Page 35 of Crazy About Jill (Highland Berserkers #1)

CHAPTER 35

A lasdair crouched in the damp soil, studying the blackened patch of earth where nothing grew. Evening mist crept through the trees like ghostly fingers, bringing the sharp scent of pine and the fainter, more wrong scent of the Brollachan's passing. His fingertips registered the unnatural coldness that lingered hours after the creature's touch, a chill that seeped into his bones despite the warm summer air.

"It's growing stronger," he said, voice low as Macrath and Fergus flanked him in the gathering twilight. "Feeding more frequently."

Macrath grunted agreement, the bandage on his forearm stark white against his tanned skin. "Wee beastie killed two more of the neighbor's sheep. Left nothing but bones and black earth."

Alasdair wiped his hand on his jeans, the texture still strange beneath his calloused fingers. The denim felt too smooth, too unyielding compared to the rough wool he'd worn for decades. He missed the familiar weight of his tunic, the way it moved with his body in battle. These modern garments clung differently, though they offered surprising freedom of movement.

Rising to his full height, he surveyed the forest edge as thunder rumbled in the distance. The Greenwood farm stretched before him, fields of lavender now mere silhouettes in the deepening dusk. The farmhouse lights glowed with amber warmth, windows like golden eyes watching over the land. Behind one of those windows, Jill would be waiting, perhaps watching for their return.

His heartbeat quickened at the thought of her, warmth spreading through his chest despite the cool air.

"We should head back," Fergus suggested, his scholarly features tight with concern. "It's too dark to track further, and Conall wanted to discuss the silver we brought."

The silver. Their best hope against the creature, according to both Tavish's visions and Conall's druidic knowledge. Alasdair's jaw tightened involuntarily. Relying on druid magic scraped against everything he'd learned from bitter experience, but he'd witnessed enough impossibilities since arriving here to know that ancient enemies sometimes made necessary allies.

"Aye," he agreed, turning away from the corrupted ground. "The beast hunts at night. Best we not become prey ourselves."

As they made their way back through the darkening forest, the first cool droplets of rain spattered against his face. His thoughts drifted to the day's earlier moments in Aberdeen. The market's riot of colors and scents, the burst of sweetness from honey and cupcakes on his tongue, and most of all, the feel of Jill's hand in his—small yet strong, her fingers intertwining with his as if they belonged there.

Marriage in Scotland had been a formal affair of negotiations and arrangements—discussions with fathers, considerations of dowries, careful evaluation of family connections. But here...Jill stood educated, independent, free to choose her own path. And somehow, inexplicably, she seemed to be choosing him.

"You're thinking of her again," Fergus observed quietly, falling into step beside him as they emerged from the tree line. Lightning flashed in the distance, illuminating the approaching clouds. "I can tell by the look on your face."

Macrath snorted from behind them. "He thinks of nothing else these days. Our mighty leader, felled by a lass with books."

A decade ago, Alasdair might have bristled at such teasing, might have felt it undermined his authority. Now he merely smiled, the expression feeling like a rare, precious gift after years of grim determination. "Aye, and what of it? She's worth thinking about."

"No argument there," Fergus said easily. "She's a rare woman. Her knowledge of our customs—it's remarkable."

"It's not just her knowledge," Alasdair found himself saying, the words emerging unbidden from some deeper part of himself. "It's her spirit. Her strength." The memory of their sword training surfaced—the determination in her amber eyes, the quick intelligence with which she adapted to his instruction. "She doesn't fear what we are. Not even a little."

"And what are we, brother?" Macrath asked, his tone uncharacteristically somber. "Men? Warriors? Monsters? Relics? Do we belong here?” He gestured at their surroundings—the electric lights from the farmhouse, the distant hum of a vehicle on the road, all the marvels that remained bewildering despite weeks of exposure.

The question lingered in the rain-scented air as they approached the barn. The wolf-paw brand on Alasdair's forearm seemed to pulse with memory—the mark that had made them outcasts, less than men in the eyes of clan chieftains and village elders. Yet here, Jill looked at him and saw not a berserker, not a beast-man, but simply Alasdair.

"We are what we choose to be," he said finally. "Where we came from, that choice was taken from us. Here, perhaps, we might reclaim it."

The barn door stood open, golden light spilling onto the packed earth. Inside, Alasdair could see Conall hunched over a table covered in maps, Jill at his side. The sight of her—hair pulled back in a messy bun, brow furrowed in concentration—sent a surge of longing through him so powerful he had to clench his fists to keep from striding directly to her side.

She looked up as they entered, relief washing over her features. She moved closer, her scent a welcome contrast to the earthy smell of rain and forest that clung to his clothes.

"You're back," she said, eyes scanning his face as if searching for injuries. "Did you find anything?"

"More signs of feeding," he reported, forcing himself to focus on the threat rather than the way lamplight caught the amber flecks in her eyes. "The creature grows stronger with each passing day."

Conall's expression darkened as he traced a line on one of the maps. "The Summer Solstice approaches. Three days from now, the veil between worlds will be at its thinnest."

"The creature will be at the height of its power," Tavish added from his position near the window, where he'd been keeping watch. "But so will any magic we wield against it."

"What of the silver?" Jill asked, her practical nature asserting itself. "Macrath, can you forge it into weapons in time?"

Macrath nodded grimly. "Aye, with your father's help. The forge here is different from what I knew, but the principles remain the same."

"Good," Conall said, straightening. "We'll begin at first light. For now, you men should rest. You've been tracking since midday."

As the others filed out toward the bunkhouse, their boots scuffing against the wooden floor, Alasdair lingered. The barn's familiar smells—hay, leather, horses—grounded him even as his heart raced at being alone with Jill. The steady drum of rain on the roof filled the silence between them.

"A word, lass?" he asked softly once they were alone, Conall having tactfully retreated to the house.

Jill's smile sent a jolt through him stronger than any battle fury he'd ever known. "I was hoping you'd stay," she admitted, stepping closer until he could feel the warmth radiating from her. "I've been thinking about our trip to town. Before we got the message about the Brollachan, I mean."

"As have I," he confessed, allowing himself the luxury of reaching for her hand. Her fingers were cool against his calloused palm but warmed quickly as he enclosed them in his own. The simple contact sent lightning through his veins more potent than the storm outside. "In Scotland, I would have spoken to your father by now. Made my intentions clear."

A blush crept up her neck, visible even in the dim light. "And what exactly are your intentions, Alasdair MacTyre?" The playful challenge in her voice belied the genuine question beneath.

He took a steadying breath, feeling as though the words might slip through his fingers if he didn’t hold them tight. Where he came from, such declarations were rare, formalized, often arranged by others. But here, with Jill, nothing was as it had been.

"My intention," he said carefully, his brogue thickening with emotion, "is to court ye properly, as a man courts a woman he hopes might one day consent to be his wife."

The words hung in the air between them, heavy with meaning. Outside, rain fell harder, drumming against the barn roof in a rhythm that seemed to match the thundering of his heart.

Jill's eyes widened, but she didn't pull away. Instead, her free hand came up to rest lightly on his chest, just over his heart. The warmth of her palm burned through his shirt like a brand, but one he welcomed.

"That's...very formal," she said, teasing lightly even as her eyes stayed serious. "Usually people take a little more time before proposing eternal devotion."

Alasdair’s mouth twitched. "How much time are we speaking of? A fortnight? A season? A decade?"

She laughed. "Usually more than a couple of monster attacks and a road trip."

He tilted his head, considering. "I dinnae ken. Slaying beasts and surviving your metal beast on wheels seems like a strong foundation for a lifetime."

"True," she said, smiling warmly now. "Not everyone gets to test their relationship under fire."

"Aye," he said, voice low and earnest. "And if it pleases ye, I’d gladly keep proving myself... however long it takes."

Her heart gave a little lurch at the rough tenderness in his tone.

"Be careful," she whispered, eyes shining. "You might just win me over completely."

"I intend to," he murmured, his smile slow and sure.

Her answering grin stole his breath. "I'd like that too. Very much."

For a moment, they simply stood there, connected by their joined hands and the promise of something neither had expected to find. The scent of hay and rain enveloped them, the barn's timbers creaking gently in the wind.

"But first, we have to deal with the Brollachan," she said, her voice soft but determined. "Your safety—all of you—comes first."

"Aye," he agreed, reluctantly releasing her hand. "The beast must be dealt with before we can look to the future."

She nodded, then surprised him by rising on her toes to press a soft kiss to his cheek, her lips warm against his skin. "For luck," she whispered, her breath tickling his ear and sending shivers down his spine. "Come back safely from your hunt, warrior. I'll be waiting."

The simple gesture set his blood aflame more surely than any battle cry ever had. It took all his willpower not to turn his head, to capture her lips properly as he'd been longing to do for days.

But she was right. The monster came first. Their future—the tantalizing possibility of a life together—would have to wait until they had secured the safety of the farm, of her family, of his brothers.

"I will return to ye," he promised, the words carrying the weight of an oath. “I swear it."

As he stepped out into the rain, the cool droplets a welcome shock against his heated skin, Alasdair felt a strange sense of peace despite the danger that awaited them. For the first time since being cast through time, he had something to fight for beyond mere survival. A home. A future. A love born across centuries.

The Brollachan would face not just a warrior seeking victory, but a man defending everything he held dear. And that, Alasdair knew from long experience, made all the difference in battle.

Thunder cracked overhead, lightning briefly illuminating the fields in stark relief. The storm had arrived, much like the one building in his chest—powerful, primal, and unstoppable.

Let the beast come, he thought fiercely. Let it face a man with something to lose.