Page 24 of Crazy About Jill (Highland Berserkers #1)
CHAPTER 24
J ill's boots scuffed against the worn wooden floorboards as she entered the cozy kitchen, the scent of lavender and chamomile wafting from the steaming kettle. Her mother, Sarah, stood at the counter arranging cookies on a plate, her movements slower than they once were but still graceful. Despite the pallor of illness that clung to her skin, Sarah's eyes sparkled with warmth.
"Perfect timing," Sarah said, glancing up with a smile. "I was just making our evening tea."
Jill moved to help, taking the kettle before her mother could lift it. "I've got this, Mom. You should sit."
"I'm not an invalid yet," Sarah reminded her gently, but allowed Jill to pour the steaming water into the waiting teapot. "Chamomile with lavender. I thought we could both use something calming after the excitement tonight."
Jill couldn't help but chuckle at the understatement as they settled at the kitchen table. "Excitement is one way to put it," she admitted, breathing in the soothing aroma. The familiar ritual of their nightly tea grounded her, even as her mind whirled with the day's events. The heat from the ceramic mug warmed her still-trembling hands, a tangible reminder that she was safe at home despite the creature they'd encountered. "It's one thing to study ancient folklore, but seeing a real Brollachan..."
"Your father told me about Cillian's injury. Is he all right?" Sarah asked, concern etching her features.
"He's recovering remarkably quickly," Jill replied. "Dad says berserkers heal faster than ordinary men. They insisted on taking him to the bunkhouse—something about brotherhood and their own healing methods."
Sarah nodded, a wistful smile playing at her lips. "I remember when your father first arrived. He was like a force of nature—so out of place, yet so vital and alive." She paused, her gaze distant. "It's easy to forget, in the day-to-day routine, that the man I married crossed centuries to be here."
Jill leaned forward, curiosity piqued. "What was it like, Mom? Falling in love with someone from another time?"
Sarah's laugh was soft and musical. "Oh, honey. It was terrifying and exhilarating all at once. Your father had to learn everything from scratch—how to use a telephone, drive a car, even how to dress for this era." Her eyes twinkled mischievously. "Though I must admit, I rather enjoyed helping him figure out modern clothing."
"Speaking of clothing," Sarah added, "the packages you ordered arrived this afternoon. I had Joe take them to the bunkhouse."
A blush crept up Jill's cheeks as an unbidden image of Alasdair in modern attire flashed through her mind—how those clothes would look on his powerfully built frame. Her pulse quickened at the thought, unexpected but not unwelcome. She quickly took a sip of tea to hide her reaction, the sweet floral notes grounding her in the present moment. "Good. They've been making do with their original clothing for too long."
"And what about you and Alasdair?" Sarah asked, her tone gentle but probing. "I've seen the way you look at each other."
Jill's heart skipped a beat. Was she really that transparent? "I...I don't know, Mom. He's incredible—strong, honorable, and there's something about him that just draws me in. But he's from a completely different world. How could we possibly bridge that gap?"
"Your father and I managed," Sarah reminded her. "It wasn't always easy, but it was worth every challenge."
Jill traced the rim of her teacup with her finger, feeling the smooth ceramic under her touch. "Alasdair isn’t like the men I’ve dated before. Professor Daniels was all intellect and theory, more passionate about his research than anything else. And Mark from the museum—everything had to be categorized and labeled." She smiled ruefully. "Alasdair is so...present. When he looks at you, he really sees you. Not as a colleague or a concept, but as a person."
"That's rare in any century," Sarah observed.
"And it's not just that," Jill continued, the words flowing more freely now. A warmth bloomed in her chest that had nothing to do with the tea. "He carries this quiet strength. Even confused by everything in our time, he maintains his dignity. And when he fought that thing tonight—Mom, I’ve never seen anyone move that way." She shivered, remembering the fluid grace with which he'd wielded the sword, the fierce concentration in his eyes. "Like he was born to be a protector."
Sarah sipped her tea, a knowing smile on her lips. "Sounds like you've given this quite a bit of thought."
Jill sighed, the reality of her situation settling in. "Sometimes I worry that I don't belong anywhere anymore. I was just getting established in academia when I came home..." She trailed off, suddenly aware of how that might sound.
"You regret coming back?" Sarah asked softly, no judgment in her tone.
"No! Never," Jill insisted, reaching for her mother's hand. "Being here for you is exactly where I need to be. I just sometimes wonder if I'll ever find my place again."
Sarah's fingers tightened around hers. "You know, I've been thinking about that. With your expertise in medieval Scottish history and language, you're uniquely positioned to document something extraordinary. Six men from the ninth century, here in our modern world? Any of your colleagues would kill to be in your position right now."
The thought landed with unexpected weight. It was true—what historian wouldn't sacrifice everything for the chance to speak directly with people from the era they studied?
"I hadn't thought of it that way," Jill admitted. "I've been so caught up in what I left behind, I haven't fully appreciated what's right in front of me."
"And what's right in front of you includes a rather handsome Highland warrior who can't seem to take his eyes off you," Sarah teased gently.
"Mom!" Jill protested, her face warming again.
"Love finds a way, sweetheart," Sarah added, her voice soft with wisdom. "It's not about where you're from, but where you're going together."
As they finished their tea, the conversation drifted to lighter topics—the harvest coming up, plans for Father’s Day, small domestic matters that felt wonderfully normal amidst the strangeness that had engulfed their lives. When Sarah finally retired for the night, declining Jill's offer of help with a wave of her hand, Jill found herself drawn to the living room bookshelf.
Her fingers traced the spines of her collection of medieval history texts—books she knew almost by heart after years of study. She selected a volume on ancient Scottish folklore and settled into the comfortable sofa. The chapter on the Brollachan read so differently now, the academic descriptions pale shadows of the terrifying entity she now knew existed. The clinical language describing "formless entities that consume life essence" seemed laughably inadequate compared to the writhing darkness she'd witnessed on the monitor.
A yawn escaped her lips, and Jill glanced at the clock, surprised to see how late it had grown. As she was about to return the book to its shelf, a whimsical impulse struck her. She reached for her e-reader and downloaded a medieval time travel romance novel.
"What am I doing?" she muttered, even as she confirmed the purchase. The cover image loaded—a muscular, shirtless man in a kilt—and Jill couldn't help but snort. "They didn't get it right at all," she mused, Alasdair's intense gaze and rugged features vivid in her mind's eye. No romanticized cover model could capture the raw authenticity of a true medieval warrior.
As she curled up with the e-reader, Jill found herself struggling to focus on the story. The fictional hero paled in comparison to the flesh-and-blood warrior who had stormed into her life. The book's dialogue rang false after hearing Alasdair's genuine accent, his careful choice of words as he navigated modern English.
With a rueful smile, she set the device aside and turned out the light. Perhaps Mom was right—this unexpected detour in her life's journey wasn't a setback but an opportunity. Her academic knowledge now had real-world application, and what scholar wouldn't sacrifice everything for the chance she now had?
In the darkness, Jill's thoughts drifted to Alasdair—his strength in battle, his vulnerability in the face of this new world, the way his eyes seemed to see right through her. She thought of how different he was from the modern men she'd dated—his directness in place of their polished performances, his authenticity in place of their carefully curated personas.
As sleep claimed her, one thought lingered: her life had become far more exciting than any romance novel could hope to capture. And for the first time in months, she felt a sense of purpose and possibility that had nothing to do with academia.
Maybe she really was exactly where she was meant to be.