Page 26 of Crazy About Jill (Highland Berserkers #1)

CHAPTER 26

J ill couldn't sleep.

She'd tried for hours, tossing and turning as her mind raced with images from the past few days—the Brollachan's shifting form, the berserkers' fierce fighting, Alasdair's eyes when he spoke of home. Finally giving up, she slipped from bed and padded to her window, drawn by a flicker of movement outside.

Moonlight bathed the lavender fields in silver, the early June buds standing like silent sentinels in neat rows. Beyond them, the dark line of trees marked the boundary between safety and the unknown. And there, at the edge of the porch, a lone figure stood watching the treeline, his posture unmistakable even in silhouette.

Alasdair.

Her pulse quickened at the sight of him standing guard over their home. Without giving herself time to reconsider, Jill pulled on her robe and slippers and made her way downstairs, careful not to wake the rest of the house. The wooden steps creaked beneath her feet, each sound amplified in the midnight stillness.

The night air carried the scent of lavender and pine as she stepped onto the porch, cool against her skin after the warmth of the house. Alasdair didn't turn, though she knew he'd heard her approach. One hand rested on the hilt of a sword—one of her father's collection that he'd given the warriors earlier that day. The metal gleamed in the moonlight, both beautiful and deadly.

"Couldn't sleep either?" she asked softly, moving to stand beside him.

Alasdair's eyes remained fixed on the treeline. "A warrior should remain vigilant when danger threatens," he replied, his voice low. "The Brollachan hunts by night."

Jill studied his profile, taking in the rigid set of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders. He wore the new jeans and t-shirt they'd provided, but somehow they looked foreign on him, as if the modern clothes couldn't contain the ancient warrior within. The moonlight caught in his dark hair, silvering the edges in a way that made her fingers itch to reach out and touch it.

"You don't have to stand watch alone," she said. "We have the security cameras. Joe and William have fixed them all and added more.”

A wry smile touched his lips. "Cameras that the beast can disable with its presence." He glanced down at the sword at his hip. "Steel and vigilance have served warriors for centuries. I trust them more than your hidden eyes in the woods.”

Something in his tone caught her attention—a heaviness that hadn't been there during their movie night. "Is everything okay?" she asked, then immediately felt foolish. Of course everything wasn't okay. He was a man torn from his time, facing an ancient monster in a world he barely understood.

To her surprise, Alasdair turned to face her fully, his green eyes searching hers in the moonlight. "Your father has shown us great kindness," he said. "The weapons, the clothing, shelter for my brothers...I've known clan chiefs who offered less to blood relatives."

"He understands what you're going through," Jill replied. "He made the same journey, just...alone."

"Aye. A harder road, I cannot imagine." Alasdair's fingers tightened around the sword hilt. "I swear to you, we will repay this debt. Every kindness will be returned tenfold."

"It's not a debt," Jill insisted. "It's just...helping people who need it."

Alasdair shook his head, a small smile playing at his lips. "In my time, debts of honor were sacred, Jill. Allow me the comfort of old ways, at least in this."

Something in his expression made her heart ache—a glimpse of the struggle he must be facing, trying to reconcile who he was with who he needed to become in this new world. The historian in her wanted to document his experience, but the woman in her just wanted to ease his burden.

"Do you miss it?" she asked quietly. "Your time, I mean."

He was silent for a long moment, his gaze returning to the dark trees. "I miss knowing my place," he finally said, his voice barely audible. "A warrior knew his purpose, his worth. Here..." He gestured vaguely at the modern world around them. "Here, I am nothing. A curiosity, perhaps. A relic. But not a man of value."

The raw honesty in his words caught Jill off guard. This wasn't the confident leader who had faced down the Brollachan without flinching. This was a man adrift, questioning his very identity. His vulnerability touched something deep inside her that all her academic knowledge couldn't reach.

"That's not true," she said firmly. "You're not defined by when you were born, Alasdair. It's who you are that matters."

"And who am I here?" he asked, turning to face her again. The moonlight cast shadows across his features, highlighting the planes of the warrior’s face. "Not a laird. Not a protector. I cannot even understand half the wonders in your kitchen, let alone defend against the dangers of your world."

Jill stepped closer, drawn by the vulnerability he was showing her. The space between them felt heavy with something unspoken. "You're still Alasdair MacTyre," she said softly. "Still a leader. Still someone who protects others, who faces danger without flinching. That hasn't changed just because the century has."

Something flickered in his eyes—a warmth that made her breath catch. "Ye have a way about ye, Jill Greenwood," he murmured. "Making a man believe he can be more than his past."

She froze, her pulse thudding in her ears. They stood close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from him, could see the rise and fall of his chest with each breath. The cricket songs and night breeze faded away until all she could hear was her own heartbeat.

"I've spent my life studying history," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "But none of my books prepared me for you. For any of this."

His hand moved, hesitantly, as if he might reach for her, but then fell back to his side. "I cannot offer ye what a man of your time might," he said, each word weighted with meaning. "Not yet. Not while the beast threatens your family. I must prove myself first."

"Prove yourself?" Jill echoed, confused. "You've already faced the Brollachan once. No one doubts your courage."

Alasdair's expression grew solemn. "It isna about courage. It's about worth." His gaze dropped to the wolf brand on his arm, visible beneath the short sleeve of his t-shirt. "In my time, this mark made me unworthy of a good match. No clan would give their daughters to branded men, no matter how fierce in battle."

Understanding dawned, stealing Jill's breath. He wasn't just talking about defeating the monster—he was talking about earning the right to court her. The realization sent warmth spreading through her chest, equal parts touching and frustrating. All her modern sensibilities rebelled against the idea that he needed to prove himself worthy of her, even as something primal within her thrilled at his devotion.

"In my time, a man like me wouldna have dared look twice at a woman of your station," he admitted. "Not unless he could offer land or title."

"That's not how things work now," she said, struggling to keep her voice steady. "People choose for themselves, based on feelings, not...worthiness tests or clan politics."

"Perhaps," he acknowledged with a slight nod. "But some traditions run deeper than time itself. A man should prove his worth before seeking a woman's hand."

The formality in his words might have made her smile under other circumstances—it was so at odds with modern dating norms. But the sincerity behind them touched something deep within her. No man had ever spoken to her with such earnest intent, such clear purpose.

"And if the woman has already decided his worth?" she asked boldly, surprising herself with her own courage.

Alasdair's breath caught audibly. For a moment, the warrior's composure slipped, revealing something raw and hopeful beneath. Then, as if catching himself, he straightened, his expression becoming guarded once more.

"The Brollachan first," he said, though his voice had softened. "I'll not have ye tied to a man who cannot keep ye safe."

A twig snapped in the darkness beyond the porch, and Alasdair tensed, his hand drawing the sword in one fluid motion. She froze, her pulse thudding in her ears as they both stared into the shadows.

After a long, tense moment, a raccoon waddled into view, completely oblivious to the drama it had interrupted. Jill let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding, relief mingling with lingering adrenaline.

Alasdair didn't immediately relax. His eyes scanned the treeline, searching for any sign of the real threat. Only when he was satisfied did he resheath his sword, the metal sliding home with a soft whisper.

"You should rest," he said, his tone gentler now. "Tomorrow brings its own challenges."

Jill knew she should go inside, but something kept her rooted to the spot. "And you? Will you stand watch all night?"

"Until Tavish relieves me at dawn," he confirmed. "We've set a rotation."

Of course they had. These were men of war, trained to protect even in unfamiliar territory. The thought was both comforting and sobering.

"Well, then..." She hesitated, then impulsively reached out and squeezed his hand. The warmth of his skin against hers sent a thrill through her. "Be careful, Alasdair MacTyre. Some of us are already quite invested in your future in this century."

Before he could respond, she turned and walked back into the house, her heart racing with the boldness of her words. Behind her, she felt his gaze follow, warm and steady as the June night itself.

As she climbed the stairs back to her room, Jill realized something fundamental had shifted between them tonight. Beyond the attraction, beyond the fascination of historian and historical subject, a deeper connection had formed—one built on vulnerability, understanding, and possibilities that spanned centuries.

For the first time since the berserkers had arrived, Jill allowed herself to truly imagine what it might mean to fall for a man from another time. Not just as an academic curiosity or a romantic fantasy, but as a real future with real consequences. A future with Alasdair.

Sleep came more easily than it had in days, her dreams filled with warriors and moonlight, and ancient promises. And if, in those dreams, Alasdair looked at her with the same intensity he had on the porch, his guard finally lowered—well, that was her secret to keep until morning.