Page 23 of Crazy About Jill (Highland Berserkers #1)
CHAPTER 23
T he wooden porch steps creaked beneath Alasdair's weight as he settled onto the top stair, his muscles aching from the night's battle. Above him, stars pierced the velvet darkness, the same stars that had guided him through Scottish highlands centuries ago.
In the bunkhouse nearby, Cillian rested, already showing signs of the remarkable healing that was the berserkers' birthright. The black tendrils that had spread from the wound had begun to recede after just hours, far faster than any normal man would heal. They'd insisted on taking him there rather than keeping him in the main house—some wounds required the comfort of brotherhood to properly mend, and they knew best how to tend to one of their own. Another small way to maintain their dignity in this unfamiliar place.
Alasdair's hands still trembled slightly from the lingering effects of the berserker rage. The fury that had fueled him during battle always left him hollow afterward, drained in a way that went beyond physical exhaustion. He flexed his fingers, studying the flecks of the creature's strange, oily blood still caught beneath his nails. No amount of scrubbing had removed it entirely. The sight of it made his stomach clench with revulsion—a physical reminder of the evil they'd faced, the evil they'd brought with them.
The door opened behind him, and Alasdair knew without turning that it was Jill. Her footsteps had a distinct cadence he'd already memorized, light but purposeful. Something warm bloomed in his chest at her approach, a feeling at once familiar and terrifying in its intensity.
"Mind if I join you?" she asked, her voice soft in the night stillness.
"Please," he replied, shifting slightly to make room beside him on the step—though there was already plenty of room.
She sat, closer than propriety would have allowed in his time, her shoulder nearly brushing his. In the soft golden light spilling from the windows, her features seemed both sharper and softer somehow, her eyes reflecting the distant stars. The faint scent of her shampoo—something floral and clean—mingled with the herbs on the breeze.
"How's Cillian?" she asked, though she'd been there when Conall had completed the healing, had helped hold his brother down when the pain grew too great.
"Resting," Alasdair answered. "Your father's magic...I've never seen a druid with such power." The admission wasn't easy. Druids in his time had been feared and mistrusted, with good reason given his experiences. Yet Conall had proven himself different—a healer, not a destroyer.
"Dad said he'll be completely recovered by morning," Jill said. "The Brollachan's poison is strong, but apparently so is Cillian's constitution."
"Aye, he's always been the toughest of us, despite being the youngest." Pride colored Alasdair's voice. His brothers had fought valiantly tonight, their berserker instincts serving them well against the ancient evil they'd faced.
A comfortable silence fell between them, the night sounds providing a soothing backdrop—crickets chirping, the distant hoot of an owl, the soft rustling of lavender in the fields beyond. But beneath the peacefulness, a weight pressed on Alasdair's heart, growing heavier with each passing moment.
"I've brought danger to your home," he said finally, his voice low and rough with regret. "To your family."
Jill turned to look at him, her gaze steady and unafraid. "You didn't choose this, Alasdair. None of you did. You were thrown into our time against your will."
"Intention doesn't change consequence," he replied, the words bitter on his tongue. The image of Cillian's wound—the blackened flesh, the veins darkening as the poison spread—would haunt him for years to come. It could have been any of them. It could have been Jill.
Her hand moved to rest atop his, warm and steadying. The simple touch sent a current through him more powerful than any he'd felt from the strange electric devices in this modern world. In his time, such casual contact between an unmarried man and woman would have raised eyebrows. Yet here, now, it felt as natural as breathing.
"I've spent my life studying history," Jill continued, her thumb absently tracing a pattern on his weathered skin. "Learning about warriors and battles and creatures of legend. But watching you fight tonight..." She shook her head, wonder in her expression. "I've never seen anything like it. The way you moved, the way you protected everyone—it was incredible."
Pride warmed his chest at her words, though he tried to temper it. "The berserker rage is both gift and curse. It gives us strength beyond mortal men, but at a cost."
"What cost?" she asked, genuine curiosity in her voice.
Alasdair hesitated, uncertain how to explain the darkness that lived within him, the beast he kept chained except in battle. "Control," he said finally. "When the rage takes us, we're...not entirely ourselves. That's why we couldn't let you come tonight. In the heat of battle, we might not recognize friend from foe."
"Yet you protected Cillian when he was wounded," she pointed out. "You didn't strike blindly."
"Years of practice," he admitted. "And still, the risk remains."
Jill's eyes remained on him, studying his face with an intensity that both unsettled and thrilled him. "My father said berserkers were feared in your time. Not just by enemies, but by your own people."
"Aye," Alasdair nodded, the old pain resurfacing. "We were weapons to be used when needed, then cast aside. Useful in battle, but too dangerous for peace."
Her hand tightened on his. "That's not what you are here, Alasdair. Not to us."
The simple declaration caught him off guard, piercing a vulnerability he hadn't realized was exposed. In this strange world, with its countless wonders and terrors, this was perhaps the most unexpected gift—acceptance. Not just tolerance or wary alliance, but true acceptance. It stole his breath more effectively than any blow he'd ever taken in battle.
"What am I to you, then?" he asked, the question slipping out before he could reconsider, his voice gruffer than intended.
Jill's eyes widened slightly, and for a moment, he feared he'd overstepped. But then something shifted in her expression, a softening around her eyes, a slight parting of her lips that sent his heart racing.
"You're..." she began, then paused, seeming to gather her thoughts. "You're a man out of time who's shown more courage and honor in a few days than most people manage in a lifetime. You're someone who protects those he cares about, who adapts to unthinkable challenges, who faces ancient monsters without flinching." Her voice grew softer. "You're someone I'm very glad arrived on our property, Brollachan and all."
The words washed over him like a balm, soothing hurts he'd carried for longer than he could remember. In her eyes, he wasn't just a berserker, a weapon, a branded outcast—he was a man. A man worthy of respect, perhaps even affection.
"Even though I've brought danger to your door?" he asked, needing to be certain.
"Some things are worth the risk," she replied simply.
The warmth in her voice, in her eyes, kindled something in Alasdair that had long been dormant—hope. Not just for survival in this new world, but for something more. Something he'd never dared dream possible in his own time.
"The beast will return," he warned, the growing lightness in his chest no match for his need to be honest.
"Then we'll be ready," Jill said with a certainty that both impressed and worried him. "All of us, together. And this time, I'm not staying behind while you all face danger."
Alasdair opened his mouth to protest, but the determination in her eyes gave him pause. The way she’d helped tend to Cillian—steady-handed despite the horror—showed a strength he couldn’t dismiss.
"You'll need training," he said finally, the words a concession he hadn't planned to make. "Your brothers too, if they wish to join the fight."
Jill's smile was like sunrise after a long winter's night. "I think we can arrange that."
As they sat together in the quiet June evening, Alasdair felt the burden on his heart lighten for the first time since arriving in this strange future. The Brollachan was still out there, growing stronger with each passing moment. The dangers were real and pressing.
But for now, with Jill beside him and his brothers safe under this roof that had welcomed them without question, Alasdair allowed himself to believe that perhaps, just perhaps, they could forge a life here after all. Not just surviving, but living.
For the first time since arriving in this strange future, Alasdair felt a glimmer of hope for what tomorrow might bring.