Will glared at them fiercely. “My gran says someone in this clan laid a curse upon us, ill-wished us, and that’s why my parents died, and I was born like this.” He scanned the crowd of lads like he was looking for the guilty party, as if his own evil eye could cast them down.
For a long moment, no one moved. At last, Will looked up at John, not defeated, but angry. He held out the practice sword for John to take. “My gran didn’t want me to come here today. She wouldn’t have let me if ye hadn’t insisted I had to. Ye said it was my duty, but they don’t want me here. I’ll go.”
Then Alex Sinclair, Angus Mor’s son, pushed through the crowd. He was a few years older than Will and a head taller. “I’ll do it. I’ll spar with him.”
“Good lad,” John said.
“I won’t go easy,” Alex warned.
Will nodded. “I’m ready,” he said bravely and held his wooden sword before him for Alex’s first blow.
John let the other boys look on for a few minutes, watching how Will got up every time Alex knocked him down.
And when they began to work with their own wooden blades, they tried harder, using Will’s example to be stronger, better than they’d been before, and John smiled at the pride and purpose on Will Fraser’s flushed face.
* * *
Fia reined in her garron as they passed by the practice field. “Is that Will Fraser?” she asked, looking at the lad Gillian had seen at the cott the night before. He was fighting with a bigger lad and getting soundly beaten. Fia gaped as he tumbled to the ground. “What’s John thinking? Will can’t fight with the others, not with his twisted foot. I’d best put a stop to this before he gets hurt—”
She started forward, but Gillian caught her sister’s arm. “Wait, Fia—look.” Will rose to his feet, color bright in his thin face, and charged at his opponent. This time he landed the flat of the blade on the bigger boy’s shin, and they could hear the thwack of the blow all the way across the field. Will laughed, and the other boy laughed with him.
Gillian smiled at her sister and indicated the limb Fia had broken in childhood, an injury that had left her with a limp she’d have for the rest of her life. “Your own leg is twisted,” Gillian said quietly. “I remember Papa would never let you play with us, refused to let you run, even when you told him you could. He thought he was protecting you.”
Fia blinked. “Aye,” she said slowly. “Aye. I’d forgotten that, Gilly.” She looked across the field. “I suppose Will feels the same. He wants to run and play and be like everyone else.” She looked at Gillian again. “How did you know that, understand how I felt? You were so much younger than I was, and you never said a word.”
“It doesn’t mean I don’t have a voice, or eyes to see with, or thoughts of my own,” Gillian said.
For a moment they stood watching the lads practice—well, Fia did. Gillian was watching John as he strolled the perimeter of the melee, stopping to give instruction or correction before moving on. He hadn’t even noticed they were there. He still took her breath away the way he had on the top of the cliff, and she gasped for air.
Her sister turned to look at her. “Oh Gilly—you’re watching John again, aren’t you?” She gasped herself. “Oh no, that can’t be what Annie meant by adventure.” She sent one more glance across the field, this one sharp and narrow, before she wheeled her garron around. “Come along. I promised Papa I’d have you back before supper.”
Gillian cast one more look at John as she followed her sister. He’d seen them at last, and he stood with one hand shading his eyes as he watched them ride away. She smiled, knowing he was too far away to see it, to see her.
She knew his secret now. He was a good man, and kind—not a rogue at all. The lad was proof of that. Then one of the lads attacked him, and John fell and was beset by his pupils, and she heard his laughter ringing across the field.
Gillian looked down at the lines that crossed the palm of her hand. According to Annie, she had an adventure to look forward to. Her heart beat faster at the idea, and she followed Fia, wondering just what the future had in store for her.
* * *
John felt her gaze like a touch, the caress of a fingertip along the back of his neck. He knew it was Gillian MacLeod even before he turned to see her there with Fia, watching the lads practicing, but Gillian’s eyes were for him, only for him. He felt his breath catch, his body tighten.
Then Fia tossed her head and rode on. He stared at Gillian, willed her to wait, to come to him, but after a brief instant she followed her sister, rode away, and Alex and Will attacked him, took him down together, laughing, and the other boys joined in.
