Many folk at Carraig Brigh thought that Will Fraser’s crippled foot was the devil’s mark, that his mother’s death at his birth and his father’s death a year later were the signs of evil, that old Tira was a witch. But only she stood by her grandson, cared for him—and kept him hidden. She was a proud woman and would not take help from those who’d mock or shun Will. Fia had tried to help—she had a limp herself—but the old woman was stubborn. John had found that if the aid came from the fairies, then Tira Fraser was happy enough to accept it. So by night John played the lad’s fairy godfather and kept the Frasers fed.
Of course, Will was old enough now to train with the other lads, and as the captain of the guard, John intended to see that happen. It would give the boy confidence, and the skills to hunt and farm and help others to see him as one of their own, a clansmen. If, of course, John could keep everyone from running in terror from the lad’s twisted foot and evil eye, and his gran’s sharp tongue. Tira was quick with a curse, folk said.
Tomorrow, when they were fed, John would go and fetch the lad, tell Tira that Dair had ordered her grandson to train with the other lads. If Will didn’t make a soldier, perhaps he’d make a sailor, and Angus Mor Sinclair could teach him, if he could be convinced to see Will as just a child and not the spawn of the devil.
John smiled as he walked. Will’s plight was almost as bad as being a Sassenach.
He went to his own small cott, given to him by Dair so he had space of his own, privacy. He had a garden, a small plot of turnips, onions, and carrots. If the other men thought it odd or dangerous, or just Sassenach, he was man enough to let them whisper behind his back.
And they all whispered about him. Lasses claimed he was their lover, and honor—that damned inconvenient honor that had been bred into him and still sustained him—prevented him from confirming or denying the salacious tales. The gossips would no doubt be surprised to know that while he certainly didn’t live like a monk, his amours were not nearly as numerous as rumor suggested.
He undressed and climbed into his bed.
His last thought as he went to sleep wasn’t about Elspeth or Will Fraser. It was about the mysterious and untouchable Gillian MacLeod. He remembered the way her hair had risen around her in the wind, her quiet beauty and grace at her sister’s table. She drew his eye, and his interest, like a moth to a very dangerous flame.
He rolled over and stared into the dark. Surely it would be a simple matter to avoid her while she was here. It was a fortnight, perhaps, a few weeks at most, and then she’d be gone.
