show her what the passion in her Scottish blood was for. Aye, but she was a Protestant and came from Loyalist roots, while he was Catholic and sprang from a clan that had stood by the Stuarts. Then there was the fact that he was bound to this war until its end. And had a price on his head. And was without a roof to shelter her. A lass would be silly to pass up such a match, MacKinnon. Bloody grand idea.

Lowlanders who left Scotland for Ireland between 1610 and 1690 were biologically compounded of many ancestral strains. While the Gaelic Highlanders of that time were (as they are probably still) overwhelmingly Celtic in ancestry, this was not true of the Lowlanders. Even if the theory of 'racial' inheritance of character were sound, the Lowlander had long since become a biological mixture, in which at least nine strains had met and mingled in different proportions. Three of the nine had been present in the Scotland of dim antiquity, before the Roman conquest: the aborigines of the Stone Ages, whoever they may have been; the Gaels, a Celtic people who overran the whole island of Britain from the continent around 500 B.C.; and the Britons, another Celtic folk of the same period, whose arrival pushed the Gaels northward into Scotland and westward into Wales. During the thousand years following the Roman occupation, four more elements were added to the Scottish mixture: the Roman itself—for, although Romans did not colonize the island, their soldiers can hardly have been celibate; the Teutonic Angles and Saxons, especially the former, who dominated the eastern Lowlands of Scotland for centuries; the Scots, a Celtic tribe which, by one of the ironies of history, invaded from Ireland the country that was eventually to bear their name (so that the Scotch-Irish were, in effect, returning to the home of some of their ancestors); and Norse adventurers and pirates, who raided and harassed the countryside and sometimes remained to settle. The two final and much smaller components of the mixture were Normans, who pushed north after they had dealt with England (many of them were actually invited by King David of Scotland to settle in his country), and Flemish traders, a small contingent who mostly remained in the towns of the eastern Lowlands. In addition to these, a tenth element, Englishmen—themselves quite as diverse in ancestry as the Scots, though with more of the Teutonic than the Celtic strains—constantly came across the Border to add to the mixture.

He held his crotch, his knees bent and his kilt showing he wore nothing beneath it. She shuffled from one foot to the other as she stared at his Scottish bagpipe. Bet he could hit a lot of high notes with that thing. "You...you startled me when you grabbed me like that." "Well, ye needna be afraid now. I couldna molest ya, even if I wanted to, which I dinna.I'm betting foreplay with ye would be like grabbing hold of an electrical wire while sitting in a tub of water." He groaned and cussed some more. "Hell, I bet yer vagina is lined with shark's teeth.

Do ye trust me enough to follow me up the hill and see if the hot spring truly exists?" "As cold as my toes are, I'd be willing to follow you if you said there was a fire lit by a dragon." Catriona let out a little laugh. "We have only fairies here, ye can keep your dragons." Samuel winked. "Which is mightier?" "I'm surprised ye wouldn't think a dragon, sir," she said, steering her horse around the tall stones and then up the slippery slope behind them. "Fairies have magic." "And dragons have fire." ..."Fire is not always more potent than magic," Samuel called.

It is often said that what most immediately sets English apart from other languages is the richness of its vocabulary. Webster’s Third New International Dictionary lists 450,000 words, and the revised Oxford English Dictionary has 615,000, but that is only part of the total. Technical and scientific terms would add millions more. Altogether, about 200,000 English words are in common use, more than in German (184,000) and far more than in French (a mere 100,000). The richness of the English vocabulary, and the wealth of available synonyms, means that English speakers can often draw shades of distinction unavailable to non-English speakers. The French, for instance, cannot distinguish between house and home, between mind and brain, between man and gentleman, between “I wrote” and “I have written.” The Spanish cannot differentiate a chairman from a president, and the Italians have no equivalent of wishful thinking. In Russia there are no native words for efficiency, challenge, engagement ring, have fun, or take care [all cited in The New York Times, June 18, 1989]. English, as Charlton Laird has noted, is the only language that has, or needs, books of synonyms like Roget’s Thesaurus. “Most speakers of other languages are not aware that such books exist” [The Miracle of Language, page 54]. On the other hand, other languages have facilities we lack. Both French and German can distinguish between knowledge that results from recognition (respectively connaître and kennen) and knowledge that results from understanding (savoir and wissen). Portuguese has words that differentiate between an interior angle and an exterior one. All the Romance languages can distinguish between something that leaks into and something that leaks out of. The Italians even have a word for the mark left on a table by a moist glass (culacino) while the Gaelic speakers of Scotland, not to be outdone, have a word for the itchiness that overcomes the upper lip just before taking a sip of whiskey. (Wouldn’t they just?) It’s sgriob. And we have nothing in English to match the Danish hygge (meaning “instantly satisfying and cozy”), the French sang-froid, the Russian glasnost, or the Spanish macho, so we must borrow the term from them or do without the sentiment. At the same time, some languages have words that we may be pleased to do without. The existence in German of a word like schadenfreude (taking delight in the misfortune of others) perhaps tells us as much about Teutonic sensitivity as it does about their neologistic versatility. Much the same could be said about the curious and monumentally unpronounceable Highland Scottish word sgiomlaireachd, which means “the habit of dropping in at mealtimes.” That surely conveys a world of information about the hazards of Highland life—not to mention the hazards of Highland orthography. Of

He covered her mouth with his ---and she felt as if she had suddenly been enveloped in a cascade of sparks. The tingling warmth from his touch did not compare to the sensations that whirled through her as his lips moved over hers. It was as if every part of her body had at once become brilliantly alive. His beard was a startling, silky roughness against her skin. His other hand came to rest at her waist, drawing her in tight, and her body seemed to meld to his hard, lean lines, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Her thoughts scattered. A sound escaped her, soft and deep, unlike any sound she had ever made in her life. Then his tongue touched her lower lip and she gave a startled little squeak. Her suddenly lifted his mouth from hers, his eyes midnight blue, his voice husky. "You have never even been kissed before, leannan. You are as innocent as the day you first set foot in the convent.

Iain MacGregor,” she whispered longingly, looking up. The woods were quiet. Strips of moonlight shone through tree limbs that reached like surreal black fingertips across her vision. A single tear slid down her cheek. She touched her mouth, imagining his kiss. Taking a small pocket knife out of her cargo pants, she looked about. A mystic had once told her that if she left pieces of herself around while she lived, it would expand her haunting territory when she died. Jane wasn’t sure she believed in sideshow magic tricks—or the Old Magick as the mystic had spelled it on her sign. She had no idea what had possessed her to talk to the palm reader and ask about ghosts. Still, just in case, she was leaving her stamp all over the woods. She cut her palm and pressed it to a nearby tree under a branch. Holding the wound to the rough bark stung at first, but then it made her feel better. This forest wouldn’t be a bad eternity. The sound of running feet erupted behind her and she stiffened. No one ever came out here at night. She’d walked the woods hundreds of times. Her mind instantly went to the creepy girl ghosts chanting by the stream. “Whoohoo!” Jane whipped around, startled as a streak of naked flesh sprinted past her. The Scottish voice was met with loud cheers from those who followed him. “Water’s this way, lads, or my name isn’t Raibeart MacGregor, King of the Highlands!” Another naked man dashed through the forest after him. “It smells of freedom.” Jane stayed hidden in the branches, undetected, with her hand pressed to the bark. “Aye, freedom from your proper Cait,” Raibeart answered, his voice coming through the dark where he’d disappeared into the trees. “Murdoch, stop him before he reaches town. Cait will not teleport ya out of jail again,” a third man yelled, not running quite so fast. “Raibeart, ya are goin’ the wrong way!” “Och, Angus, my Cait canna live without me,” Murdoch, the second streaker, answered. “She’ll always come to my rescue.” “I said stop him, Murdoch, we’re new to this place.” Angus skidded to a stop and lifted his jaw, as if sensing he was being watched. He looked in her direction and instantly covered his manhood as his eyes caught Jane’s shocked face in the tree limbs. “Oh, lassie.” “Oh, naked man,” Jane teased before she could stop herself. “That I am,” Angus answered, “but there is an explanation for it.” “I don’t think some things need explained,” Jane said.