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Image of the quote is loading... SaveSave Perhaps we can start counting those kisses once more. I think you owe me a few. - Quote by Jean M. Grant

Perhaps we can start counting those kisses once more. I think you owe me a few.

Jean M. Grant
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A cloud of white death veiled in black…
Jean M. Grant
The scene unfolded before him as though he were a ghost.tHis mother stood on the raised stump, her body tied to the tall stake behind her. A pile of wood encircled her feet. Only a small crowd had gathered in the courtyard, despite his father’s commands that all should attend. Alasdair sobbed at her feet, calling out to her. The young Alasdair climbed on the pile and clutched her flowing gown. She had been dressed in her finest, not stripped down to her chemise like the handmaid who stood tied to a post beside her. His father had always liked a display. Alasdair’s hands reached and passed over his mother’s large pregnant belly. With that, she sobbed, too. “Oh, Ali, be good for Momma. I’ll see you in the pearly white heaven that God has promised us. Be steadfast, son. Trust your heart.”t“Light it,” his father ordered.
Jean M. Grant
Did he actually believe in this curse? A curse! He snorted. Deirdre stirred.tImpossible. Curses were for witches, spell casters and the weak-minded.
Jean M. Grant
You're special, Deirdre, and don't ever think otherwise.
Jean M. Grant
Glen Shiel, Socttish Highlands, 1296Strife abounds. King Edward of England has invaded the southern strongholds of Scotland and is pressuring King John of Scotland to abdicate. Several Scottish nobles, called Claimants, vie for his throne. The Cause divides the country, as each clan must choose and support a Claimant. Many contenders seek fortune and power, but a few seek Scotland’s independence. Only by a great force can this be achieved. However, the road to independence is fraught with those that wish to see the Cause crushed, at any cost.
Jean M. Grant
Only one word describes a woman widowed for the second time on her wedding night – cursed.
Jean M. Grant
Listen to the earth, Feel the fire. Allow the power to flow through ye.
Jean M. Grant
She clambered to the shoreline. Numb and shaken, she began to dress. It wasn’t easy as she fumbled with slick fingers to put dry clothes over wet skin. She instantly regretted her naked swim. She pulled on her long-sleeved white chemise first.tShe faced the forest, away from her rescuer. He quietly splashed to shore. His lifeblood burned into her back. He wasn’t far behind, but he stopped. She refused to look at him until she was fully clothed, not out of embarrassment of her nudity, but for what had just happened. He released a groan and mumbled under his breath about wet boots. His voice was not one of her father’s soldiers.tWhen she put the last garment on, her brown wool work kirtle, she squeezed out her sopping hair and swept her hands through the knotty mess. She fastened her belt and tied the lacings up the front of the kirtle. Blood returned to her fingertips, and she regained her composure. Belated awareness struck her, and she leaned down and searched through her bag for her dagger. She spun around.tShe gasped as she saw the man sitting on the stone-covered shoreline, his wet boots off. Confusion and the hint of a scowl filled his strong-featured face. She staggered back, caught her heel on a stone, and fell, dropping the dagger. Dirt and pebbles stuck to her wet hands and feet, and she instinctively scrambled away from him.tHis glower, iridescent dark blue eyes, and disheveled black hair were not unfamiliar. Staring at her was the man she had seen in her dream – it was the man from the wood.
Jean M. Grant
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