“Propping the mirror against the wall near the door, he waved a hand at it and clipped, "Drustan: Cian MacKeltar. Cian: Drustan MacKeltar.""Dageus," Drustan's voice was soft as velvet, never a good sign, "why are you introducing me to a mirror?”

“Mister MacKeltar," Drustan corrected for the umpteenth time, with a this-is-really-wearing-thin-but-I'm-determined-to-be-patient smile. No matter how many times he told Farley that he was not a laird, that he was simply Mr. MacKeltar, that it was Christopher (his modern-day descendant who lived up the road in the oldest castle on the land) who was actually laird, Farley refused to hear it. The eighty-something-year-old butler, who insisted he was sixty-two and who had obviously never before buttled in his life until the day he'd arrived on their doorstep, was determined to be a butler to a lord. Period. And he wasn't about to let Drustan interfere with that aspiration.”

“The entire time I'm burning in Hell, I'll regret each tear I made you weep. But if Hell were the price for twenty days with you, I'd condemn myself again and again. - Cian MacKeltar ”

“Naught will be done to you that you doona wish done. Dageus MacKeltar”

“Finally, Dageus finished, and she heard Gwen and Chloe say simultaneously, breathlessly, "Oh, my God."Gabby opened her eyes. Drustan had risen to his feet and was scowling, an expression mirrored by his twin. Both were glaring at Adam--whom they obviously could now see. Then at their wives, then back at Adam.”

“I want purple trews, lass," Drustan called over the door. "No," she said irritably. "And a purple shirt.”