hand as he tore itfrom the tree. A branch of glossy oak-leaves, that reminded him of her hair, in shades of gold and brown and gray. And a bit ofscarlet creeper, snatched for color.Just in time; she was coming round the corner of the house. Lost in thought, she passed within a foot or two of him, not seeinghim. "Sorcha," he called softly, and she turned, eyes narrowed against the rays of the sinking sun, then wide and gold with surpriseat the sight of him."Welcome home," he said, and held out the small bouquet of leaves and twigs."Oh," she said. She looked at the bits of leaf and stick again, and then at him, and the corners of her mouth trembled, as thoughshe might laugh or cry, but wasn't sure which. She reached then, and took the plants from him, her fingers small and cold asthey brushed his hand."Oh, Jamie--they're wonderful." She came up on her toes and kissed him, warm and salty, and he wanted more, but she washurrying away into the house, the silly wee things clasped to her breast as though they were gold.He felt pleasantly foolish, and foolishly pleased with himself. The taste of her was still on his mouth."Sorcha," he whispered, and realized that he had called her so a moment before. Now that was odd; no wonder she had beensurprised. It was her name in the Gaelic, but he never called her by it. He liked the strangeness of her, the Englishness. She washis Sassenach.And yet in the moment when she passed him, she was Sorcha. Not only "Claire," it meant--but light.He breathed deep, contented.He was suddenly ravenous, both for food and for her, but he made no move to hasten inside. Some kinds of hunger weresweet in themselves, the anticipation of satisfaction as keen a pleasure as the slaking.Hoofsteps and voices; the others were coming up the trail into the clearing. He had a sudden urge to keep his peaceful solitudea moment longer, but too late--in seconds, he was surrounded by confusion, the shrill cries of excited children and c...
