Page 28 of Crazy About Jill (Highland Berserkers #1)

CHAPTER 28

A lasdair's fingers hovered over the sleek glass surface of the smartphone, his calloused hands comically oversized against the delicate device. The screen glowed softly in the dim light, illuminating the confusion written across his brow. In his time, such a treasure would have been worth more than gold—a small piece of glass that held knowledge beyond measure, that connected people across vast distances in the blink of an eye.

"I still dinnae understand," he muttered, frustration curling around his voice. "How can this tiny box hold more knowledge than all the scrolls in our keep?"

Jill leaned closer, her breath warm against his cheek. "It's not magic," she said gently. "It's science."

Science. The word held no shape in his mind, no weight he could grasp. In his world, things were either natural or magical, gifts of God or workings of darker forces. This strange middle ground—this "science"—felt like walking a rope bridge in fog.

But her nearness, that made sense. The scent in her hair, the curve of her smile, the warmth of her touch as she guided his hand over the screen—those things, he understood. And craved, with an intensity that startled him. Such yearnings had been buried deep during his years as a warrior, when finding a partner seemed impossible.

Her fingers brushed against his as she guided his touch across the screen, the simple contact sending a current through him more powerful than any electricity this modern world commanded. A slow warmth spread up his arm, settling like embers in his chest. For a brief moment, he allowed himself to imagine those fingers entwined with his, not just in instruction but in something more lasting.

Then she pulled back, cheeks pink. The air between them cooled, but not entirely. A possibility lingered—a tension neither of them acknowledged aloud.

Before he could speak, Macrath interjected from across the room. "I still dinnae see how this will help us find wives."

Jill's eyebrows shot up. "Wives?"

The blunt question hung in the air, heavy with implications. Alasdair exchanged a glance with his brothers. He cleared his throat. "We thought...this was part of the courting ritual in your time." The words sounded foolish even as he spoke them, but there was truth behind them—they had been promised brides before McKinnie's betrayal. That hunger for companionship, for family, had never died.

Jill blinked—then laughed. "Oh boy. We've got a lot to cover."

The warmth in her laughter soothed what might have been embarrassment. She wasn't mocking them, merely amused by the cultural gap that sometimes yawned between them like a chasm.

Alasdair opened his mouth to reply—but a low rumble in the distance caught his attention. He stilled, warrior's instincts instantly alert. In his time, weather was not merely an inconvenience—it could mean life or death, especially for a warrior exposed on open ground.

Outside, the sky darkened unnaturally fast. The wind shifted. There was weight in the air, a feeling he recognized from countless nights camped in the highlands. Storm coming, and a fierce one at that.

"Tavish?" Alasdair called, frowning. His brother had always been sensitive to such things, his storyteller's soul attuned to the rhythms of the natural world.

He found his brother barefoot on the edge of the lawn, arms raised slightly, face tilted toward the sky. The others argued inside about something Jill called 'apps,' but Tavish stood apart, lost in something older.

"The storm listens," Tavish said quietly. "Can ye not feel it? The wind remembers. The sky warns."

Lightning split the clouds above the trees, white and jagged. A heartbeat later, thunder cracked the heavens wide open. The sound was primal, familiar—one thing unchanged across the centuries.

Alasdair stepped beside him, heart pounding. "We're not in the Highlands anymore," he said. "The rules are different here." This modern world, with its electricity and running water and endless comforts, had made him forget how close nature still lurked.

Tavish turned to him, unblinking. "Aye. But the storm still kens us."

A chill ran down Alasdair's spine at the words. There was truth in them. They might have crossed time, might wear strange clothes and sleep in soft beds, but their souls remained those of men born to the wild places, men who understood the language of wind and rain.

The rising tempest reminded him of the night they'd hunted the Brollachan. That creature too seemed to draw power from darkness and chaos—perhaps tonight it was gathering strength for another attack. The thought set his nerves on edge, amplifying his already heightened senses.

And then the power died.

The house fell dark with a suddenness that stole breath. A cry rose from upstairs—Jill's voice, sharp and full of fear. "Mom!"

Alasdair was already moving, taking the stairs two at a time, instinct guiding him through the darkened house. Behind him came the sound of his brothers following, their footsteps sure despite the darkness.

They found Sarah in bed, pale and gasping, her oxygen machine silent. The steady hum that had been a constant background noise since their arrival was gone, leaving only the ragged sound of her labored breathing.

Jill's hands shook as she knelt beside her mother. "Without power...I don't know what to do." Fear sharpened her voice, washing away the confident scholar who had been teaching them moments before.

"I might," Alasdair said, stepping forward. "There is a ritual—an old one. It is not what ye'd call scientific, but…" He hesitated, uncertain how this educated woman would view the old ways, the breathing techniques and healing chants passed down among warriors.

He didn't finish. He didn't have to.

Jill looked at her mother. Then at him. She gave a trembling nod. "Please. Anything that might help."

"Lachlan," Alasdair called. His brother had always had the steadiest breath control, the clearest chanting voice.

Together, they began. Their voices blended in ancient Gaelic, a low chant that vibrated in the floorboards. The candlelight flickered with each word. Alasdair could feel it—the hum of something older than time, thrumming beneath the skin of this world. The rhythm of breath, the pull of air into lungs, the ancient words that had been old even in their time.

"Anail a-steach, anail a-mach," they intoned. Breath in, breath out. "Beatha, spionnadh, neart." Life, vigor, strength.

Sarah's breathing eased, falling into rhythm with their chanting. Her color returned, slowly but steadily, as she drew strength from the ancient cadence.

Jill sat beside her, watching with wide eyes. "I can't believe it," she whispered. "You...you did it."

Alasdair didn't feel triumphant. He felt humbled. And deeply aware of the woman kneeling beside him. Her quick mind had been open to their ways, despite her education, despite what her modern world would call superstition. That willingness to try, to believe—it touched a part of him long closed off by years of battle and rejection.

A candle guttered nearby, and Jill moved to fix it. In the dimness, they both reached for it at once, their hands meeting around the small flame. For a heartbeat, neither moved away. The gentle light illuminated her face in a way that transported Alasdair back through time—the soft glow dancing across her features reminded him of firelight in great halls, of women with flowers in their hair during summer festivals. Without electricity's harsh glare, she could have been a woman from his own time, her beauty timeless in the dancing shadows.

"There are many things in this world that defy explanation," he said softly, his hand still touching hers. "Perhaps it's not about understanding everything—but being open to possibility."

Their eyes met. In the soft glow of candlelight, she looked like something out of a dream—real, strong, beautiful. Her lips parted, and he found himself leaning closer, drawn by a force as ancient and powerful as the storm outside. The distance between them narrowed, the world shrinking to just this moment, this breath?—

His heart pounded in his chest, drowning out even the storm's fury. The warrior who had faced countless battles without fear now trembled at the thought of closing those final inches between them. Not from fear, but from the overwhelming certainty that once their lips met, nothing would ever be the same again. This wasn't just about desire—it was about finding something he'd never dared hope for, something that transcended centuries.

"So," Macrath's voice boomed from the hall, "about this courting business. In our time, we'd simply take a woman we fancied. Is that still the custom?"

Jill's head snapped toward him, the spell broken. "Absolutely not!"

The berserkers looked genuinely surprised. "Then...how do men find wives?" Macrath asked, his brow furrowed in genuine confusion.

"Slowly," she replied, pinching the bridge of her nose. "And without taking women against their will."

"Then what of bride prices?" Fergus asked. "Do fathers still negotiate dowries for their daughters?"

"Also no," Jill replied, a hint of amusement creeping into her voice despite the situation. "Women choose their own partners now. No taking, no selling, no arranged marriages."

The confusion on their faces would've been comical if not for how sincere it was. Fergus looked like a puppy scolded for the first time. Even Cillian frowned, trying to make sense of the new rules.

"So women just...choose? Freely?" Tavish asked, as if the concept were utterly foreign—which, Alasdair realized, it was. In their time, marriages had been arrangements between families, alliances sealed with flesh and blood.

"Yes," Jill confirmed. "And men have to...you know, be likable. Worthy of being chosen."

"Och, that's a tough break for ye, Macrath," Lachlan said with a grin. "Being likable was never your strong suit."

Despite everything, Alasdair chuckled. The familiar banter of his brothers, the warmth of the candlelit room, the slow, steady breathing of Sarah—it all combined to create a moment of peace amid the storm. He caught Jill's eye again, and this time, she smiled back. A real smile, not the patient one she wore when explaining modern concepts, but something warmer.

As a particularly loud crash of thunder shook the house, Jill startled, unconsciously shifting closer to him where they sat on the floor. Without thinking, he placed his arm around her shoulders—a warrior's instinct to protect, but something more as well. She tensed for only a moment before relaxing against him, her head finding a natural place against his shoulder.

The weight of her against him felt perfectly natural, despite everything. Her trust—this modern, educated woman willingly leaning into his strength—filled him with a fierce tenderness he'd never known. In that moment, he would have faced a dozen Brollachans to keep her safe, to preserve this fragile peace they'd found amid the storm.

"In our time," he said softly, for her ears alone, "storms were feared, but also welcomed. They cleanse the air, water the crops, remind us of powers greater than our own."

"And in this time?" she asked, her voice equally quiet.

"In this time," he replied, gazing down at her, "I find they reveal what might otherwise remain hidden."

Her eyes met his, questioning, uncertain, yet somehow hopeful. The candles flickered, casting dancing shadows across her face. In that moment, separated from the modern world by darkness, they were simply a man and a woman, drawn together by something that transcended time itself.

They sat together until the storm passed, surrounded by the glow of candles and quiet laughter. The conversation wandered from courtship customs to tales of their homeland, Tavish spinning stories that made even Sarah smile weakly from her bed. Somewhere between fear and wonder, between ritual and revelation, something had shifted.

He no longer felt like a ghost haunting this strange future. The ancient ways still held power, and perhaps there was still a place for men like them, even in this world of science and smartphones.

And as the rain softened outside, Alasdair realized he wasn't just learning how to live in this world—he was beginning to want to. For his brothers. For himself.

And perhaps, he thought as Jill's hand brushed his in the darkness, for her.