He had been trying to suppress the feeling Stephan roused in him, but in the end, such things were never controllable-they rose up. Sometimes like the bursting of a mortar shell, sometimes like the inexorable green spike of a crocus pushing through snow and ice-but they rose up. Was he in love with Stephan? There was no question of that. He liked and respected the Hanoverian, but there was no madness in it, no yearning. Did he want Stephan? A soft warmth in his loins, as though his blood had begun somehow to simmer over a low flame, suggested that he did.
( Diana Gabaldon )
[ Lord John and the Hand of ]
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