Page 19 of Crazy About Jill (Highland Berserkers #1)

CHAPTER 19

T he bunkhouse door creaked shut behind Alasdair as he entered, the rumble of his brothers' voices filling the small space. His mind still lingered on the dinner they'd just shared, on laughter beneath an open sky, on amber eyes that sparkled in the setting sun.

"Did ye see Tavish try to eat that 'hot dog' in one bite?" Fergus chuckled, collapsing onto his bunk. "Thought he'd choke for certain."

Tavish threw a pillow at his brother. "At least I didnae spill sauce all o’er myself like some wee bairn," he retorted, but his grin took any sting from the words.

Alasdair settled onto his own bed, the strange soft bedding still a marvel after a lifetime of straw pallets and furs laid over hard ground. His brothers continued their banter, their voices a familiar chorus that had accompanied him through countless nights in highland halls and battlefield camps.

But tonight, his thoughts strayed elsewhere.

Jill. The name itself was foreign on his tongue, nothing like the Moirags and Fionas and Ailidhs of his time. Yet it suited her—simple, strong, unadorned by pretense. The women of his time had been no less intelligent, no less capable, but they’d lived within rigid boundaries. Even noblewomen, with all their privileges, had rarely been educated beyond household management and perhaps some basic reading.

But Jill had knowledge that would have made the most learned monks of his era seethe with envy. A “doctorate,” her father had mentioned. In history—his history. The thought was both humbling and strange.

"Earth to Alasdair," Macrath’s gruff voice cut through his musings. "Ye're staring at the wall like it holds all the secrets of the universe."

Alasdair blinked, returning to the present. "Just thinking."

"About Jill?" Cillian asked, his young face alight with mischief.

Heat crept up Alasdair’s neck. "About our situation," he corrected, though the words rang hollow even to his own ears.

Lachlan snorted. "Aye, and I’m Saint Columba himself."

"The way ye look at her," Fergus added, his voice gentler than the others, "reminds me of how my father used to look at my mother. Like she hung the moon and stars."

"I dinnae look at her any particular way," Alasdair protested, but his brothers' knowing glances told him the lie was futile. Was he truly so transparent?

"She's bonnie," Macrath conceded, stretching out on his bunk. "And fierce too. Reminds me of the shield-maidens in the old stories."

"And clever," Tavish added. "Did ye see how quickly she matched our Gaelic, even the old words?"

Alasdair couldn't deny any of it. The way she’d guided them through this bewildering day, patient with their mistakes but never condescending. The gentle touch of her hand as she showed him how to build a “burger.” The flash of curiosity in her eyes when she’d asked about his past.

It was that question that had caught him off guard. His childhood—those painful years after being cast out, marked with the wolf brand that made him MacTyre. He hadn’t been ready to speak of it, not yet. But he’d seen the question retreat in her eyes at his reticence, not hurt but understanding.

"What I dinnae understand," Macrath said, sitting up suddenly, "is where all the women are. We've seen Jill, her mother, but no others. In our time, a farm this size would have workers, neighbors visiting."

"Aye," Fergus agreed. "Are women scarce in this time?"

Tavish laughed. "If so, we’ve arrived at a fortuitous moment. Six warriors in need of wives, in a land where women are rare."

"Watch your tongue," Alasdair warned, though there was no real heat in his words. "We're guests here, not raiders."

Cillian shrugged. “Conall mentioned a town nearby. There must be lasses there, aye?"

"I suspect," Lachlan said thoughtfully, "that we're being kept away from townsfolk until we better understand this time. Remember how confused we were by the simplest things today? Imagine being surrounded by strangers while learning."

"It was promised to us," Macrath said quietly. "Wives, homes of our own, after our service to McKinnie. Another promise broken."

The mood in the bunkhouse shifted, old wounds reopened by the simple observation. Alasdair felt the weight of his brothers' disappointment settle on his shoulders anew. That, combined with the lurking threat of the Brollachan somewhere in the woods, made their situation all the more precarious.

"This isn't Scotland," he reminded them. "The old promises don't bind us here. We're free to do as we wish, strange as our circumstances may be. And we have a new purpose—to hunt the beast that followed us, to protect the family that shelters us."

"Free to start anew," Cillian agreed, quick to find hope. "And perhaps to find partners of our choosing."

"It seems only fitting," Fergus said with a sly glance at Alasdair, "that our chief should be the first to find a match. Good fortune that the druid's daughter has caught his eye."

"D’ye think women in this time choose their own husbands?" Cillian asked suddenly, voicing the very question that had been circling in Alasdair's mind.

"Seems they choose everything else," Macrath observed. "Did ye see how Jill spoke to her father and brothers? Not a hint of deference."

"And the way she dresses," Fergus added. "No woman in our time would show her form so openly, save perhaps..." He trailed off, not needing to complete the thought.

"It's different here," Alasdair said firmly. "We cannae judge by our standards."

And that was the crux of it, wasn’t it? Everything was different. The rules, the expectations—all transformed across the centuries that separated his world from this one. In his time, a man of his standing—a berserker, an outcast—would never have presumed to court a woman like Jill. Even had he been of noble birth, negotiations would have been with her father, arrangements made, dowries discussed.

Here, he had no standing at all. No land, no wealth, no understanding of this world’s customs. What could he possibly offer her?

"She likes ye," Cillian said quietly, as if reading his thoughts. "The way she smiles when ye speak—it’s different from how she smiles at the rest of us."

"Dinnae be daft," Alasdair muttered, though his heart quickened at the words.

"The lad’s right," Tavish agreed. "And her father watches ye both like a hawk. He kens there’s something there."

Alasdair ran a hand through his hair, frustration coursing through him. "Even if that were true—and I'm not saying it is—what then? I’m a man out of time, with nothing to my name save the clothes on my back."

"Ye're our leader," Fergus reminded him. "A berserker chief. That counts for something, even here."

"And ye’ve your honor," Lachlan added. "Worth more than gold in any time."

Macrath nodded. "The old druid wouldnae have let us stay if he thought ye unworthy of his daughter’s attention."

Their faith in him was humbling. Had he truly given them reason for such loyalty across all their years together? He didn’t feel worthy of it—not after failing to secure the clan acceptance they’d been promised, not after leading them into McKinnie’s trap.

And yet here they were, alive against all odds, with a chance at a future none of them could have imagined.

The weight of their expectations—that he’d find happiness first, lead them in this as he’d led them in battle—both honored and troubled him. In this strange new world, perhaps they all needed to forge their own paths.

"The rest of ye shouldnae wait for me," he said, meeting each of their gazes in turn. "When the time comes that we meet others, ye should seek your own happiness. I am your leader, not your gatekeeper."

"Aye, but ye deserve joy first," Tavish insisted. "After all ye’ve done for us."

The simple declaration left Alasdair momentarily speechless. It had never occurred to him to put his own happiness before theirs.

"Tomorrow," Alasdair said, changing the subject, "we should ask about this town. Begin learning how folk here conduct themselves. The sooner we understand, the sooner we can move about freely."

"And meet the local lasses," Macrath grinned, returning to his earlier good humor.

Alasdair’s gaze drifted to the window, where the stars were beginning to appear in the darkening sky. The same stars that had shone over Scotland twelve centuries ago, unchanged while everything else transformed beyond recognition. There was comfort in that constancy.

"One day at a time," he said at last, echoing the words Conall had spoken to him earlier. "We focus on learning this world, on earning our keep."

"And if more comes of it?" Cillian pressed, hope bright in his young eyes.

Alasdair thought of Jill’s laughter, of the kindness in her eyes. A warmth spread through his chest that had nothing to do with the mild summer night.

"Then," he said softly, "we’ll face that too, when the time comes."

As his brothers settled in for the night, their banter gradually fading to the deep breathing of sleep, Alasdair remained awake. Through the window, he could see a light still burning in the main house—in what he guessed was Jill’s room. The thought of her surrounded by knowledge, absorbed in her work, brought an unexpected curve to his lips.

When chaos threatened to overwhelm him—when the strangeness of this place pressed in too closely—he found himself anchored by thoughts of her. Her patient explanations, her gentle guidance, her strength in facing the impossible with grace. In a world turned upside down, she had become his fixed point.

"Sleep well, mo nighean," he whispered to the distant light. "Until tomorrow."