Page 32 of Crazy About Jill (Highland Berserkers #1)

CHAPTER 32

A lasdair gripped the edge of his seat as the metal beast—truck, he reminded himself—lurched down the winding dirt path. The contraption was nothing like the solid reassurance of a horse beneath him, its movements unpredictable and its growling unsettling. He shifted uncomfortably, his knees nearly touching the strange dashboard with its bewildering array of buttons and dials.

"Are ye certain this beast won't turn on us?" he muttered, trying to mask his unease with humor.

Jill’s fingers drummed lightly on the steering wheel, a mischievous glint in her eyes as she glanced at him. "No promises. She's got a mind of her own. Just like me."

Alasdair snorted, relaxing a fraction despite himself. "Aye, that I believe."

She laughed, the sound warm and easy in the small cab. "Besides, you're a big tough Highlander. What's a little truck ride compared to battle axes and dragons?"

"Dragons would be preferable," he said dryly, bracing himself as they hit a pothole. "At least dragons make sense."

Jill grinned wider. "Don't worry. If it comes to a fight, I'll protect you."

Alasdair turned his head slowly to stare at her, deadpan. "I am doomed."

Her laughter filled the truck, bright and musical, and for a moment, the lurching and growling of the machine faded into the background, leaving only the heady mix of her scent, her smile, and the undeniable pull between them.

He kept glancing out the window as trees gave way to a wide clearing, the air growing salty with the scent of the nearby ocean. "Are we hunting something?" he asked at last, his Scottish burr wrapping around the words.

The salty tang reminded him of the western shores of home, where the MacTyre warriors had once sought refuge during a clan war. But this shore smelled different—cleaner, wilder somehow. And unlike those desperate nights in hiding, he felt no immediate danger here. Just a different kind of tension that coiled in his gut whenever Jill's eyes met his.

She smiled, easing the truck to a stop at the edge of a bluff that overlooked the water. "Not tonight. No monsters, no siblings, no berserkers. Just us."

Alasdair blinked, startled. "Just...us?"

His heart hammered against his ribs, a war drum signaling something between danger and exhilaration. Back then, being alone with an unmarried woman meant only one thing—intentions serious enough to risk her family's wrath. He swallowed hard, suddenly aware of how different their worlds truly were. Would she understand what such a moment would have signified in his century?

"Is that okay?" she asked, uncertainty flickering across her face.

"Aye," he said softly. "More than okay."

Relief washed through him that she couldn't read the tumult of his thoughts. How could he explain that in his world, this moment—this simple act of privacy—would have been weighted with promises and expectations? That men had died for less than sitting alone with a laird's daughter under a darkening sky?

Jill grabbed the picnic basket from the backseat and nudged open her door. "Come on. You said you wanted to understand modern courtship. This is part of it."

"Courtship," he repeated under his breath, the word both thrilling and terrifying. Was that what they were doing? His branded arm seemed to burn beneath his sleeve, a reminder of all the ways he had been deemed unworthy in his previous life.

He followed her out, hesitant at first, then steadier as they reached a weathered wooden bench near the edge of the overlook. Below them, the Pacific stretched out in dusky blues, the last light of day fading into golds and purples. Waves crashed gently on the shore far below.

"It's beautiful," he murmured, his eyes reflecting the deepening sky. "Reminds me of the western shores of Scotland, where the sun sets over the water."

The vastness of the ocean made him feel small, yet strangely grounded. The same stars would rise here as they had over his homeland, a thousand years and a world away. Some things, at least, remained constant.

Jill set out a blanket and unpacked the basket—two sandwiches, a thermos of cocoa, and a small speaker. "This is called a picnic,” she said, gesturing to the spread.

Alasdair looked at it like it might bite. "This is what couples do together?"

The word "couples" struck him like a physical blow. In his time, men like him—berserkers, branded as outsiders—were not permitted such gentle rituals. Their matches, when allowed at all, were arranged for breeding strength, not sharing tender moments beneath the stars. Yet here she was, this remarkable woman, offering him something he'd never dared dream possible.

"Sometimes. It's low-stakes. Just food and talking and...maybe music." A slight blush crept up her neck.

He nodded solemnly. "I shall do my best. Though I fear I'm a poor companion for such modern rituals."

He flexed the hand that once gripped a sword, callused and scarred from years of battle. These were not hands meant for gentle things. Yet Jill looked at him not with fear but with something warmer, something that unfurled a dangerous hope within his chest.

"You're doing fine," she assured him, smiling.

She pressed play on her phone. The soft chords of an acoustic love song drifted from the speaker, mingling with the sounds of the sea. Alasdair listened, transfixed. "What manner of bard sings this?"

Such haunting sweetness in the voice, such tender sorrow in the melody. It reminded him of the laments sung after battle, but gentler—a celebration of love rather than an honoring of the dead. He had never heard music that spoke so directly to the heart, that seemed to give voice to feelings he'd buried beneath duty and survival.

"Spotify," Jill replied, chuckling. "He's a modern bard. We have thousands of them now."

"The music of your time is...different," he observed. "Less pipes and drums, more...feelings."

"And does that disappoint the fierce warrior?" she teased, her eyes catching the last light of day.

"Nay," he admitted softly. "It...speaks to parts of me I thought long silenced."

They ate quietly, conversation coming in soft bursts. Alasdair asked about her childhood. Jill told him about summers spent roaming these hills, about building forts among the trees, racing through the lavender fields, and pretending she was a knight defending her kingdom. He told her about the glens of his youth, the cold wind off the hills, the first time he'd held a sword.

"You still seem like a knight," she said softly.

Her words lit something fragile inside him, something raw and vulnerable. No one had ever seen him as noble. Useful, yes. Feared, certainly. But never as someone worthy of the old tales. Even in his own time, berserkers were viewed as tools of war, not heroes of legend. That she could see something honorable in him—it shook the foundations of how he'd viewed himself for as long as he could remember.

"I feel less and less like one every day," he admitted, his voice low. "There's no glory in plumbing, no honor in irrigation. In my time, a man's worth was measured by his skill in battle, not by how well he tended plants."

"There's a kind of honor in staying," she said. "In choosing peace."

He went quiet, then nodded slowly. "Ye sound like your father."

Jill tilted her head. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

"Your father is a druid," he replied, the old wariness creeping back into his voice. "My kind has good reason to mistrust his kind."

"And yet you trusted him enough to let him cast that language spell," she countered.

He met her gaze, and something tender passed between them. "It's not him I trusted." The words were quiet but carried a weight he hadn't intended. It was her—her judgment, her kindness—that had made him lower his guard. And now here they sat, beneath stars that had witnessed a thousand years, closer than he'd ever dared to hope.

As the night deepened around them, Jill opened up in ways he hadn't expected. "Sometimes I worry that I've wasted all those years of education to end right back where I started. My professors would be horrified."

Alasdair studied her thoughtfully. "Ye dinnae see it, do ye? How ye use your learning every day?"

He thought of how she'd explained the stars to him, the history of his own people, the workings of this strange modern world. How her knowledge had made the terrifying manageable, the foreign familiar.

"What do you mean?"

"The way ye speak to us of our own time, explaining things we ourselves didnae understand about our world. The books ye've shown me about Scotland's history—things I never kent about my own land." His voice grew warm with admiration. "Ye're a teacher, Jill. Perhaps not in a grand hall of learning, but here, where it matters to us."

Jill smiled, a softness in her expression. "I never thought of it that way."

"You have brought light to darkness for us," he added quietly. "That is no small thing."

The stars blinked to life above them. Jill lay back on the blanket and patted the space beside her. After a moment's hesitation, Alasdair joined her, his shoulder brushing hers, sending a current of awareness through his entire body.

The softness of the blanket beneath him, the warmth of her so close—it was almost too much. In his time, he had slept on cold ground, on stone floors, beneath open skies. Never had he lain beside a woman this way, watching stars emerge like scattered silver against the darkness. The intimacy of the moment, though innocent by modern standards, felt profound.

"What are we looking for?" he asked.

"Nothing. Everything." She pointed. "That's Orion. And there's Cassiopeia."

He squinted. "I only see stars."

"That's enough." She paused, then added softly, "My father used to tell me stories about the constellations. He said families used to gather under the stars, telling tales and planning futures."

"Aye," Alasdair agreed. "The night sky was our calendar, our clock. When to plant, when to harvest." His voice softened. "When to celebrate births, marriages. The cycles of life."

The old ache returned—dreams of what might have been, promises broken. The wives they were to receive, the children never born. How many nights had he lain awake beneath these same stars, wondering if he would ever know such simple joys?

Jill's voice was hesitant. "Do you ever think about that? Having a family someday?"

The question hung in the air between them, weighted with possibility. The heartbeat of silence that followed seemed to stretch into eternity. Alasdair felt his future balancing on the edge of his answer.

"Every day," he said simply. "Back then, it was all I wanted—what was promised to us before McKinnie's betrayal. A home, children, someone to build a life with."

"And now?" she asked, barely above a whisper.

His fingers found hers in the darkness, the touch sending fire through his veins. "Now more than ever."

Her breath caught audibly. "Then maybe we're not so different," she whispered, her voice soft but clear in the night air.

The touch of her hand—small but strong, soft but certain—anchored him to this moment, this unbelievable reality where he, Alasdair MacTyre, branded berserker of a forgotten time, might dare to dream again. He tightened his grip gently, marveling at how perfectly their hands fit together, how natural it felt to bridge the centuries between them with this simple touch.

A silence stretched between them, comfortable and warm, filled with unspoken things.

Then Jill whispered, "You don't always have to lead, you know."

He turned his head. "What do ye mean?"

The words hit deeper than she could know. Since boyhood, he had carried the weight of leadership—first of village children playing at war, then of actual warriors facing death. Always vigilant, always responsible. The idea of setting down that burden, even for a moment...

"Just that...it's okay to let someone else guide you sometimes. You don't always have to be the warrior. Sometimes you get to just be."

His eyes searched hers, finding no judgment there, only understanding. "And what am I now, Jill?"

In her gaze, he saw not the monster others had named him, not the weapon he'd been forged into, but something else entirely—something that made his heart swell with a feeling he scarcely dared to name.

She smiled, reaching over to take his hand properly. "Someone I like very much."

He exhaled slowly, his fingers tightening around hers. "I feared I was alone in that feeling."

"You're not," she assured him. "Not at all."

Alasdair gazed up at the ancient stars, the same stars that had watched over his childhood in the Highlands, and for the first time since being cast through time, he felt something like peace. Something like belonging. Something dangerously close to hope.