Page 38 of Crazy About Jill (Highland Berserkers #1)

CHAPTER 38

J ill winced as she eased herself into the porch swing, the bandages around her midsection pulling with each breath. The morning sun bathed the fields in golden light, transforming the farm into something out of a pastoral painting. She breathed in the sweet-scented air, each breath slow and measured. Cillian had crafted a poultice of herbs and modern medicine that had worked wonders on her wound, but the damage from the Brollachan's attack remained a constant, throbbing reminder of last night's battle.

And of the words she'd spoken in its aftermath.

I love you.

Three words, uttered in a moment of pain and fear and certainty. Three words she'd never said to any man before. Her heartbeat quickened just remembering how they'd fallen from her lips, unplanned yet undeniable.

The screen door creaked open, and her mother emerged, a steaming mug in each hand.

"I thought you might want company," Sarah said, handing Jill one of the mugs before settling carefully beside her on the swing. The scent of chamomile rose between them, comforting and familiar.

Jill took a cautious sip, the warm liquid soothing her throat still raw from screaming during the battle. "Where are they?"

Sarah didn't need to ask who she meant. "Your father took Alasdair and the others to look for the monster’s nest. Something about making sure it's truly gone."

The memory of the creature's shadowy form dissolving into mist flickered through Jill's mind. She shuddered, her skin prickling despite the morning warmth. "Do you think it's really over?"

Her mother's hand found hers, fingers intertwining in silent support. "Nothing is ever truly over, honey. But some battles can be won."

The simple wisdom in those words struck Jill deeply. Her mother had always possessed this ability—to distill complex truths into something elemental and clear. Perhaps it came from years of living with a time-traveling druid, or perhaps it was simply Sarah's own innate wisdom.

"I told him I love him," Jill confessed, her voice barely above a whisper. "In the middle of everything—blood and bandages and fear—I just...said it."

"And do you?" Sarah asked, her tone neutral but her eyes keenly observant.

Jill stared out at the fields, at the land that had been in her family for generations. The land that now sheltered six warriors from another time. Her chest tightened with an emotion too big to name.

"Yes," she said finally. "God help me, I do. It makes no logical sense. He's from the ninth century. He still flinches at the microwave. His idea of technology is a more efficient way to shoe a horse." A surprised laugh bubbled up, sending a twinge of pain through her injured side. "And yet..."

"And yet," Sarah echoed, a knowing smile playing at her lips.

"How did you know?" Jill asked, turning to face her mother fully. "With Dad, I mean. How did you know it was right, despite all the differences?"

Sarah's expression turned thoughtful. "I didn't, not at first. Love isn't something you know, Jill. It's something you choose, day after day." She took a slow sip of her tea. "When I met your father, he was lost. A man out of time, trying to make sense of a world that must have seemed like magic to him. But beneath all that confusion and fear was a core of integrity that I couldn't ignore."

Jill nodded, picturing Alasdair’s unwavering loyalty to his brothers, his fierce protectiveness, and how his hands—capable of such violence—touched her with impossible tenderness.

"Your father needed me," Sarah continued. "Not just for the practical things—learning to navigate modern life—but as an anchor, a reason to build something new rather than mourning what was lost." Her gaze drifted to the distant figures returning from the woods, Conall's tall form easily recognizable among them. "And I needed him too, though I didn't realize it at first. I needed his strength, his different perspective. The way he saw the world as full of wonder rather than mundane familiarity."

Jill followed her mother's gaze, her eyes instantly finding Alasdair among the approaching men. Even at a distance, something in her recognized him—the way he moved, the set of his shoulders, the watchful awareness that never fully left him even in moments of peace. Recognition sparked in her chest.

"What if it doesn't work?" Jill whispered, giving voice to her deepest fear. "What if the differences are too much?"

Sarah squeezed her hand. "Those are questions every couple faces, sweetheart. The specific challenges may be unique to your situation, but the core is the same—can two people, with all their differences and scars and hopes, build something that lasts?"

"And the answer?" Jill pressed.

Her mother laughed softly. "Oh, honey. There is no answer. There's just the daily choice to try."

As the men drew closer, Jill could see the exhaustion etched into Alasdair's features. He'd barely slept, refusing to leave her side for most of the night as Cillian tended her wounds. He'd whispered Gaelic prayers and promises into her hair as she'd drifted in and out of sleep, his large hands impossibly gentle as they stroked her forehead, her cheek, the curve of her shoulder. The memory sent a warmth through her that had nothing to do with pain or fever.

"I'm terrified," Jill admitted. "Not of him—never of him. But of how much I feel."

"Love is always terrifying," Sarah replied. "That's how you know it's real."

The men reached the edge of the garden, and Alasdair broke away from the others, his strides lengthening as he caught sight of Jill on the porch. The morning light caught in his dark hair, highlighting strands of copper her academic mind distantly noted as evidence of his Celtic heritage.

"I should go," Sarah murmured, rising from the swing. "Give you two some privacy."

"Mom," Jill caught her hand before she could leave. "Thank you. For understanding. For not thinking I'm crazy."

Sarah smiled, bending to press a kiss to her daughter's forehead. "Crazy would be denying what's right in front of you out of fear. That's no way to live." She straightened, her eyes twinkling. "Besides, now I can say my daughter literally has a man who crossed time itself to be with her. That's quite the romance novel premise."

Jill laughed despite herself, then sobered as Alasdair reached the porch steps. His eyes never left her face as he ascended, his movements controlled but betraying his eagerness to reach her.

"I'll leave you two alone," Sarah said, patting Alasdair's shoulder as she passed him. "Don't let her overdo it. She's stubborn, just like her father."

A small smile tugged at Alasdair's lips. "Aye, I've noticed that trait."

As her mother disappeared into the house, Jill felt a sudden shyness descend. Last night's declarations had come in a moment of crisis, adrenaline and fear breaking down the walls of caution. Now, in the clear light of day, the weight of what lay between them made her fingers twist nervously in her lap.

"How do ye feel?" Alasdair asked, his accent thicker than usual, betraying his own nervousness.

"Like I got slashed by an ancient Scottish monster," Jill replied, attempting humor to calm her racing heart. "But better than last night."

He settled beside her on the swing, careful not to jostle her. His warmth along her side felt like sanctuary, the clean scent of sun and soap mingling with something uniquely him.

"Cillian says ye're healing well. The wound was clean, for all its depth."

"Lucky me," she murmured. Then, because she couldn't bear to talk around what mattered, she plunged ahead. "About what I said last night. What we both said."

Alasdair tensed beside her. "Do ye regret it?"

"No," Jill answered immediately, surprised by the force of her certainty. "Not even a little. Do you?"

His large hand covered hers, his calloused palm warm against her skin. The contrast between his rough hands and gentle touch made her breath catch.

"I've lived through battles that would make grown men weep, seen atrocities and wonders alike. I've traveled through time itself." His eyes, green as the highlands he'd left behind, met hers with unwavering intensity. "But I have never been as certain of anything as I am of loving you, Jill Greenwood."

The words washed over her like sunlight, warming her from the inside out. "Even though I'm stubborn and reckless enough to get myself hurt fighting monsters?" she asked, only half-joking.

"Especially because of that," he replied, his voice dropping lower. "Ye fight for what ye believe in. For those ye care about. I admire that fierce heart of yours, even as it terrifies me."

"It terrifies me too," she admitted. "How quickly this happened. All the obstacles we still have to face." She gestured at the farm, the modern world around them. "You're still learning how everything works. We don't have any legal identity for you or your brothers. We can't exactly list 'ninth-century warrior' on a resume."

Alasdair nodded, acknowledgment rather than dismissal of her concerns. "Aye, the path ahead is no' easy. But I've walked harder roads with less reason to hope." His fingers tightened around hers. "If ye'll have me—if ye'll have us—we'll find a way through those problems together."

Jill studied him—this warrior out of legend, this man who had crossed centuries only to find himself sitting on her porch swing discussing practical matters like identity papers and cultural integration. It was absurd. And yet, somehow, exactly right.

"The Brollachan," she said, changing topics. "Dad thinks it's really gone?"

"Aye. The silver weapons worked as he said they would. The combination with lavender was the final blow." His expression turned more serious. "But Tavish believes there may be more dangers from our time. Things that could follow the same path we took."

"So this isn't over," Jill concluded, a quiet dread pooling in her stomach.

"The battle with the Brollachan is won," Alasdair said carefully. "But the larger war...that may continue. If ye wish to reconsider?—"

"Don't," Jill interrupted, reaching up to cup his face. The rasp of his beard against her palm sent a pleasant shiver through her. "Don't offer me an escape route. I'm in this, Alasdair. All the way."

His eyes darkened, and for a moment, Jill thought he might kiss her. Instead, he touched his brow to hers in a gesture more intimate than a kiss.

"Then we face whatever comes, together," he murmured, his breath warm against her lips. "You, me, our families. Whatever creatures or challenges emerge from the past."

"Together," Jill agreed. The word felt like a vow, simple yet profound.

She leaned into him, careful of her wound, and felt his arm come around her shoulders. The solid strength of him, the steady beat of his heart against her ear, anchored her in the present moment.

Her brothers' laughter drifted from the barn, mingling with the deeper voices of Fergus and Tavish.

Two worlds, colliding and merging, creating something entirely new. A family forged across time itself.

"I should let ye rest," Alasdair said after a while, though he made no move to release her.

"Stay," Jill murmured, nestling closer. "Just a little longer."

As the swing rocked gently in the morning breeze, Jill surrendered to the improbable reality of their situation. She'd spent her life studying history, digging through dusty archives and ancient texts for glimpses of a world long past. Now, that world had arrived—wrapped in the arms of a warrior who looked at her as if she’d hung the moon and stars.

It made no sense. But then, love rarely did.

"I love you," she whispered, because saying it once wasn't enough.

His arms tightened around her, careful of her injury. "And I you, mo gràdh. Now and forever."

The promise hung in the air between them, as tangible as the scent of lavender and as enduring as the ancient hills of Scotland. Whatever battles still lay ahead, they would face them as they sat now—side by side, hearts aligned, bridging the distance between past and present with nothing more complicated than love.