V.S. Carnes Quotes

She accepted it uncertainly. "This will help?" Without waiting for an answer, with that unsettling trust of hers, she popped open the lid and dug in her finger, smearing the slick substance on and around her mouth. Going outside of the lines, as he deduced she did with most everything in her life. When she was done, she looked absolutely ridiculous.
Caine barely resisted smiling at her. "It will help immensely.

My name, sir, is Virgilia Wessex. I am a Sunday school teacher from Sussex, England, and I have given you no leave to address me as anything."
His mouth seemed to almost smile, but if so, he caught it just on the brink and decided against it. "Well, I've just given the gent who found you first an obscene amount of money to address you however I please ... Gillia.

... deceitful!" she decided with a little bounce of fury that briefly ballooned the silk of her trousers. "There! You deceitful ... "
"Gillia ... "
" ... misleading, dishonest, insincere ... "
"Those are all the same words, Gill - "
"Ooh! Liar!"
She'd managed to get her hands on a small pillow. He ducked just as it whizzed past him. In justice, however, it did strike the mosaic vase behind him on an engraved mahogany pedestal, and it tipped and spun on its base before landing in a shattered heap on the bare floor.
"Now, look what you've done!" she accused tearfully and bolted from the room.

Just say, dakhilak."
Without hesitation, "Dakhilak."
He nodded. Her accent was getting no better. "Now, you can never take it back."
"Well, what does it mean? Thank you?"
She should have asked sooner. He didn't turn to meet the gaze he felt on him, his voice full of sand, his stomach sick. "It gives me charge of your life.

Without hesitation, "Dakhilak."
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Better this way, what remained of his battered sensibilities told him. He was no good for her, anyway. She didn't understand him. She didn't understand that he was cursed. And, selfish as he was, he'd rather she hate him than he hate himself any more than he was already going to. Any more than he already did.

Remind me to thank God I don't have a sister."
Caine eyed him critically. He was a filthy heap of blood and soot and sand stuck to the gun oil on his face. "Yeah," without much enthusiasm. "I'll thank Him for ya.

Caine usually woke from the recurring dream mid-air, having yet to be dashed upon the rocks, whimpering and panting like a child crying for his mother. Now he lifted his eyes to a dark, empty room in Jizan and the unusual, lingering scent of roses, and wept in his hands for his Father.

He smelled the salt on his own lips and the orange blossoms in her hair. Real ones, he could see now, tucked into the curls with cheap, native combs. The sight of them gave him hope.

It came as naturally to him as breathing or lying, or worse. His mama had only taught her son to be cautious at all times. Garnette was more than that. Much, much more than that.

Looking back at him was a man who was battered and broken.
And alive, for the first time in his life.

After all, you are a hero and everything.

She was a little thing, too, inciting that basic compulsion in him as a man to protect her in so hectic a place as post-war Israel. Even so, his actions were borne out of an entirely different instinct, altogether: to fool her and anyone within a dart's range ... to protect himself.

Therefore, she hummed the provincial lullaby she had learned from the officers' children in the English Quarter of Jerusalem, and watched in fascination while the savage radical's eyes misted over with tears. For an instant, the prison bars melted away, and she felt God's presence - for the first time since their imprisonment. She was not a captive, and this man was not her captor. Indeed, they were both merely God's children.

She was an extension of his dreams. A sprinkling of magic dust, of unfeasible wishes, on his stable existence. The one thing-the one bright, marvelous thing-he wanted more than the world, but didn't deserve. However much he was tortured for her sake, however much blood he had spilled to protect her, the bruises to his body and the thrashings to his sanity, it would never be enough to make a wretch like him worthy of such a miracle.

There are still many souls to be won for Christ," she answered with quiet dignity, eyes downcast - but not, he figured, in humility. "Even here. Perhaps, especially here. Where better to spread his love, than a country just recently ravaged by war?"
"Where better to be kidnapped and sold into slavery, than a country just recently ravaged by war?" with a discernible sneer.

By now, she was far from the scorch of these sands. After the ransom deal, she would be safely married in England. To Ashton. And Caine, who had hurt her far more than anything Abdullah had planned for her with that long, curved dagger, deserved no better than this torment of knowing it.

I stole you, among others, from the streets of God's birthplace. I forced you to work as a slave. Imprisoned, mistreated and starved you and your companion. To top it off, I am in the process of selling your life to the highest bidder. Why would you trust me?

The horizon was indistinguishable from the inky black, which fell upon the desert like a sorcerer's mantle shot through with diamonds. The stars were so tiny, so far away, and yet, at the moment, with her fingers curled around his, he almost felt as though he could reach up and snag one by the tail.

He squinted at her. He recalled the tears in her eyes that had not fallen into her teacup. No, it wasn't a revelation. Not even to him. Yet, this was the same woman who had stolen a camel right out from under the Anti-Zionist army's nose. She'd taken his hand, thrown herself down a sand dune on a dare, and then beaten him back up it. She'd glared at him and refused to part from his side. A coward?
"Never," he said again.

Somehow, I did not finger you for a treasure-hunter."
"Oh, but I am," without shame. "Her name is Titianni Aziz.

A hand stole around her mouth, silencing her, then his lips parting her tumbled hair: "The walls have ears."
She blinked, and for the first time, looked around. A thin beam of light beneath what may have been a door. That was all. When he released her, she endeavored to match his own, barely audible tone. "Do the walls understand English?

Southern gentleman," he said aside to him in Arabic. "Do you wish for me to continue this for you?"
Caine's temper shifted to a low simmer in his chest. "Your way takes too long."
"Ma'aleyk, and your way hurts my ears," he argued.

He'd thought it would be the right thing to say, but she scoffed a little ... and that, more than anything - more than the prospect of having his ribs crushed in or his face pulled off or his neck stretched on a rope - scared him out of his wits.

They were literally inches from being buried alive in this place, millions of miles from home or any sort of civilization, where they would never be found or mourned ... and Caine continued to smile.
Sweet heavens, he was completely out of his mind!

He had always prided himself on his ability to bargain, to bluff, to contain his ever-aching heart within the folds of his robes where no one could see his pain and his shame. Unconsciously, he reached up and fisted the little black pearl in his fingers, searching for words, praying to the Almighty for the words that would let him have her. But they would not come.
They were not needed, when the truth was in his eyes.

Kas was right: a woman could destroy a man. This one could do so, simply by knowing his name. She could do so, simply with her eyes.

The blood dried on his good hand, he passed his palm over her hair. It curled about his wrist and sprung back into displace as the breeze fluttered by. In the firelight, it was golden like the dandelions of which she'd spoken. The ones that had grown along the Franklin riverbank in late summer. The ones he had lost any faith in since he'd committed his first murder there.

This man was no servant. She looked up at him in acute agitation and knew: this man was now her master.

Are you in the habit of taking tea with anyone who approaches you in a foreign port?" He went on and snorted carelessly. "No wonder you were abducted so easily.

He watched her for her reaction, or possibly watched her just to watch, his eyes hooded by his lashes and his mouth impassive. A faceless man - such as the one she had dreamed of since she was a child - his identity not obscured by mist or flying sand or swirling dust, but by a mask he readily employed whenever he wished. As a shutter closed against a gale. Closed against her, no matter the impact of his words. He seemed to speak them against his will, just as he seemed to care for her against his will.

He wanted to die. He prayed for it. Through the roar in his ears, he begged for it.

Care for her. He was unworthy of such a gift. Unworthy of her blind trust and her sparkling, slightly crooked smiles, let alone her heart. But he wanted her, selfish fool he was and had always been. Care for her? Ah, God, she consumed him.

She'd said she loved him. She'd put that impossible, unimaginably beautiful gift in his hands and he'd thrown it back at her. To save her. To save himself.

Because you have my heart, Virgilia Wessex." Softly, almost achingly. "Every black ounce of it. Scars and all.

He heard the voice that had called to him in dreams, had saved him from the sands and from following his brother into the river.

When silence greeted her question, she looked at Caine - for that was how he saw himself in that moment and in all the moments after: his brother's murderer.

He felt, rather than saw, her chin lift toward him. But instead of pulling her hand from his grip and turning away, she tightened her own fingers and unceremoniously, unexpectedly, threw herself down the incline, dragging him with her.
Dragging him with her!

She wondered how a man could look into a woman's eyes and lie so completely, so convincingly. She wondered how he could have looked and not seen the love that had glowed there, the blind faith, the unconditional devotion. She wondered how he would sleep at night, knowing he had betrayed her so effortlessly.

Kent steepled his fingers in consideration. Blood-red rubies flashed in the sunlight, like the eyes of a demon clutched in his hands.