I know why the Jews and Muslims have nine hundred names for God; one small word is not enough for love.

Sometimes,' he whispered at last, 'sometimes, I dream I am singing, and I wake from it with my throat aching.' He couldn't see her face, or the tears that prickled at the corners of her eyes. 'What do you sing?' she whispered back. She heard the shush of the linen pillow as he shook his head. 'No song I've ever heard, or know,' he said softly. 'But I know I'm singing it for you.

If it was a sin for you to choose me . . . then I would go to the Devil himself and bless him for tempting ye to it.

If I die," he whispered in the dark, "dinna follow me. The bairns will need ye. Stay for them. I can wait.

Tell him I hate him to his guts and the marrow of his bones!

I do know it, my own. Let me tell ye in your sleep how much I love you. For there's no so much I can be saying to ye while ye wake, but the same poor words, again and again. While ye sleep in my arms, I can say things to ye that would be daft and silly waking, and your dreams will know the truth of them. Go back to sleep, mo duinne.

It's only that ye looked so beautiful, wi' the fire on your face, and your hair waving in the wind. I wanted to remember it.