Page 1 of Crazy About Jill (Highland Berserkers #1)

CHAPTER 1

T he clash of steel still rang in Alasdair MacTyre's ears as he led his men toward the great hall of Domnall of McKinney. Blood—some his, most belonging to others—had dried in dark crescents beneath his fingernails. The scent of victory clung to him like smoke, mingling with the earthy smell of Scotland's loamy soil.

This is it. Finally, we'll have a home.

His hand unconsciously traced the wolf-paw brand seared into his forearm—the mark that had stripped him of his birth name and branded him a MacTyre. Son of the Wolf. A name thrust upon all berserkers, a constant reminder of their outcast status.

"Today, brothers," he murmured, his voice barely carrying above the creak of leather and the jingle of mail, "today we become men with names that matter."

Behind him trudged his five brothers-in-arms: Fergus with his eyes always studying; young Cillian whose laughter had grown rare since his branding; stoic Lachlan who spoke more to horses than to men; massive Macrath whose rage simmered constantly beneath the surface; and Tavish, the storyteller, whose words could conjure worlds even in their darkest moments.

Each bore the same brand, the same rejection. Cast out from their clans, but not broken. They'd formed their own family, bound by something stronger than blood—shared fate.

"We did it, brothers," Alasdair said. "The price was steep, but our reward..." A rare smile tugged at his mouth, his heart lightening at the thought of fires and homes and laughter.

"Aye," Fergus replied, his sandy-blond hair catching the late afternoon sun. "A home. Wives." His blue eyes gleamed with hope.

"A fire that doesn't need to be snuffed at first light," added Cillian. "And ale that we dinnae have to water down for fear of being seen as a threat."

"Perhaps even children who willnae be taught to fear us," Tavish said quietly, his storyteller's voice gentle with longing.

For too long they'd been denied what other men took for granted—hearth, home, the soft touch of a woman, the laughter of children. No more. Domhnall of Kinney had promised them wives from among his clan if they turned the tide of battle.

And they had. By the blood on his blade and the ache in his bones, they had.

"D'ye think they'll have bonnie lasses waitin' for us?" Cillian asked softly, his young face momentarily unguarded.

"Aye, brother," Alasdair assured him, clapping him on the shoulder. "McKinney kens our worth now. He'll honor his word."

Macrath snorted, his dark beard flecked with dried blood. "Honor? From clan folk? I'll believe it when I feel a wife's thighs around me."

"Mind your tongue," Alasdair warned, though the hint of a smile betrayed him. "We're to be kin with these people soon enough."

As they approached the great hall, Alasdair's keen eyes caught sight of the McKinney guards. He didn't miss the sneers that flickered across their faces, the way they shifted their stance as if preparing to block the berserkers' path. A knot of unease tightened in his stomach.

The tallest guard spat on the ground as they approached. "Here come the dogs, tails wagging for scraps from the table."

Macrath's hand went to his sword, but Alasdair stopped him with a look.

Where were you when the fighting was fiercest? he wanted to snarl. Why should you have families while we, the strongest, are left out in the cold? But he said nothing. Soon enough these men would be kin and they'd not start their kinship with a fight.

"Today we are guests," Alasdair muttered to Macrath. "Tomorrow we will be brothers. Remember that."

The guards parted, allowing them entry. The hall fell silent as they entered, then filled with whispers that prickled against Alasdair's skin like nettle stings.

"Beast-men," he heard one woman whisper. "They say their eyes glow red in battle."

"I heard they drink the blood of their enemies," another replied.

The words stung more than they should. Today was supposed to end such rumors, not sharpen them.

A flash of golden hair caught his attention. A young woman, her eyes wide with fear as she looked at him and his men. Their eyes met across the crowded hall, and something flickered in her gaze—a momentary softening, perhaps recognition of the humanity behind his warrior's mask.

“Mayhap she'll be yers, Alasdair," Tavish whispered. "A bonnie lass with hair like summer wheat."

The woman caught his eye and flushed, looking away quickly. But not before Alasdair saw something beyond fear in her gaze—curiosity, perhaps. A small flame of hope kindled in his chest.

"Or maybe yours, Tavish," Alasdair replied softly. "You've a way with words that might charm such a lass."

"Alasdair!" The booming voice of Domhnall of Kinney cut through the noise of the hall. "My scouts, welcome! Come, sit by me. You've earned your place at my table."

The Laird's smile didn't reach his eyes, Alasdair noted, a flicker of unease passing through him. But he pushed it away. This was their moment of triumph.

But as they neared, a chill ran down Alasdair's spine. Seated beside McKinney was his druid advisor, a man whose very presence made Alasdair's skin crawl. The druid's ice-blue eyes seemed to pierce right through him, and Alasdair had to fight the urge to look away. Something about those eyes reminded him of winter—cold, empty, devoid of mercy.

The druid's thin lips curled into what might have been a smile, but reminded Alasdair more of a serpent preparing to strike. Long, stained fingers caressed a pendant of strange bone that hung around his neck. The bone seemed to pulse with its own heartbeat, though Alasdair told himself it must be a trick of the light.

"Dinnae trust that one," Macrath growled under his breath. "He looks at us like we're vermin."

"Hush," Alasdair warned. "Tonight we celebrate. Tomorrow we'll worry about making allies."

The pendant at the druid's throat seemed to pulse with an unnatural glow, so faint Alasdair almost thought he'd imagined it. The air around the man felt wrong somehow—colder, thinner, as if reality itself bent away from him.

Alasdair settled into his seat, his men arranged around him. The druid stepped forward, a flagon in his hands, his movements as graceful and deadly as a viper's. "A special brew," he said, his voice like silk over steel. "For special guests."

"When will ye announce our brides, Laird McKinney?" Lachlan asked, his voice steady despite the hope that must have been surging through him.

The hall quieted, interested ears turning toward their table. McKinney's smile flickered, something dark passing behind his eyes.

"All in good time, lad. First, we celebrate your victory."

McKinney raised his cup. "A toast! To our brave berserkers, who've proven their worth a hundred times over!"

The declaration echoed hollowly in the great hall, few voices joining in. The silence hung heavy, charged with something Alasdair couldn't quite name. Warning bells rang in his mind, but the promise of acceptance—of home and hearth and family—drowned them out.

Alasdair lifted his own cup, a surge of pride warming his chest. This is it. Everything we've fought for, everything we've dreamed of. It's finally ours.

He watched intently as McKinney took a deep draught from his own cup before giving his men a slight nod, giving them permission to drink.

The ale was sweet on his tongue, sweeter than any he'd tasted before. Too sweet. The thought came a heartbeat too late.

Something bitter lurked beneath the sweetness, metallic and wrong. He tried to put the cup down, but his fingers wouldn't respond. They felt leaden, distant, as if they belonged to someone else.

A few deep swallows later and the pleasant warmth in his chest turned to fire, searing through his veins. His throat closed, lungs burning for air that wouldn't come. Across the table, he saw Lachlan's face go pale, saw Macrath slump forward. Tavish clutched at his throat, eyes wide with panic. Fergus toppled from his bench, his cup clattering across the stones. Cillian—gods, who'd spoken so hopefully of a bonnie lass to call his own—fell face-first onto the table.

Poison. The word burned in his mind even as his body burned from within.

The blonde woman's hand flew to her mouth in horror. Around them, the hall erupted in jeers and cruel laughter.

Not the good-natured ribbing of new kin, but the vicious mockery of those watching enemies suffer.

"You..." Alasdair choked out, his vision blurring as agony gripped his insides. Treacherous rat-hearted cur. I'll feed you to the crows piece by wretched piece.

His gaze snapped to the druid, seeing the satisfaction in those icy eyes. Then to McKinney, whose jovial mask had slipped to reveal triumphant malice.

The Laird leaned close, his breath hot against Alasdair's ear. "Did ye truly think we'd welcome wolf-kin to our hearths? That we'd let our women warm the beds of animals? Did ye think we'd let berserker seed take root in our clan?" McKinney spat. "Ye were useful for the battle, aye. But ye'll ne'er be one of us."

Betrayal. Poison. Death.

The promises of wives, of children, of a place to belong—all lies. They'd been fools to believe. Fools to hope. Alasdair thought of the blonde lass, of the family he'd never have, of the children he'd never hold, and rage eclipsed even the pain of the poison. It burned hotter than the toxin in his blood, scorching away everything but the need for vengeance.

Through dimming vision, he watched the druid smile, raising his own untouched cup in a mocking salute. The bone pendant gave off a sickly gleam, pulsing like a corrupted heart.

"Not death," the druid whispered, his voice somehow piercing through the growing darkness in Alasdair's mind. "Something far worse awaits you, wolf-son."

With the last of his strength, he forced words past his tightening throat.

"You'll die for this treachery," he rasped, fixing McKinney with a glare that promised vengeance. "If it takes me ten lifetimes, you will pay. My brothers and I will find our way back, and we will have what was promised. Mo ghealladh air m' anam.” I vow on my soul.

The vow echoed strangely in the hall, the words seeming to hang in the air longer than they should, vibrating with power that even Alasdair could feel. It was as if something ancient and powerful had heard him—had witnessed the injustice and marked his words.

For a moment, the druid's smug expression faltered, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his features.

Then darkness closed in. Alasdair's last thought was of his men. His family. Betrayed and dying, all for daring to dream of a place to belong.

Then, there was nothing but the void, and the echo of a vow strong enough to span centuries.