121
" Bedding her could be anything from tenderness to riot, but to take her when she was a bit the worse for drink was always a particular delight.
Intoxicated, she took less care for him than usual; abandoned and oblivious to all but her own pleasure, she would rake him, bite him - and beg him to serve her so, as well.
He loved the feeling of power in it, the tantalizing choice between joining her at once in animal lust, or of holding himself-for a time- in check, so as to drive her at his whim. "
― Diana Gabaldon , The Fiery Cross (Outlander, #5)
124
" Jamie was a much a sponge as his grandson, I reflected, watching him rootle about, completely naked and totally unconcerned about it. He took in everything, and seemed able to deal with whatever came his way, no matter how familiar or foreign to his experience.
Anything he could not defeat, outwit, or alter, he simply accepted-rather like the sponge and its embedded shell.
Pursuing the analogy further, I supposed I was the shell. Snatched out of my own small niche by an unexpected strong current, taken in and surrounded by Jamie and his life. Caught forever among the strange currents that pulsed through this outlandish environment. "
― Diana Gabaldon , The Fiery Cross (Outlander, #5)
128
" —Vi a mi madre en su ataúd—dijo por fin—. Las mujeres le habían trenzado el pelo para que tuviera un aspecto decoroso, pero mi padre no lo permitió. Quería verla por última vez tal como era para él. Fue personalmente al ataúd, le deshizo las trenzas y extendió la cabellera con las manos, cubriendo la almohada.
Hizo una pausa; su pulgar quedó inmóvil.
—Yo estaba allí, quieto en el rincón. Cuando todos salieron para recibir al cura me acerqué sigilosamente. Era la primera vez que veía a una persona muerta.—Dejé que mis dedos se cerraran sobre su antebrazo.— Una mañana mi madre me dio un beso en la frente; luego volvió a colocarme la horquilla que se me había desprendido de mi pelo ensortijado y salió. Jamás volví a verla. La velaron con el ataúd cerrado.
—¿Era…ella?
—No.—Contemplaba el fuego con los ojos entornados—. No del todo. Se le parecía, pero nada más. Como si alguien la hubiera tallado en madera de abedul. Pero su pelo… eso aún tenía vida. Eso todavía era…ella.
Lo oí tragar saliva y carraspear un poco.
—La cabellera le cruzaba el pecho, cubriendo al niño que yacía con ella. Pensé que a él no le gustaría sofocarse de ese modo. Y retiré las guedejas rojas para dejarlo a la vista. Mi hermanito, acurrucado en sus brazos, con la cabeza en su seno, abrigado y en sombras bajo la cortina de pelo. Y enseguida pensé que no, que estaría más contento si lo dejaba así. Y volví a alisar la cabellera de mi madre para cubrirle la cabeza.
Su pecho se elevó bajo mi mejilla. Deslizó lentamente las manos por mi pelo.
—No tenía una sola cana, Sassenach. Ni una.
Ellen Fraser había muerto de parto a los treinta y ocho años. Mi madre, a los treinta y dos. Y yo… yo tenía la riqueza de todos esos años largos que ellas habían perdido. Y más aún.
—Para mí es un gozo ver cómo te tocan los años, Sassenach—susurró—, pues significa que vives. "
― Diana Gabaldon , The Fiery Cross (Outlander, #5)
129
" Good luck will do,” he said, and his hand tightened on mine…. “I love ye does much better.”
He touched my hand, lifted his own and touched my hair, my face, looking into my eyes as though to capture my image in this moment- just in case it should be his last glimpse of me.
“There may come a day when you and I shall part again,” he said softly, at last, and his fingers brushed my lips, light as the touch of a falling leaf. He smiled faintly. “But it willna be today. "
― Diana Gabaldon , The Fiery Cross (Outlander, #5)
136
" accidentally. “Here, I’ll do that, a leannan.” Mrs. Bug took the knife out of my hand and dealt briskly with the onions. “Is it a poultice? Aye, that’ll be the thing. A good onion poultice will mend anything.” Still, a worried frown puckered her forehead as she glanced toward the surgery. “Can I help, Mama?” Bree came in from the hallway, also looking worried. “Da looks awful; is he all right?” “Ganda full?” Jem popped into the kitchen after his mother, less worried about his grandfather than interested in the knife Mrs. Bug was using. He dragged his little stool toward her, face purposeful under his coppery fringe. “Me do!” I brushed the hair out of my face with "
― Diana Gabaldon , The Fiery Cross (Outlander, #5)