Page 25 of Crazy About Jill (Highland Berserkers #1)

CHAPTER 25

A lasdair tugged at the strange fabric clinging to his skin. The "jeans" felt constricting, nothing like the loose-fitting wool and leather he was accustomed to. The heavy fabric bound his thighs, while the "t-shirt" hugged his torso in a way that made him feel oddly exposed despite being fully covered.

"Remember, we must blend in," he reminded his brothers in Gaelic, his voice low. How could they possibly blend into this world of wonders? They might as well try to hide a wolf among sheep.

"I feel like a bairn trussed up for church," Macrath grumbled, pulling at his collar.

"These garments are so soft," Fergus marveled, rubbing the cotton between his fingers. "And clean. No fleas nor lice to worry about."

Though he would not admit it aloud, Alasdair was grateful for the new garments. Their own clothing had been worn thin from their journey through time, still bearing the stains and tears of battle. These new clothes, though strange, were clean and whole—another kindness from the Greenwood family that humbled him.

As they entered the dining room, the aroma of French toast and coffee assaulted his senses. His stomach growled in response, even as a pang of longing for the simple porridge of home twisted in his gut. Strange how one could hunger for new experiences yet crave the familiar comforts of the past.

Jill looked up from the stove, her eyes widening as they swept over him. A blush crept up her cheeks, and Alasdair felt a flush of heat rise in his chest. The soft intake of her breath when their eyes met made his pulse race faster than any battle charge.

He found himself noticing small details about her that he hadn't before—the way she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear when concentrating, how her eyes crinkled at the corners when she smiled. The way her hands moved—graceful and efficient—fascinated him.

"Well, don't you boys clean up nice," Conall chuckled, gesturing for them to sit.

"These garments are most...restrictive," Fergus replied diplomatically.

"Ye'll get used to them," Conall assured them. "Took me a while too. In our time, clothing was made for movement, for work. Here, it's as much about appearance as function."

"Try the French toast," Jill suggested, sliding a plate before him. "Mom's recipe—best in the county."

Taking a bite, his eyes widened in surprise. "So sweet," he murmured. In our time, such sweetness would be for chieftains and holy days.

As they ate, Alasdair found his gaze continually drawn to Jill. The way she moved with such confidence in this world of wonders both awed and unsettled him. How could he hope to protect her, to be worthy of her, when he could barely navigate this strange new realm?

Yet there was something about her that would have been valued in any time. The steadiness of her hands, the way she anticipated needs before they were spoken, her keen eye that missed nothing. And beneath her gentle demeanor, he sensed a strength that reminded him of the clan matriarchs who could quell arguments with a single glance.

"So," Conall's voice cut through his musings, "we need to discuss how to integrate you lads into our time."

"Aye, we're grateful for your hospitality, but we cannae be a burden. We must learn your ways quickly and make our own way here.”

"And we need to hunt the Brollachan," Macrath interjected, his hand instinctively reaching for a sword that was no longer at his hip. "The beast grows stronger with each passing night."

"We also need to fix the cameras it damaged," Joe added. "Dad and I will work on that today."

Jill frowned. "That creature's still out there. We can't just ignore it."

"No," Conall agreed, "but we can't go charging off half-cocked either. You boys need to learn about our world first. It'll help you track the beast more effectively."

Every instinct screamed to pursue the monster, to eliminate the threat. But Conall's words held wisdom. They were strangers in a strange land. How could they hope to defeat their foe if they couldn't even dress themselves without aid?

"Very well," he conceded. "What would you have us learn first?"

The day that followed was a whirlwind of marvels. Jill guided them through the mysteries of the "refrigerator," a magical box that kept food cold without ice. The "microwave" heated food in moments, while the "blender" turned solid foods to liquid faster than any mortar and pestle.

"In our time," Alasdair mused, watching bread pop up perfectly browned from the toaster, "a woman might spend half the day just preparing a single meal."

"And now we complain when dinner takes more than thirty minutes," Jill replied with a rueful smile.

When the promised "pizza" arrived at midday, Alasdair was skeptical of the strange, flat bread covered in sauce and cheese. But one bite changed everything.

"By all the gods," he breathed, the explosion of flavors unlike anything in his experience. "This...this is magnificent."

Jill's delighted laugh at his reaction sent a pleasant rush through him. "I've never seen someone so happy over pizza," she teased, her amber eyes dancing with amusement.

Back then, flavors were simple," he explained. "Salt, if we were fortunate. Herbs when available. Nothing like this...this harmony of tastes."

"How do ye no' become soft, with all these conveniences?" he asked Conall when the older man joined them.

"Different kinds of strength, lad," Conall replied thoughtfully. "In this time, many battles are fought with words and knowledge rather than swords. Don't mistake comfort for weakness."

As the sun began to set, Jill gathered them in front of a large black rectangle she called a "television" to watch a movie called Highlander —a fictional story about an immortal Scottish warrior.

The images that sprang to life on the screen were like nothing Alasdair had ever seen. But it was the scenes of modern cities that truly stunned them—the vast forests of buildings, the endless rivers of people flowing through streets.

"Are there truly so many people in one place?" Fergus asked, his voice hushed with awe.

"That's New York," Jill explained. "Millions of people live there."

"The buildings," Cillian marveled, "they reach to the heavens. How do they not topple in the wind?"

"How many people are in the world now?" Tavish asked, his storyteller's curiosity piqued.

"About eight billion," Jill replied casually.

The brothers exchanged stunned glances. The number was beyond comprehension.

Alasdair found himself leaning forward, engrossed in the story despite its strangeness. The tale of a Highlander thrust into future times struck a chord too deep to ignore.

Beside him, Jill shifted, her arm brushing against his. The contact sent a jolt through him, more electrifying than any of the marvels he'd witnessed that day. He glanced at her, catching her watching him instead of the screen. Their eyes met, and for a moment, the centuries between them seemed to melt away. The lamplight caught the gold flecks in her eyes, reminding him of amber—precious and warm.

When the Highlander in the story spoke of his first wife, of love lost to time, Alasdair felt a tightness in his chest. He'd never had a wife—the mark of the berserker had seen to that. No clan would give their daughters to men bearing the wolf brand. But here, in this new world, where the mark meant nothing...

As the movie ended, Alasdair's mind reeled with the implications of what he'd seen.

"Is this...is this how your people see us?" he asked hesitantly.

Jill laughed, soft and reassuring. "No, it’s just a movie. Fiction. But I thought you’d appreciate the Scottish connection."

"The accents were all wrong," Macrath grumbled. "And no Highlander would wear such strange garments."

"Says the man in blue jeans," Jill teased, grinning. "And for the record, kilts are real. Very Scottish. Very traditional. Just...not from your time."

"We will wear no such thing," Tavish declared.

"You sure?" Jill said, mischief dancing in her eyes. "They made them look pretty good in the movie. Very heroic."

They all shifted uneasily.

"And think of the colors!" Jill said brightly. "There are so many tartans. Lots of blue, lots of red. But you guys are so unique... maybe we should do something original."

They looked at her warily.

"How about pink?" she added sweetly, lifting the hem of her pink T-shirt to show them. "Pink is usually a color for girls, but I think you guys could really rock it."

Alasdair caught the sparkle in her eye, the laughter she was holding back. She was teasing them—and she meant him to rise to it.

A slow grin tugged at the corner of his mouth, hidden beneath his mock scowl. "Pink," he repeated in a voice so grave it could have pronounced a death sentence, as if the very word physically wounded him.

"Maybe even add some sparkles," Jill said, fighting a grin.

The warriors recoiled in unison, Alasdair the most dramatic of them all.

"If ye bring such a cloth near me," he said grimly, hand over his heart as if making a sacred vow, "I'll burn it where it falls."

"Salt the ashes," Tavish muttered.

"And curse the loom that wove it," Macrath added darkly.

Jill burst out laughing, bright and beautiful.

Alasdair let the sound wash over him, feeling lighter than he had in years.

"Relax," she said between giggles. "No pink tartans... unless you ask nicely."

As they stepped outside, the cool evening air a balm after the day's overwhelming experiences, Alasdair found himself walking beside Jill. The moon hung low in the sky, casting silver light across the fields. In some ways, the night sky was the only thing unchanged from his time—the same stars, the same moon that had watched over his ancestors.

"Your father," he began, choosing his words carefully, "when he came to this time...was he alone?"

Jill's eyes widened. "I...yes, I suppose he was."

Alasdair nodded, a newfound respect for Conall blooming in his chest. To face such a transition alone, without brothers at his side..."And now he has all a man could want. A wife, children, a home."

"Is that what you want?" Jill asked, her voice soft.

The question caught him off guard, though it shouldn't have. It was the dream that had driven him and his brothers to McKinnie's service, the promise that had led to their betrayal.

"Aye," he replied, the answer as natural as breathing. "A place to belong, a family to protect, a legacy to leave behind."

Her laugh held something he couldn’t quite name. "Not every man, no. Some just want to play, avoid responsibility. Especially these days."

Alasdair stiffened, his disbelief plain. "Then they are nae men at all," he said harshly. "A man is meant to build, to protect, to pass on his name and knowledge. 'Tis his duty—and his greatest honor."

Jill's breath caught, her eyes wide, as if he'd struck some deep, hidden chord within her. "And now?" she asked softly. "In this time, what do you want?"

The question hung between them, weighted with possibilities. As he looked at Jill, backlit by the porch light, her eyes searching his, he recognized a deeper truth.

"I want what I've always wanted," he said softly. "A home. Purpose." He hesitated, then added, "Someone to share it with."

His eyes lingered on her face, taking in the gentle curve of her cheek, the intelligence in her gaze. She was unlike any woman he'd ever known—educated in ways even noblewomen of his time were not, yet practical and grounded.

He saw something flicker in Jill's eyes—admiration? Interest? Before he could decipher it, Joe called out, beckoning them to examine some large metal contraption.

"That's Dad's old motorcycle," Jill explained. "He's thinking of getting it running again."

As Alasdair moved to join his brothers, he felt Jill's gaze on him. The weight of it followed him, a reminder of all he'd left behind—and all he might yet gain in this new world. They might be separated by centuries of history, but in her eyes, he saw a future worth fighting for.