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Below are samples of “Daily Lines,” which are excerpts of WRITTEN IN MY OWN HEART’S BLOOD, aka “MOBY,” the eighth book in the Outlander series and my other works.

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More Star-Crossed Lovers

Posted on March 22, 2013

“Tell me about her,” Jenny said, leaning forward intently. “Is she a good lass? And d’ye think she loves Young Ian? From what Ian told me, the lad’s desperate in love with her, but hadn’t spoken to her yet, not knowing how she’d take it-he wasna sure she could deal with him being…what he is.” Her quick gesture encompassed Young Ian’s history and character, from Highland lad to Mohawk warrior. “God kens weel he’ll never make a decent Quaker, and I expect Young Ian kens that, too.”

I laughed at the thought, though in fact the issue might be serious; I didn’t know what a Quaker Meeting might think of such a match, but I rather thought they might view the prospect with alarm. I knew nothing about Quaker marriage, though.

“She’s a very good girl,” I assured Jenny. “Extremely sensible, very capable—and plainly in love with Ian, though I don’t think she’s told him so, either.”

“Ah. D’ye ken her parents?”

“No, they both died when she was a child. She was mostly raised by a Quaker widow, and then came to keep house for her brother when she was sixteen or so.”

“That the little Quaker girl?” Mrs. Figg had come in with a vase of summer roses, smelling of myrrh and sugar. Jenny inhaled strongly and sat up straight. “Mercy Woodcock thinks the world of her. She comes by Mercy’s house every time she’s in town, to visit that young man.”

“Young man?” Jenny asked, dark brows drawing together.

“William’s cousin Henry,” I hastened to explain. “Denzell and I carried out a very serious operation on him during the winter. Rachel knows both William and Henry, and is very kind about visiting to see how Henry is. Mrs. Woodcock is his landlady.”

And what about Mercy Woodcock? I wondered, with a small jolt at the pit of the stomach. It was clear to me, as it was to John, that there was a serious–and deepening–affection between the free black woman and her aristocratic young lodger. I had met Mercy’s husband, very badly wounded, during the exodus from Fort Ticonderoga a year before—and lacking any communication from or about him, thought it very likely that he had died after being taken prisoner by the British.

Still, the possibility of John Woodcock returning miraculously from the dead—people did, after all, and a fresh bubble of joy rose under my heart at the thought—was the least of the matter. I couldn’t imagine that John’s brother, the very firm-minded Duke of Pardloe, would be delighted at hearing that his youngest son meant to marry the widow of a carpenter, whatever her color.

Nothing Like the Smell of Bacon In The Morning

Posted on November 10, 2012

Breakfast was plainly preparing below; besides the delectable scent of frying bacon, I could smell toasted yeast-bread and fresh honey. My stomach gave a loud gurgle at this, and as though the sound had caused it, the ladder leading up into the loft began to shake. Someone was coming up, moving slowly, and in case it wasn’t Jamie, I seized my shift and pulled it hastily over my head.

It wasn’t. A pewter tray rose slowly into sight, laid with a plate piled with food, a bowl of porridge, and a pottery mug of something steaming; it couldn’t be tea, and didn’t smell like coffee. As the tray levitated, Henri-Christian’s beaming face appeared below it; he was balancing the thing on his head.

I held my breath until he’d stepped off the ladder, and then, as he removed the tray from his head and presented it to me with a ceremonious little bow, applauded.

“Merveilleuse!” I told him, and he grinned from ear to ear.

“Joanie wanted to try,” he told me proudly, “but she can’t do it with a full tray yet. She spills.”