Quotes from Karen Ranney

Love is like lightning. You never see it coming. If it strikes you, you know it instantly and it will forever leave its mark.

Just when she thought she could feel nothing more, he began to increase his pace, strokes that pushed her over the edge. The storm swallowed her screams of pleasure. She heard his exultant laughter as she jerked her hands free, gripped his buttocks and pulled him to her, riding out her climax with his.

She laughed. He was right. Her laughter was enchanting. So, too, the sparkle in her eyes as she glanced at him. He'd never seen eyes as darkly brown as hers. With her dark hair she should have been a study in monochrome, but she wasn't. Her cheeks matched her pink lips.

She threw open the window to breathe in the spring air, heavy with the sweet perfume of roses and heather. To her right was the rolling glen beckoning her to come and walk. 'Sit here awhile and dream your thoughts on this flat rock.' How often had she done that?

She bit her lips, concentrating, wishing he'd go and sit on one of the chairs before the fireplace. Or stand at the window and watch the full moon. Anything but sit there so close she could smell the sandalwood soap he used. Night had brought a shadow of a beard to his face. He no longer looked every inch the earl, but more a coach robber, someone who would march her out to the glen and kiss her until she fell to her knees. He would show no mercy to her. Instead, he would make her beg.

Connor hadn't thought he'd need an interpreter in Scotland.

Until she'd known him she'd never experienced sorcery. Never known what it was like to feel passion. For the sheer blinding alchemy of that she would be forever grateful. But being with him was oddly more. It was the taste of an orange, the smell of a rose, the touch of the first spring raindrop expanded and multiplied and folded over itself. The meaning, perhaps, of joy.

An apple a day keeps the doctor away, but if the doctor is cute, forget the fruit

I welcome your opinions," Margaret said, glancing down. "Not your dictates." For

What were her abilities? She played the pianoforte passably well even though it didn't interest her. She loved to read and could spend the rest of her life in a library. She'd written a book, and her imagination was such that she could transport herself from the wilds of Scotland to anywhere.

When the smell of her perfume, something that reminded him of faint spicy blossoms and spring, wasn't wreathed in a cloud around him. Maybe it was magic. Was she one of the creatures from the many Scottish tales his nurse had told him as a child?