Page 11 of Crazy About Jill (Highland Berserkers #1)

CHAPTER 11

A lasdair leaned against the doorframe of the bunkhouse, the unfamiliar wood pressing cool against his shoulder. The night's quiet was shattered by strange, far-off sounds—rumbles and roars he couldn't place. His gaze moved to his brothers, their faces mirroring his own unease, eyes darting into the shadows.

The scent of summer flowers carried on the breeze, reminding him of home even as everything else felt alien. A thousand years gone —the thought still left him breathless.

So different from the highlands , he thought, homesickness settling deep. There, the night brought true darkness, true silence. Here, even darkness seemed tamed, pushed back by glowing orbs dotting the landscape like earthbound stars.

They moved back inside and closed the door.

Cillian sat cross-legged on his bunk, fingers tracing the seams of his nightshirt. "It's so soft," he murmured. Alasdair's chest tightened with protectiveness. Cillian had been barely sixteen when he’d been cast out, branded as a berserker. Too young to be denied a normal life.

"Aye, 'tis a strange fabric. But we'll make sense of it, as we always do."

"Do ye think they have magic sheep here, to make such cloth?"

A chuckle escaped Alasdair. "I would not put it past this world of wonders."

A rhythmic thudding drew his attention to Macrath's restless pacing. "This place reeks of weakness," he spat. "Where are the calluses on their hands? I've seen no weapon-marks on any of them."

"Peace, brother. We know nothing of their strengths yet."

"How can men fight, swaddled in such luxury?" Macrath eyed the plush mattress with suspicion.

"Perhaps they have no need to fight," Fergus mused, his gaze locked on the electric lamp. "With power like this at their command..."

Alasdair examined the lamp, marveling at the steady light. No smoke, no flame, just pure illumination captured like sunlight in glass.

"Dinnae be fooled," Tavish cautioned. "Every age has its battles. Men will always find reasons to shed blood."

"Did ye see their machines?" Fergus asked. "The metal beasts that move without horses?"

"Aye," Lachlan agreed. "But what of honor? Of tradition? I heard no prayers before the meal, saw no weapons hanging proudly."

The weight of leadership pressed down on Alasdair's shoulders. How could he guide them when he himself was just as lost?

"I understand yer concerns," Alasdair said. "But we must have faith in ourselves, and in each other."

"Aye, and faith in ye, brother," Tavish added warmly. "Ye've never led us astray."

Gratitude warmed Alasdair's chest, but doubt gnawed at his gut. Conall's hospitality clashed with years of distrust towards druids. And Jill...

Warmth flooded him at the thought of her fierce amber eyes, her confidence as she showed them this new world. So unlike the women of his time, taught to lower their gaze before warriors. Jill had looked him directly in the eye, unafraid to correct him or guide him.

The women in his clan had been strong—birthing children without complaint, tending fields from dawn to dusk—but their strength was quiet, contained. Jill's was open, unapologetic. She carried her knowledge like he carried his sword—with practiced ease.

"We'll stumble together, aye?" he said, pushing the image aside.

Chuckles filled the room, easing the tension. "We are alive, and that is no small thing. Tomorrow, we learn. We observe. We find our place in this time."

He stepped outside again for one last look around. A light glowed in an upstairs window of the main house. Jill's room? The thought sent an unexpected thrill through him.

There was something about her that drew him—her intelligence, her courage, her patience with their bewilderment. In his time, a woman of such learning would have been viewed with suspicion. But here, it seemed natural.

Returning inside, only Cillian remained awake, eyes wide in the dim light. "Alasdair," he whispered, "is this...home now?"

The question hit like a blow. Memories assaulted him—peat smoke, crashing waves, the bite of northern wind. But those images were tinged with darker things: betrayal, loss, endless battles.

"I know not, little brother. But perhaps...perhaps this is a chance for a different kind of home. One where our swords can rest."

"We were promised wives," Cillian said softly. "A place in the clan. Children of our own."

"That betrayal burns. But perhaps fate has brought us here for a reason."

"D'ye think we might find wives here? Build the families we were denied?"

Unbidden, his mind conjured an image of Jill tending a garden, small children with her eyes and his dark hair playing nearby. The vision startled him.

"Aye, I believe we might," he said. "This world is strange to us, but its people seek the same things—love, family, purpose."

"I like Jill," Cillian said slyly. "She was kind. And bonnie."

Alasdair felt his cheeks warm. "Aye, she is that."

More than bonnie, though. Jill was valued for her mind, her knowledge—a different kind of strength.

"And she looked at ye like ye hung the moon and stars," Cillian added impishly.

"Enough of your blether," Alasdair grumbled without heat. "To bed with ye."

As sleep claimed him, Alasdair's last thoughts were of amber eyes and the possibility of a future without endless war. Of a woman with fierce intelligence who had already begun to claim a corner of his warrior's heart without even trying.