Page 10 of Crazy About Jill (Highland Berserkers #1)

CHAPTER 10

J ill's footsteps echoed softly on the polished wooden stairs as she made her way to her mother's room. The familiar scent of lavender and antiseptic mingled in the air, a constant reminder of her mother's ongoing battle with cancer. Her hand hesitated on the doorknob, steeling herself for what lay beyond.

Deep breath, Jill. Be strong for her.

This room had become the center of their world these past months—the reason she'd abandoned her teaching position, the reason Dad spent less time in the fields during the May planting, the reason the twins had taken on extra responsibilities.

Sarah Greenwood sat propped up against a mountain of pillows, a dog-eared copy of Jane Austen's "Persuasion" open in her lap. Though the chemotherapy had thinned her once-thick chestnut hair, her amber eyes—the same shade Jill had inherited—sparkled with undimmed curiosity as her daughter entered. Those eyes remained defiant windows to the fierce intelligence that cancer couldn't touch.

"Tell me everything," Sarah said, patting the bed beside her with hands adorned with the turquoise rings she'd collected since college. "Your father mentioned we have some...unusual guests."

Jill sank onto the mattress, the springs creaking softly beneath her weight. "Oh, Mom," she sighed, "you wouldn't believe me if I told you."

A knowing smile played on Sarah's lips as she reached for the mug of ginger tea that helped with the nausea. "Try me, sweetheart. I've known about your father's...uniqueness since before we married."

Jill's eyebrows shot up. "You knew? All this time?"

"About him being a twelve-hundred-year-old druid who can work magic with stones and talks to plants when he thinks no one's watching?" Sarah's eyes danced with mischief, her hand finding Jill's with surprising strength. "Yes, dear. Hard to hide that sort of thing from the woman who shares your bed."

Jill couldn't help but laugh, the same laugh they'd shared over countless late-night ice cream sessions and early-morning garden walks. "And you never thought to mention it? 'By the way, Jill, your father was around when Charlemagne was crowned Emperor'?"

Sarah squeezed her daughter's hand. "Some secrets are meant to be kept, even from those we love most. But now, it seems the time for secrets is over." She shifted, adjusting the heating pad at her lower back. "So these warriors from the past—what are they like?"

Taking a deep breath, Jill launched into her tale. She described the encounter in the woods, the imposing figures of the Highlanders, and their strange, ancient garb. As she spoke, she noticed her mother's eyes brighten, color returning to her cheeks. It had been weeks since she'd seen Mom this animated, this engaged.

"Remember those illustrated history books you used to read me at bedtime?" Jill asked. "The ones about Scottish clans and battles? These men could have walked straight out of those pages."

"Complete with broadswords and fighting spirits?" Sarah replied, her voice strengthening with interest.

"And wolf pelts. The real thing, not synthetic replicas."

"Tell me about their leader," Sarah urged, leaning forward with the same intensity she'd once shown when discussing Jill's dissertation research.

Heat crept up Jill's neck at the question. She felt suddenly transparent, as if her mother could see right through to the confusing emotions she'd been battling since meeting Alasdair—the same way Sarah had instantly recognized her childhood crush on Bobby Peterson in fourth grade.

"His name is Alasdair MacTyre. He's tall, with broad shoulders and the most intense green eyes I've ever seen." She described his medieval attire - the rough-spun tunic, leather breeches, and the wolf skin draped over one shoulder. "They all wear wolf skins, actually. They were branded as MacTyres—Sons of the Wolf—when they were cast out as berserkers. It's...striking."

Sarah's knowing smile widened. "You certainly seem to have taken note of every detail."

"Mom!" Jill protested, her cheeks burning hotter. "I'm a historian. Observation is part of my training."

"Mmm-hmm." Sarah's eyes twinkled, the same expression she'd worn when Jill had insisted she was "just friends" with her senior prom date. "And does your historian's training typically include noticing how a man's eyes catch the light, or how his accent sends shivers down your spine?"

Jill buried her face in her hands. "Am I that obvious?"

"Only to someone who's watched you grow from a girl who collected arrowheads into a woman who collects degrees." Sarah patted her daughter's arm. "He sounds remarkable."

"He is," Jill admitted softly. "He's so protective of his men—his brothers, he calls them. And the way he carries himself...he has this quiet authority that doesn't need to be shouted or proven. It just...is."

"Like your father," Sarah observed.

Jill nodded, surprised by the comparison but recognizing its truth. "I suppose so. Though Dad's never carried a broadsword, as far as I know."

"Don't be too sure about that," Sarah chuckled, her eyes distant with memory. "The night we met, he scared off two troublemakers who were harassing me at the county fair. He had something in his hand that gleamed like metal—never did tell me exactly what it was."

"Seriously? You never told me that story!"

"Some tales are saved for the right moment," Sarah replied with a wink. Then, her expression softened. "You've never talked about a man this way before."

"I haven't?" Jill fiddled with the edge of the quilt.

"No. Not even when you were seeing that archaeology professor—what was his name?"

"Marcus," Jill supplied. "And we only went out a few times."

"A few dull times, from how you described them. All talk of pottery shards and academic politics." Sarah studied her daughter's face. "This warrior has you thinking differently, doesn't he?"

Jill was silent for a moment, trying to pin down the unfamiliar feelings stirring within her. "It's strange," she finally said. "I've always been so focused on my career, on making my mark through my research. I never really thought much about...about family. About having children of my own someday." She glanced up, meeting her mother's understanding gaze. "But seeing Alasdair with his brothers, the way he cares for them...I keep having these thoughts."

"What kind of thoughts?" Sarah prompted gently.

"About what it might be like to have someone to build a life with. Someone who'd be a wonderful father." Jill's voice dropped to a whisper. "I've never really wanted that before—not seriously. But suddenly, I can picture it."

A deep chuckle from the doorway made them both turn. Conall Greenwood stood there, his weathered face creased with amusement. "I see our girl's been properly introduced to our guests," he said, moving to sit beside his wife.

"Don't tease her, Conall," Sarah chided, though her eyes sparkled. "Not every day a girl meets a man who can make her reconsider her entire life plan."

"Dad!” Jill protested. "I didn't say I was?—"

"Ye dinnae have to say it, mo nighean," Conall replied, his Scottish brogue thickening as it always did when he was emotional. The ancient Gaelic endearment—my daughter—wrapped around Jill like a familiar blanket. "It's written all o'er your face."

Jill watched her parents exchange a look filled with years of love and shared secrets. Her heart swelled with a mixture of admiration and hope - that her mother would beat this illness, hope that she might one day find a love as enduring as theirs.

"Get some rest, lass. Tomorrow will bring challenges enough," her father said gently.

Jill paused by the large window overlooking the bunkhouse before returning to her room. The lights were still on, silhouettes moving behind the curtains. Her mind whirled with the day's events as she prepared for bed. The thrill of discovery warred with uncertainty.

We're from entirely different worlds. Could it ever work?

"Get a grip, Jill," she muttered into her pillow. "He's from the ninth century. He probably thinks women belong in the kitchen."

But as sleep finally claimed her, her last conscious thought was that Alasdair MacTyre had looked at her with respect when she'd explained modern plumbing—had valued her knowledge without condescension, had sought her guidance without resentment, had seen her intelligence and strength and hadn't seemed threatened in the least. In a world where even her academic colleagues sometimes talked over her in department meetings, his attentiveness felt revolutionary.

And that, perhaps, was the most attractive thing of all.