Page 29 of Crazy About Jill (Highland Berserkers #1)

CHAPTER 29

J ill's fingers traced the worn edge of the wooden table as shadows danced across the walls. The power outage had transformed the farmhouse into something out of a historical drama, complete with the warm flicker of candles and the low rumble of thunder outside. For the first time since their arrival, the warriors looked truly at ease—as if the darkness had peeled away a century of displacement.

She glanced around the room. The six berserkers sat hunched slightly around the table, their broad frames bathed in amber light. The combination of candlelight and leather made them seem more at home now than they had all day, as if the modern world had momentarily stepped back in time to meet them halfway.

Alasdair sat directly across from her, his face softened by the glow. He looked almost...peaceful. The hard lines of constant vigilance had eased, revealing the man beneath the warrior. His green eyes met hers for a moment, and her stomach flipped like a startled fish. She quickly dropped her gaze, hoping the dim light concealed the heat rising to her cheeks.

It was happening more frequently now—these moments when she'd catch herself staring at him, or when his accidental touch would linger in her memory. When had the historical curiosity transformed into something more personal? The academic in her tried to rationalize it as a natural response to an extraordinary situation, but the woman in her knew better.

"So," Fergus said suddenly, his voice a low rumble that startled her from her thoughts. "How does one go about finding a wife in this time?"

Jill blinked. "I'm sorry, what?"

Macrath leaned forward, elbows on the table, his dark eyes serious. "We came to this time to build lives. We wish to know—how is it done?"

She stifled a laugh, though there was something touchingly earnest in the question. "There's not exactly a wife shop, if that's what you're asking. And most people don’t use matchmakers anymore."

The men exchanged confused looks.

"Are there no matchmakers, then?" Tavish asked, his storyteller's curiosity evident. "In our time, arrangements were often made between families."

Alasdair spoke next, his voice quiet, contemplative. "In our time, marriages were arranged. Or…" He hesitated, something like shame flashing briefly across his features.

"Or what?" Jill asked warily.

Cillian glanced around before answering. "Sometimes, a man would simply take a woman as his bride."

"Bride stealing," Tavish clarified, as if that made it better. "Usually from rival clans."

Jill's blood chilled. "Absolutely not," she said, firmly. "That's kidnapping. It's illegal. You'd go to jail."

"Jail?" Lachlan frowned. "For taking a wife?"

"Yes," Jill said, her tone unwavering. "You don't get to just...grab someone and claim them. We have things like consent. Choice. Trust."

The men shifted uncomfortably, processing this. They likely didn’t mean to offend—just didn’t know any better. Their world had been brutal in ways her academic studies had likely sanitized. Marriage had been about survival and alliances more than love.

"In this time," she said, more gently, "people usually meet at work, through friends, or online."

Tavish narrowed his eyes. "Ye've used that word before. Online."

Jill held up her phone. "This is a smartphone. You can talk to people with it, read books, listen to music, even meet new people—like a magical scroll that fits in your pocket."

The warriors leaned in, fascinated. Fergus's eyes widened, while Cillian reached out tentatively, as if afraid the phone might bite.

"But what do women seek in a husband now?" Alasdair asked, his gaze locking with hers. There was something in his voice—a personal stake that made the question more than just academic curiosity.

Jill hesitated. In her academic career, she'd have given a historical analysis of changing marriage patterns. But looking at these men—especially Alasdair—she found herself answering from the heart instead.

"Someone kind. Loyal. Who will share the work and raise a family. Someone who stays faithful." Her voice wavered slightly on the last part, memories of Marcus's betrayal surfacing unexpectedly. "That last one's really important."

As she spoke, a strange realization dawned on her. The qualities she was describing—kindness, loyalty, strength, partnership—were the very traits she'd witnessed in Alasdair these past days. The way he led his brothers with quiet authority, how he'd stepped forward to help her mother without hesitation, his willingness to learn their ways while maintaining his dignity. She faltered mid-sentence, the parallel suddenly clear, and found herself unable to meet his eyes.

Fergus scowled. "What kind of man betrays the woman he vows to protect? In our time, such dishonor would be punished severely."

She offered a hollow smile. "You'd be surprised."

"Ye speak from experience," Alasdair observed quietly, not a question but a gentle acknowledgment.

Jill nodded, surprised by his perceptiveness. "My ex-fiancé. He, uh, found someone else while I was busy writing my dissertation."

"Then he was a fool," Alasdair said simply, his Scottish brogue thickening with emotion. "And unworthy of yer trust."

The intensity in his voice caught her off guard. There was no platitude in his words, no empty comfort—just a sincere declaration that struck directly at the core of insecurities she'd carried since Marcus's betrayal. For years, some small part of her had wondered if she was somehow lacking, too absorbed in her work to be worthy of love. Yet this man from another time had dismantled that doubt with five simple words.

Her eyes met his across the table, and the conviction she saw there made her breath catch. In those green depths, she saw not just sympathy, but something that looked remarkably like indignation on her behalf—as if her pain was personal to him. The thought that he would be angered by her hurt made something inside her chest unfurl like a flower finally finding sunlight.

"Thank you," she whispered, the words inadequate for the weight lifting from her shoulders.

A beat of silence passed. Then Alasdair's voice rumbled through it. "Surely a man still offers a home? A safe place?" The question carried echoes of what might have been promised to them in their time—the homes and families they'd been denied.

"Yes," Jill said, nodding. "But it's not just about protection anymore. A partner is someone you laugh with, trust, build a life with. Love, too, if you're lucky."

"Love was rarely considered in our time," Tavish mused. "Though the bards sang of it often enough."

"The heart wants what it wants," Lachlan added, surprising Jill with the modern-sounding phrase.

The room was still. Jill could feel Alasdair's gaze like a warm hand against her cheek. There was something in his eyes—a hunger that went beyond mere curiosity. It was the look of a man who had been promised something vital, then had it snatched away. A man who still wanted what had been denied him.

Even with the Brollachan still lurking somewhere in the darkness beyond their walls, there was a sense of possibility in this candlelit moment—as if the ancient creature was just one more obstacle to overcome on the path to something meaningful. She'd always faced challenges through research and analysis, but this threat would require a different kind of courage.

Macrath cleared his throat.

Jill turned to see him holding out a small piece of twisted metal—shaped into a sprig of lavender, its wire curled into a delicate Celtic knot. She recognized it as part of the machinery they'd been examining earlier—transformed by skilled hands into something beautiful.

"For you," he said gruffly. "To thank ye. For not killing us that first night."

Jill blinked. "Macrath...this is beautiful." The gift was unexpected, especially from the gruffest of the warriors. "I didn't know you were an artist."

"I worked metal in our time," he replied with a shrug. "Mostly weapons, but sometimes..." He trailed off. "My brothers will say it's soft. But sometimes soft is strong, too."

She smiled, genuinely touched. "That's...actually kind of profound."

"Dinnae let it go to his head," Fergus teased. "He'll be writing poetry next."

"I'd like to see ye try better," Macrath retorted, though there was no heat in his words.

A moment later, the overhead lights flickered, then buzzed to life, casting harsh modern light over the cozy darkness. Everyone blinked, startled by the sudden return of electricity. The spell was broken.

"Well," Jill said, standing and stretching, "guess the 21st century is back."

The men rose as well, towering over her in the now-bright kitchen. One by one, they nodded or bowed slightly as they exited, murmuring their thanks in a mixture of English and Gaelic.

Alasdair lingered.

"Thank you," he said softly. "For your patience. I know we must seem barbaric to you."

She looked up, her heart tugging at the quiet vulnerability in his voice. This mighty warrior—this man who had crossed time itself—worried about her judgment. "Not barbaric. Just…different. But that's okay. We'll figure it out together."

His expression shifted, something unspoken flickering behind his eyes. A slow, tentative smile curved his lips. "I would like that verra much," he said, the Scottish lilt in his voice making the simple words sound like music. Then he turned and followed his brothers out the door.

Jill stood there, holding Macrath's handmade gift in her hand, her thoughts a tangle of emotion. The sprig caught the light, its twisted metal both delicate and strong—like the men who had crafted it. Men with lethal skills and gentle hearts, trying to find their way in a world that had moved on without them.

What had she gotten herself into?

And why did it feel a little bit like falling?

She traced the Celtic knot with her finger, remembering how naturally Alasdair had performed the healing ritual for her mother. The way his eyes had locked with hers across the candlelit room. The promise in his smile as he'd said "together."

The truth she'd been avoiding rushed forward with sudden clarity. This wasn't academic interest. It wasn't just physical attraction or the novelty of their situation. Somewhere between their first meeting in the woods and tonight's candlelit conversation, she'd fallen for Alasdair MacTyre—truly fallen for him. Not as a historical curiosity or an intriguing subject, but as a man whose strength was matched by his gentleness, whose leadership was balanced by his willingness to learn, whose eyes held both ancient wisdom and vulnerable hope.

"Pull yourself together, Dr. Greenwood," she muttered to herself. "He's from the ninth century, for heaven's sake."

But the professional title felt hollow now, a shield too thin to protect her from what was happening. Dr. Greenwood studied historical figures objectively. Jill, however, was irrevocably drawn to a man who happened to be from another time.

As she tucked Macrath's gift into her pocket and headed upstairs to check on her mother, she knew she'd crossed a threshold tonight. Under the gentle glow of candlelight, surrounded by men from another time, Jill Greenwood had admitted something to herself that would change everything: her heart had recognized something in Alasdair that transcended centuries, something worth pursuing despite every rational argument against it.

Perhaps some things, like the human heart, didn't change so much across the centuries after all.