Page 33 of Crazy About Jill (Highland Berserkers #1)

CHAPTER 33

A lasdair's fingers tightened around the worn leather grip of his sword, the familiar weight both comforting and unsettling in this strange new world. The blade—one Conall had unearthed from a storage shed, claiming it was a "family heirloom"—was solid enough, though nothing like the finely balanced weapon he'd carried before. Still, it felt right in his hand, an extension of himself that had been missing since their arrival.

The sword sang softly as he drew it through the air in a practice swing, muscle memory guiding his movements. This patch of level ground behind the barn, far enough from the house to avoid curious eyes but close enough should trouble arise, would serve their purpose well. A makeshift training ground, not unlike the clearings where he'd taught young clansmen to defend themselves in a world long turned to dust.

He inhaled deeply, centering himself as he watched Jill approach. Women did not train with weapons in Scotland—at least not openly—but he'd seen enough of this century to understand that such restrictions no longer applied. And Jill, with her fierce intelligence and determination, deserved to know how to protect herself, especially with the Brollachan still lurking.

Her long brown hair was tied back in a practical braid, swaying gently as she walked. She wore those strange "jeans" that hugged her legs in a way that would have been scandalous in Scotland, paired with a simple shirt that left her arms bare to the summer sun. His heart quickened at the sight of her, a feeling that both exhilarated and terrified him. Back home, he would have already approached her father with formal intentions. But here, in this baffling future, courtship was a dance he was still learning the steps to.

"Ready for your first lesson, lass?" he called out, forcing a lightness into his tone that he didn't quite feel. The Brollachan was still out there, a constant threat lurking in the shadows of this new life they were building. Teaching Jill to defend herself wasn't merely a pretext to spend time with her—it was a necessity.

She smiled, the expression lighting up her face and sending a rush of warmth through his chest. When had her smiles begun to affect him so?

"As ready as I'll ever be," Jill grinned, her amber eyes sparkling with a mixture of excitement and apprehension. "Just don't expect me to suddenly turn into Xena: Warrior Princess."

Alasdair blinked, the reference sailing over his head like so many things in this century. The casual mentions of unknown people and customs still caught him unawares, reminders of the vast gulf between their experiences. "Is that another of your television characters?"

"Yes—sorry," Jill laughed. "I keep forgetting what you wouldn't know."

"First, we'll start with your stance," he said, moving closer.

The scent of her soap—something floral and distinctly modern—filled his nostrils as he positioned himself behind her. Not the harsh lye soap of Scotland, but something gentle and sweet that sent a jolt of awareness through him. He swallowed hard, trying to focus. "Feet shoulder-width apart," he instructed, his voice rougher than he intended.

"Like this?" she asked, adjusting her position.

His fingers itched to guide her into place, to bracket her hips with his hands and physically show her the proper stance. But such liberties would have been unthinkable with an unmarried woman where he came from, and he wasn't certain of the boundaries here, despite their growing closeness.

"Almost," he said instead, demonstrating the stance himself. "Weight evenly distributed, ready to move in any direction. In battle, standing still means death."

"There's a cheery thought," Jill quipped, but adjusted her stance as directed, bracing her feet more firmly against the packed earth.

"Aye, that's it." He kept his hands carefully at his sides, though every instinct urged him to guide her body into the proper form. Boundaries between men and women seemed more fluid in this time, confusing him at every turn.

"Now," he continued, circling her slowly, "hold the sword like this." He demonstrated the grip, noting how her eyes focused intently on his hands, studying every nuance of his movement with a scholar's precision.

Jill's brow furrowed with concentration as she attempted to mimic his hold, her slender fingers wrapping around the hilt. The sword dipped immediately, its weight clearly more than she'd anticipated.

"It's heavier than it looks," she admitted, struggling to keep the blade level.

"Strength comes with practice," he assured her, finally allowing himself to reach out, guiding her hands to the correct position. Her skin was soft against his calloused palms, the contrast jarring. His hands bore the marks of countless battles, while hers showed gentler work—farm calluses mingled with ink stains from her books.

The brief contact sent a shock of awareness through him, warming his blood in a way that had nothing to do with the summer heat. He stepped back quickly, concerned his reaction might be visible.

"In your time, how did you train new warriors?" Jill asked, adjusting her grip on the sword.

The question caught him by surprise. "Brutally. Endless drills until they bled and screamed and learned." His voice softened. "Not how I'll teach you."

He cleared his throat. "Try a simple swing—from shoulder to hip, like so." He demonstrated slowly, the blade cutting a clean arc through the air.

Jill bit her lower lip, a gesture he'd come to recognize as deep concentration. She mimicked the movement, her swing tentative but surprisingly fluid.

"Not bad," he nodded approvingly. "Ye've got a natural talent, it seems."

Jill laughed, the sound sending a warm flutter through his chest. "Maybe I was a warrior in a past life," she joked, executing another swing with surprising grace.

"Aye, perhaps," Alasdair murmured, struck by the idea. In his darkest moments, he wondered if this was all some fever dream—if he'd wake up back in Scotland, Jill nothing more than a fading memory. Or worse, if he'd find himself back in that hellish portal, eternally falling between worlds. The thought made his chest ache. "Or perhaps ye've just got warrior blood. Your father has the look of a man who's seen battle, despite all his talk of farming."

"Dad?" Jill snorted. "He's more likely to wage war on aphids than people."

Alasdair wasn't so sure. There was something in Conall's eyes—a watchfulness, a readiness—that spoke of combat experience. But that was a mystery for another day.

"Again," he instructed, moving to stand beside her, matching her movements with his own. "Let your body learn the rhythm. The sword is not just a weapon; it's an extension of yourself."

They continued training, Alasdair guiding Jill through basic forms and defenses. Her quick learning and determination impressed him, stirring a pride he hadn't expected to feel. She approached swordplay as she did everything—with intelligence and focus, analyzing each movement before attempting it.

As the sun climbed higher, casting dappled shadows through the nearby trees, Alasdair found himself relaxing into the rhythm of the lesson. For a few precious moments, he could almost forget they were separated by centuries, by experiences no modern human could comprehend.

Sweat beaded on his brow, and he pulled off his outer shirt, leaving only the thin cotton undershirt the twins had given him. The modern fabric clung to his skin, still strange after a week of wearing it. Jill's eyes flickered to his exposed arms, lingering on the definition of muscle earned through years of warfare. Color rose in her cheeks before she quickly looked away.

The reaction sent a jolt of awareness through him. Was she affected by him as he was by her?

"You're a fine teacher," Jill panted, wiping sweat from her brow. The simple gesture shouldn't have been enticing, but he found his gaze lingering on the curve of her neck. He dropped his gaze, willing himself to focus.

"You're a willing student," he replied. "Most lasses in Scotland wouldnae have shown half your determination."

"Most 'lasses' don’t have father’s born in the middle ages," she quipped, mimicking his accent with a playful smile.

"True enough," he conceded, returning her smile. There was something freeing about her confidence, so different from the carefully cultivated meekness of noblewomen in his era. "Now, let's try a defensive maneuver. I'll come at ye slowly, and ye block like I showed ye."

He moved forward with deliberate slowness, telegraphing his movements so she could anticipate and counter them. Her eyes focused intently on his blade, tracking its path with remarkable precision. Promising , he thought. Very promising indeed .

Jill raised her sword to block, the steel catching sunlight as she moved. But her foot slipped on a patch of dew-dampened grass. Without thinking, Alasdair lunged forward, catching her before she could fall.

Her body pressed against his, warmth seeping through their clothes. The world narrowed to just this moment—her widened eyes, the small gasp that escaped her parted lips, the hammering of his heart. Jill's breath hitched, her eyes searching his.

The pull between them was as tangible as gravity. The scent of her—clean sweat and something uniquely Jill—overwhelmed his senses, drowning out centuries of careful restraint. He leaned in, his heart thundering, drawn by a force stronger than will or reason.

Her eyes drifted closed, her lips parting slightly in invitation. The sword hung forgotten in his grip as his free hand moved to cup her cheek, the softness of her skin against his rough palm igniting something primal within him.

"Jill," he breathed, her name a prayer on his lips, his brogue thickening with emotion. Her face tilted up to his, her breath warm against his mouth.

"Alasdair," she whispered in return, and the sound of his name on her tongue nearly undid him.

"Am I interrupting something?" Fergus's amused voice shattered the moment like a stone through glass.

Alasdair jerked back, his cheeks burning as he turned to face his brother. Fergus stood at the edge of the clearing, bow in hand and a knowing smirk on his face. His eyes danced with mischief, a look Alasdair had seen countless times over their years together.

"We've found signs of the Brollachan," Fergus reported, his eyes dancing with barely contained mirth. "But perhaps I should come back later? When ye're less...occupied?"

"Nae," Alasdair growled, frustration and embarrassment warring within him. Trust Fergus to appear at precisely the wrong moment. "We're done here. Show me what ye've found."

"If ye're certain," Fergus replied, his tone making it clear he was enjoying Alasdair's discomfort far too much. "Though ye seemed quite engrossed in your...swordplay."

Alasdair shot him a warning glance that would have silenced most men. Fergus merely grinned wider.

As they followed Fergus back towards the house, Alasdair snuck a glance at Jill. Color rose in her cheeks, and she wouldn't meet his eyes. The unresolved tension between them crackled like static electricity, leaving him both yearning for more and terrified of what it might mean.

The sword in his hand suddenly felt heavier, a reminder of his oath to protect, not just her physical safety, but her heart as well. He was a man out of time, with a duty to his brothers and a monster to defeat. His life had never been his own to direct—first claimed by the berserker brand, then by the needs of his brothers, now by the threat of the Brollachan.

But watching Jill's braid swing as she walked ahead of him, Alasdair realized that his heart might no longer be his own to command.

It belonged to her—to this remarkable woman who bridged centuries with her understanding, who looked at him and saw not just a warrior, but a man. A man who, against all odds and across a thousand years, had found something he'd never dared hope for.

A second chance.

"We'll continue your training tomorrow," he called to her, needing to say something, anything, to acknowledge what had nearly happened between them.

Jill glanced back at him, her expression a mix of longing and uncertainty that mirrored his own conflicted heart. "I'd like that," she replied softly, and in her simple words, Alasdair heard a promise.

Tomorrow, perhaps, there would be no interruptions.