Quotes About Connection

Three days before his scheduled departure, he rose in the morning with the conviction that he must speak with Fraser, somehow. Not in the stiff manner of an interview between paroled prisoner and officer of the Crown—simply a few words, as man to man. If he could have that, he could go back to London with an easy heart, knowing that sometime, somewhere, there was the possibility that they might be friends again, even if that time and place could not be here and now.

But mad passion wasn't a necessary prerequisite for tenderness or consideration, was it?

Thought of the general drew his fragmented thoughts together, a magnet in a scatter of loose iron filings. Someone to depend on…a man to share the burden…he wanted that, above all things. "Oh, God," he whispered, and moths touched his face, gentle in the dark.

His own words brought back to him the letters he had written now and then. The phantoms, as he thought of them: letters he'd written to Jamie Fraser—honest, conversational, heartfelt, and very real. No less real because he'd burned them all.

Whether it was health of mind or body, the love of him was necessary to me as breath or blood. My mind reached out for him, sleeping or waking, and finding him, was satisfied.

He put his arm around her and drew her head down on his shoulder, and they sat silently together, waiting for the light to come back.

in her voice that

He wore his plaid today pinned with a brooch at the shoulder—a beautiful thing his sister had sent him from Scotland, made in the shape of two running stags, bodies bent so that they joined in a circle, heads and tails touching.

No matter what," he whispered, "no matter where. No matter whether you're there to hear or not—I'll always sing for you.

Well, let them look, he thought, quelling the urge. It only matters if she's looking back, aye? He

Who makes a garden works with God.

just Ã¢â'¬Â¦ I couldn't feel properly toward a child that's not Ã¢â'¬Â¦ well, not of my blood.

My body is out of my control. She was the half of my body--the very half of my soul.

He was not afraid to die with her, by fire or any other way—only to live without her.

Well, I'll tell ye, Sassenach, 'graceful' is possibly not the first word that springs to mind at thought of you." He slipped an arm behind me, one hand large and warm around my silk-clad shoulder. "But I talk to you as I talk to my own soul," he said, turning me to face him. He reached up and cupped my cheek, fingers light on my temple. "And, Sassenach," he whispered, "your face is my heart.

tethered . . . "What about it, owd lass?" he asked the mare, in the

D'ye ken that the only time I am without pain is in your bed, Sassenach? When I take ye, when I lie in your arms—my wounds are healed, then, my scars forgotten.

I won't forget you, she said silently to the dead. It seemed so pitiful a thing to say—so small and futile. And yet the only thing in her power.

The lines of stress in Grey's face eased a little. "I see," he said slowly. "So—you have not seen him since—my God, that's twenty years!" He stared at me, dumbfounded. "And four months? Why—how—" He shook his head, brushing away the questions.

He wrapped his arms about his

Well, I'll tell ye, Sassenach, graceful is possibly not the first word that springs to mind at the thought of you. But I talk to you as I talk to my own soul. And, Sassenach, your face is my heart.

It was no random choice that invoked his name to cure me. Whether it was health of mind or body, the love of him was necessary to me as breath or blood. My mind reached out for him, sleeping or waking, and finding him, was satisfied. My body and glowed, and as it came to full life, hungered for his.

If you live to be a hundred, I want to live to be a hundred minus one day, so I never have to live without you," he said. "What?" she said, startled. "Who said that?" "Should I be hurt that you didn't think it was me?" he said, laughing. "It's A. A. Milne. From Winnie-the-Pooh, if you can believe it.

He told me. About everything.