“Jamie stood at the end of the hall, some ten feet away; John stood beside him, white as a sheet, and his eyes bulging as much as Willie’s were. This resemblance to Willie, striking as it was, was completely overwhelmed by Jamie’s own resemblance to the Ninth Earl of Ellesmere. William’s face had hardened and matured, losing all trace of childish softness, and from both ends of the short hall, deep blue Fraser cat-eyes stared out of the bold, solid bones of the MacKenzies. And Willie was old enough to shave on a daily basis; he knew what he looked like.
Willie’s mouth worked, soundless with shock. He looked wildly at me, back at Jamie, back at me—and saw the truth in my face.
‘Who are you?’ he said hoarsely, wheeling on Jamie.
I saw Jamie draw himself slowly upright, ignoring the noise below.
‘James Fraser,’ he said. His eyes were fixed on William with a burning intensity, as though to absorb every vestige of a sight he would not see again. ‘Ye kent me once as Alex MacKenzie. At Helwater.’
William blinked, blinked again, and his gaze shifted momentarily to John.
‘And who—who the bloody hell am I?’ he demanded, the end of the question rising in a squeak.
John opened his mouth, but it was Jamie who answered.
‘You are a stinking Papist,’ he said, very precisely, ‘and your baptismal name is James.’ The ghost of regret crossed his face and then was gone. ‘It was the only name I had a right to give ye,’ he said quietly, eyes on his son. ‘I’m sorry.’”