Best 284 quotes in «scotland quotes» category

Excuse me?” The librarian looked up again. “I need help now. I need to print this article and . . . do you have any books about dukes?” The librarian’s eyes went wide and she rubbed her hands together with glee. “We have a fantastic romance section,” she said. “Do you need recommendations? How do you like your dukes? Grumpy? Tortured? Alpha, beta, or alpha in the streets, beta in the sheets?” “Actually, I meant nonfiction,” Portia said glumly. The librarian sighed. “Aye. Just a warning, love—the non-fic dukes are not nearly as fun.

Fantasy, myth, legend, truth - all are intertwined in the story that is Scotland.

Food shouldn’t be that shade of green, lass.” – Faolán MacIntyre

Fortune, if thou’ll but gie me still Hale breeks, a scone, an whisky gill, An’ rowth o’ rhyme to rave at will, Take a’ the rest, An’ deal’t about as thy blind skill Directs thee best.

For Scotland is made out of cities and the country and the sea, which means It's so much more, as an imagined space, a geography of the mind, Than its centres of population. Demographics are never enough And the way in which this might best be imagined starts In the work of Hugh MacDiarmid. And the poets and artists Who followed from that. Not as disciples. As students. As witnesses As thinking men and women, who understand the depths, complexities Subtleties and strengths and the cosmic clock, All the resources there, and all the risks required. from 'Scotland's Voices

Four gargoyle brothers came and went with their mates, which included a wolf shifter, a Pegasus shifter, a gargoyle, and Kayla (a tree witch). Only one remained unattached, the middle brother, Gavin. He swore it would always remain that way.

Gavin turned to leave, and I was right behind him so I could close the door when he walked out, but he stopped short and turned back around. I bumped straight into him, our faces close, too close, at this point. “I’ve missed you,” Gavin whispered.

From the woods that surrounded the burgh came a mass of men. Some rode, others ran. All carried weapons, mainly axes or spears. A few wore mail shirts and cloaks, but most just leather aketons. Among them were a handful of men clad in the short tunics favoured by Highlanders. These men were bare from thigh to foot, an alarming sight to Ormesby, who had only heard rumour of these wild men of the north. As they came, they roared a multitude of battle cries. Ormesby caught one name in the din, issuing from a group of mailed riders who followed a burly man on a finely caparisoned horse. ‘For Douglas!’ they howled. ‘For Douglas!’ Below, the townsfolk were scattering. The English soldiers had formed a tight knot outside the hall, blades drawn, but even as Ormesby watched, the forlorn group of beggars he had seen threw off their ragged skins and furs, revealing thickly muscled warriors. They fell upon the soldiers with savage cries, daggers thrusting. Footsteps sounded on the hall stairs. The door burst open and two soldiers appeared. ‘We must go, sir!’ The clerks and officials were already hastening across the chamber. Donald was running with them. Ormesby remained rooted. ‘Who are they?’ he demanded, his voice high as he turned back to the window, seeing the horde rushing into the town. His eyes fixed on a giant of a man running, almost loping in the front lines. Taller than all those around him, agile in the stride, he wore a simple dark blue tunic and wide-brimmed kettle hat. The other men seemed to be running in unruly formation around him. But it was the blade in the man’s hands that Ormesby’s eyes were drawn to. He had never seen such a sword, so broad and long the giant had to grasp it in both hands as he came. Another name now became audible in the roar of the mob. ‘Wallace! Wallace!

Freedom is an idea that no tyrant will ever crush.

Glasgow is maybe the most bullshit-free place on earth. I think I call it "the antidote to the rest of the world." It's so unapologetically working class and attitude-free. Everyone's looking "to take the piss out of you," as they put it. They're all comedians, and tough. They don't put on airs.

Hannah Rose Brown was not quite 13 years old when she discovered her family was cursed. THE PUZZLE RING

He has cat blood, I reflected sourly, no doubt that was how he managed to sneak up on me in the darkness.

Hardship bred a bitter, quickfire humour and resilience to all but the most terminal of life's tragedies.

He gave it the benefit of the doubt; he was Scotch. ("The Wendigo")

Her breath caught when his erection shot to rigid. "Merciful Father, Ye're like a stallion with a mare in heat.

He pressed his lips to Akira’s ear. “Hold on, lass, for hell has just made chase.

Here I first mounted a little Highland steed; and if there had been many spectators, should have been somewhat ashamed of my figure in the march. The horses of the Islands, as of other barren countries, are very low: they are indeed musculous and strong, beyond what their size gives reason for expecting; but a bulky man upon one of their backs makes a very disproportionate appearance.

Her dark eyes slid to him. "I can't remember the last time I felt so good in clothes." And he wanted to get her out of them.

Her fingers clutched him now, and her body writhed with a frustration he knew all too well. He wanted her. Now. Here.

He was waiting there for her beside the pool - a great black horse with shoulders like polished ebony and the water still streaming from his mane and tail. Morag stood and looked at him for a long moment. The great horse looked at her and never moved. “Will you trust me?” he had asked her the evening before, and she had trusted him then. She trusted him now, and so she walked towards him. She grasped his mane, and still the black horse never moved. She stood on a stone beside him, swung herself onto his back, and the black horse moved.

Her unique observations are about how the war impacted people—from the thrill-seekers going to battlefields for fun, to the nurses working among the wounded in darkness, and London society women venturing into foreign lands to work near dangerous enemy lines.

He was The Demon Highlander, elder brother to the Blackheart of Ben More. These monikers, they were not granted by the happenstance of birth or marriage, like a Marquess or an Earl, they were earned by means of ruthless violence and bloodshed. It was easy to forget that fact beneath the grand chandelier of this lofty keep. That was, until the fire in the hearth ignited the amber in his eyes, lending him a ferocity that even his expensive attire couldn't tame.

Her name was Senga. You have to love Glasgow; once everyone figured we had enough people named Agnes, they just reversed the letters and started again.

He said that if I ever hurt you, he'd find me and kill me. I told him that if I ever hurt you, I'd want him to." - Aiden MacRae

Holy fairy feathers, why does he have to be so handsome? Why couldn't a haggard old man have washed ashore?

His mouth descended on hers in a fierce kiss. He seized, he captured. He dominated. And she loved every second of it.

His deep voice drifted to her through the crowd of women. “…my lady when she returns. Och, there ye are, Blossom,” Faolán grinned, standing up and taking her hand so she could ease back into the restaurant booth. “These lasses were just asking if I was a stripper. I told them I doona think so,” he said, his face clouded with uncertainty. “I’m not, am I?” The inquisitive lasses in question flushed scarlet and scattered to the four corners of the room at the murderous look on Colleen’s face. “No, you’re not, but I guess I can see how they’d think that,” she muttered darkly. “What you are is a freaking estrogen magnet.

His eyes touched every part of her. Even parts that may never have been touched before. They flashed with lightning, singing along her nerves with electric currents of heat. A sultry, answering thunder whipped through her, calling forth a storm so unexpected, she almost felt betrayed by her own body.

His tongue tapped his top lip as he cupped her breast in his hand. "Tis boidhche --beautiful.

How could their love for each other be so wrong?

However she redefined herself, that part of one that made for the core of the self, that part that we think of as the ultimate, inner being—that was ineradicable Scottish. That part spoke with a Scottish voice; that part looked out through Scottish eyes; and it was that part that now welled within her as she gazed out through the window of the descending plane and saw below her the rolling Borders hills…

I do not fear death. I see what has gone before, through eyes that are not of this body. When I dream, my visions are of days yet to be.

I also told you when I made you my bride that I would not count the days if you would promise me the same. I don't intend to start now, love. You're my wife, yesterday, today, and forever. - Aiden MacRae

Identify yourself,” Colleen demanded. “I’ve got a bat and I will beat the living shit out of you if you so much as blink. I’ve got a black belt,” she lied frantically, “and…and…a gun. A big one.” - Colleen O’Brien

I discovered myself through traveling. Azerbaijan taught me how to love humanity. Scotland taught me how to fight for humanity.

I do no' think ye should lick me leg.

I gave in to the weight around me. I’d become the Lady of the Lake without Excalibur, the damsel in distress without the prince to save her, Dorothy without her slippers or Alice without her “drink me” potion. Fantastic dreams weaved into amazing tales of triumph over obstacles. I was not triumphant over anything. I was a coward.

I don't think I believe in villains. Heroes either. Just people. People with agendas and the things they're willing to do to get what they want.

I doona understand them," Ryder said as he stopped beside Laith. "Doona get me wrong. I love the feel of a woman's thighs around me, but to be bound to a single woman for eternity?" Ryder shuddered. "It's no' for me. Human or Fae.

I have embraced Robert Burns and his beloved Scotland. I have heard the music of the authentic mother tongue. I have walked where he walked, lived where he lived, if only for a brief time, and seen where he died and where he was finally laid to rest. The ghost of Rabbie Burns will continue to walk beside me. And when I am gone, I will walk beside others who fight for the cause of truth.

I'm bad at this," she said with a laugh as she glanced up at him. "But I do know that people normally like to talk about themselves." Laith was enamored. Totally, completely. Utterly. "What do you want to know?" "Everything." Her gaze slowly lifted to meet his once again.

I'm not one to let such a striking man pass without looking my fill.

In my stories, I wrote Malcolm as fire and gold and power, but here in my arms, Colin is cedar, silver, and summer air.

I noticed that as I drove through the defaced and suffering patches of country which still persist between Glasgow and Hamilton and Airdrie and Motherwell, no scents from hedges and fields streamed into the open car. ...it was as if in this region nature no longer breathed, or gave out at most the chill dank mineral breath of coal and iron. The air itself had a synthetic taste, the taste of a food substitute, and seemed to be merely an up-to-date by-product of local industry. The forlorn villages looked like dismembered bits of towns brutally hacked off, and with the raw edges left nakedly exposed. The towns themselves, on the other hand, were like villages on a nightmare scale, which after endless building had never managed to produce what looked like a street, and had no centre of any kind. One could not say that these places were flying asunder, for there was no sign of anything holding them together. They were merely a great number of houses jumbled together in a wilderness of grime, coal-dust and brick, under a blackish-grey synthetic sky.

In the letters section, a Scot reminds his readers of the ‘Glorious Alliance’ between France and Mary Queen of Scots, which explains why Scotland should not share the rabid Europhobia of Englishmen.

Ishbel read maps like storybooks. She was getting off the island, and no one was going to stop her. That was all just romance, just fairytales, because anyone can leave the island. Since they built the bridge, leaving should be as easy as sticking your keys in the car ignition. But leaving is never easy.

I suppose there are some advantages to this place,' he admitted. 'I bet it's fucking raining in Stirling.

It feels like Scotland." "Have you ever been?" "Mmmm. Twice. Have you?" "No." "You should. It's your roots. You'll be surprised how much they tug at you when you breathe the air in the Highlands or look out at a lowland loch.

I had turned to leave and he had called after me. “Miss Maria, I kin no other woman who could be wearing men’s trousers and be dripping such as ye are and look quite so lovely. It’s a right shame your mother is marrying you off to that great sot!” I had turned to call back to him, “I doubt very much we will have to worry about that after today!

I haven’t even been here an hour and already, Edinburgh is the city of my dreams.