947 pages, Paperback
First published July 1,1992
А well-educated Scottish soldier.A young Scottish redhead with a complicated past and a disarming sense of humor, Jamie is intelligent, principled, and, by 18th century standards, educated and worldly. He has the title Laird of Broch Tuarach,, the Fraser ...
Daughter of Claire and Jamie Frasermore...
A historian. His biological parents, Jerry and Marjorie MacKenzie, died during World War Two and he was raised by his great-uncle, Reverend Wakefield....
A boy who worked in a brothel that Jamie saved and employed.more...
Married to Jamies sister- Jennymore...
The quick-witted, stubborn but lovely, English “Sassenach” Claire Randall, is a married combat nurse from 1945 who is mysteriously swept back in time to 1743. Upon her arrival she is immediately thrown into an unknown world where her life is threatened. W...
I woke three times in the dark predawn. First in sorrow, then in joy, and at last, in solitude. The tears of a bone-deep loss woke me slowly, bathing my face like the comforting touch of a damp cloth in soothing hands. I turned my face to the wet pillow and sailed a salty river into the caverns of grief remembered, into the subterranean depths of sleep.n n
I came awake then in fierce joy, body arched bowlike in the throes of physical joining, the touch of him fresh on my skin, dying along the paths of my nerves as the ripples of consummation spread from my center. I repelled consciousness, turning again, seeking the sharp, warm smell of a man's satisfied desire, in reassuring arms of my lover, sleep.
The third time I woke alone, beyond the touch of love or grief. The sight of the stones was fresh in my mind. A small circle, standing stones on the crest of a steep green hill. The name of the hill is Craigh na Dun; the fairies' hill. Some say the hill is enchanted, others say it is cursed. Both are right. But no one knows the function or the purpose of the stones.
Except me.
Unwrapping the blood-spotted handkerchief, I pressed my wounded hand tightly against his, fingers gripped together. The blood was warm and slick, not yet sticky between our hands.n
"Blood of my Blood . . ." I whispered.
". . . and Bone of my Bone," he answered softly. Neither of us could finish the vow, "so long as we both shall live," but the unspoken words hung aching between us. Finally he smiled crookedly.
"Longer than that," he said firmly, and pulled me to him once more.
"One man, a Fraser of the Master of Lovat's regiment, escaped. . ." Roger repeated softly. He looked up from the stark page to see her eyes, wide and unseeing as a deer's fixed in the headlights of an oncoming car.n
"He meant to die on Culloden Field," Roger whispered.
"But he didn't."