There was a lessening of the tension over the hall, and almost an audible sigh of relief in the gallery as Colum drank from the quaich and offered it to Jamie. The young man accepted it with a smile. Instead of the customary ceremonial sip, however, he carefully raised the nearly full vessel, tilted it and drank. And kept on drinking. There was a gasp of mingled respect and amusement from the spectators, as the powerful throat muscles kept moving. Surely he’d have to breathe soon, I thought, but no. He drained the heavy cup to the last drop, lowered it with an explosive gasp for air, and handed it back to Colum.
“The honor is mine,” he said, a little hoarsely, “to be allied with a clan whose taste in whisky is so fine.”
Diana Gabaldon, Outlander (Chapter 10 – The Oath Taking)
My thoughts of luxuriant wallowing were interrupted by the emergence from the woods of Ian and Myers, the latter with a brace of squirrels hung from his belt. Ian proudly presented me with an enormous black object, which on closer inspection proved to be a turkey, fat from gorging on the autumn grains.
“Boy’s got a nice eye, Mrs. Claire,” said Myers, nodding approvingly. “Those be wily birds, turkeys. Even the Indians don’t take ’em easy.”
It was early for Thanksgiving, but I was delighted with the bird, which would be the first substantial item in our larder. So was Jamie, though his pleasure lay more in the thing’s tail feathers, which would provide him with a good supply of quills.
Diana Gabaldon, Drums of Autumn (Chapter 19 – Hearth Blessing)
“You can treat rum like that,” Jared observed, watching the ungainly progress of the enormous barrel through the obstructions of the warehouse, “but not port. I always fetch that up myself, along with the bottled wines. In fact, I was just setting off to see a new shipment of Belle Rouge port. Would you perhaps be interested in accompanying me?”
Diana Gabaldon, Dragonfly in Amber (Chapter 6 – Making Waves)
Jamie closed his eyes for an instant, then opened them, looking toward Brianna, who stood with Lizzie and Marsali, Jemmy in her arms. The rawness and strength of his features stood out by contrast with the round-faced innocence of the children, the gentleness of the young mothers — though even in their delicacy, I thought, the firelight showed the seams of Scottish granite in their bones.
“We pay tribute to our women,” he said, lifting the cup in turn to Brianna, to Marsali, and then turning to me. A brief smile touched his lips. “For they are our strength. And our revenge upon our enemies will be at the last the revenge of the cradle. Slàinte!”
(Diana Gabaldon, The Fiery Cross (Chapter 15 – The Flames of Declaration) Read More
We had reached the second course without incident, and I was beginning to relax slightly, though my hand still had a tendency to tremble over the consommé.
“How perfectly fascinating!” I said, in response to a story of the younger Monsieur Duverney’s, to which I wasn’t listening, my ears being tuned for any suspicious noises abovestairs. “Do tell me more.”
I caught Magnus’s eye as he served the Comte St. Germain, seated across from me, and beamed congratulations at him as well as I could with a mouthful of fish. Too well trained to smile in public, he inclined his head a respectful quarter-inch and went on with the service. My hand went to the crystal at my neck, and I stroked it ostentatiously as the Comte, with no sign of perturbation on his saturnine features, dug into the trout with almonds.
Diana Gabaldon, Dragonfly in Amber (Chapter 18 – Rape in Paris)