“Advice, then, young yeoman: When referring to the king's middle daughter, state that she is fair, speculate that she is pious, but unless you'd like to spend your watch looking for the box where your head is kept, resist the urge to wax ignorant on her naughty bits." -PocketI don't know what that means, sir." -YeomanSpeak not of Regan's shaggacity, son" [...] -Pocket”

“The woman turned and went slowly into the house. As she passed the doors she turned and looked back. Grave and thoughtful was her glance, as she looked on the king with cool pity in here eyes. Very fair was her face, and her long hair was like a river of gold. Slender and tall she was in her white robe girt with silver; but strong she seemed and stern as steel, a daughter of kings.”

“Watching him, his hands buried in his pockets—to keep from circling her neck she supposed—she couldn't help but marvel at the curious mix of Southern courtesy and male arrogance, the natural assumption he shouldered of being lawfully in control. "Engaging in a moral battle isn't always hazardous to one's health, you know.""Doesn't look like it's doing wonders for yours.""Saints be praised, it can actually be rewarding."Looking over his shoulder, he halted in the middle of the room. "Irish.""I beg your pardon?""You. Irish. The green eyes, the tiny bit of red in your hair. Is Connor your real name?""Yes, why..." she said, stammering. Bloody hell. "Of course.""Liar."She felt the slow, hot roll of color cross her cheeks. "What could that possibly have to do with anything?""I don't know, but I have a feeling it means something. It's the first I've heard come out of that sassy mouth of yours that didn't sound like some damned speech." He tapped his head, starting to pace again. "What I wonder is, where are you in there?”

“There were a lot of these middle-aged single types in the neighborhood, shipwrecked by every kind of catastrophe, but she was one of the few who didn't have children, who lived alone, who was still kinda young. Something must have happened, your mother speculated. In her mind, a woman with no child could be explained only by vast untrammelled calamity.Maybe she just doesn't like children.Nobody likes children, your mother assured you. That doesn't mean you don't have them.”

“But Sir Alistair’s gaze was different. Those other men had looked at her with lust or speculation or crass curiosity, but they hadn’t been looking at her really. They’d been looking at what she represented to them: physical love or a valuable prize or an object to be gawked at. When Sir Alistair stared at her, well, he was looking at her.”

“Bailey, where’s your hat?”“In my pocket, sir!”“Why isn’t it on your head?”“Because I can’t get my head in my pocket, sir!”