Page 39 of Crazy About Jill (Highland Berserkers #1)

CHAPTER 39

A lasdair wiped the sweat from his brow as he hammered the white-hot metal, each strike precise and purposeful. The rhythm pulsed through his arms, grounding him in a way little else had since arriving in this strange century. The forge behind the barn glowed with heat, casting his shadow in dancing patterns against the weathered wood walls. Outside, rain pattered steadily, the soft sound a counterpoint to the ringing of metal on metal. The scent of hot steel and coal brought memories of village smithies back home, a rare thread of familiarity.

"You've skill with the hammer," Macrath observed from where he worked his own piece. His fellow berserker's arm was still bandaged from the Brollachan battle three days past, but he had insisted on returning to the forge as soon as he could stand. Metal spoke to Macrath the way horses spoke to Lachlan—a language older than words.

"Not like ye," Alasdair replied, studying the blade taking shape beneath his hands. Not a weapon this time, but something else entirely. Something for Jill. "In our time, every warrior knew the basics. But ye've true craftsmanship."

Pride flickered across Macrath's usually dour features. "Aye, well. The forge doesna judge. Metal cares naught for brands or birthrights. It yields to patience and skill alone."

The words resonated deeply. In the weeks since their arrival in this time, each of his brothers had found something that spoke to them—Fergus with his books and modern farming techniques, Lachlan with the horses, Tavish with his music now played on instruments of impossibly fine craftsmanship, Cillian with his expanding knowledge of both ancient and modern healing. And Macrath, who had always kept to himself in their time, had found his voice in the language of metal and fire.

"What are ye making?" Macrath asked, nodding toward Alasdair's work.

A flush rose up Alasdair's neck, unrelated to the forge. His fingers faltered momentarily on the hammer. "A gift. For Jill."

Macrath's gruff laugh held genuine amusement. "Of course. Our leader, lovesick as a green lad." But there was no mockery in his tone, only a rough affection. "She'll like it. The lass appreciates craftsmanship."

They worked in companionable silence for a while, the hiss of hot metal in water and the steady fall of rain filling the space between them. Alasdair's mind drifted to Jill, as it so often did these days. She was healing well, her strength returning with each passing day. The memory of her pale face after the Brollachan's attack still haunted him—the way her blood had felt warm and slick against his hands, the terror that had gripped him when he thought he might lose her before they'd truly begun. But that memory was gradually being replaced by newer ones—her smile as she watched him learn to use the computer, her laughter as they shared meals with both families, the way her eyes grew soft in quiet moments when she thought he wasn't watching.

"Do ye ever think about them?" Macrath's question broke the silence. "The brides we were promised, back in our time?"

The unexpected question caught Alasdair off guard, striking him like a physical blow. None of them spoke often of the marriages that had been promised by McKinnie—promises broken by betrayal and exile. "Not their faces," he said quietly. "Just the promise of them. A home. Belonging."

"Aye." Macrath set down his hammer, his expression distant. "I used to imagine mine would have hair like fire and a temper to match." A sardonic smile twisted his lips. "Probably best for her, whoever she might have been, that the match never came to pass."

Alasdair considered his response carefully, testing the weight of the cooling metal in his hand. "I think of what we lost sometimes," he admitted. "Not with longing, but with a kind of...gratitude."

"Gratitude?" Macrath's eyebrows rose. "For a promise broken?"

"For the path that led me here." Alasdair turned the cooling metal, examining the curves taking shape beneath his hammer. "Had McKinnie kept his word, had we received our promised brides, we'd never have come to this time. I'd never have met Jill."

The realization settled in his chest like a physical weight lifting. The betrayal that had once burned like acid in his veins had become, against all odds, a blessing. Had they remained in their time, married to women chosen for alliance rather than affection, would they ever have known true happiness? Or would they have continued as they were—berserkers feared and used by those in power, never fully accepted, never truly home?

"Ye believe we were meant to come here," Macrath said, not a question but a statement.

"Aye," Alasdair replied, certainty flowing through him like forge-fire. "Not by the druid's design, but by some greater purpose."

Macrath grunted, returning to his work. "Perhaps. Though I've yet to find my place as clearly as you have."

"Ye will," Alasdair assured him, watching how Macrath's hands moved with practiced precision over the metal. "Conall wasn't jesting, ye know. He meant it when he said the forge is ours. The land's ours to work. Real futures, if we have the grit for it."

"Aye," Macrath agreed, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Strange, is it not? We were cast aside like beasts in our time. Betrayed. Forgotten." He tapped the anvil lightly, a soft, hollow sound. "Now we're offered a second life. A chance to shape the world with our own hands."

"We'll need more than hooks and horseshoes," Macrath continued, thoughtfully. "Conall's talking about setting up an apothecary for Cillian. Tavish is already dreaming up mead recipes. Fergus wants to start raising Highland cattle again if we can manage the grazing."

"MacTyre Mead," Alasdair mused, feeling the name on his tongue. "Tavish was up half the night talking about honey and lavender. Says Conall knows someone who can help with the licenses." He reached for a cooling piece of metal shaped into a small, fierce wolf's head—a test piece for a brand. "He wants to use our mark. Turn what was meant for shame into something of value."

Alasdair huffed a quiet laugh. Ambitious, all of it. Impossible, once. Now... maybe not.

The forge door creaked open, allowing a gust of damp air rich with the scent of wet earth to momentarily cool the sweltering space. William stepped inside, shaking water from his hair like a dog after a swim.

"Dad says dinner's in an hour," he announced, eyeing their work with obvious interest. "What are you making? More weapon replacements?"

"Not this time," Alasdair replied, tilting his project away from curious eyes. "How fares your sister today?"

William's expression softened. The twins' initial wariness toward Alasdair had transformed over recent days, especially after he'd risked himself to save Jill during the battle. "Better. Mom finally convinced her to rest instead of trying to document everything about your battle techniques for her 'historical record.'"

Alasdair smiled, imagining Jill's frustration at being confined to bed. Her scholar's mind never rested—constantly questioning, analyzing, recording. Even wounded, she'd insisted on interviewing each warrior about what they'd observed of the Brollachan's weaknesses and strengths. "That sounds like her."

"She's stubborn," William agreed with brotherly affection. Then, more seriously, "The sheriff stopped by earlier. About the 'animal attack' at the Edwards farm."

Alasdair tensed, exchanging a quick glance with Macrath. His grip tightened on the hammer until his knuckles whitened. They'd crafted a careful story about the Brollachan's attacks, attributing the damage to an unusual predator. "What did he want?"

"Just following up. Dad handled it." William hesitated. "But we can't keep explaining away strange occurrences forever. People are starting to talk."

The reminder of their precarious position settled heavily on Alasdair's shoulders, making the hammer suddenly feel twice its weight. For all that they'd begun to find their place here, they remained men without pasts in a world that demanded documentation, history, proof of existence. Conall had spoken of forged papers, identities that could be created, but the process was complex and not without risk.

"We'll find a way," Alasdair said, striving for confidence. "Your father has navigated these waters before."

William nodded, then gestured toward the metal piece taking shape on Alasdair's anvil. "That for Jill?"

Alasdair felt heat rise to his face again, no less intense than the forge beside him. "Is it so obvious?"

"Only to anyone with eyes," William replied with a grin. "She'll love it, you know. No matter what it is."

After William left, promising to ring the dinner bell when food was ready, Alasdair returned to his work with renewed purpose. The metal had begun to cool—he'd need to reheat it soon. As he placed it back in the glowing coals, watching the silver begin to glow red once more, he found himself reflecting on how far they'd come in such a short time.

"Do ye ever miss it?" he asked Macrath suddenly. "Our time, our ways?"

Macrath considered the question as he quenched his own project, steam rising around his scarred hands, the sharp hiss filling the air. "I miss the simplicity," he said finally. "Knowing exactly what was expected. Enemy before you, sword in hand—the choices were clear." He gestured toward the barn door, toward the modern world beyond. "Here, everything has layers. Nothing is as it seems."

Alasdair nodded, understanding exactly what his brother meant. The complexity of this world sometimes overwhelmed him—the invisible connections through phones and computers, the intricate social rules, the sheer volume of knowledge needed to navigate daily life.

"But," Macrath continued, surprising Alasdair with the thoughtful tone, "I dinnae miss being feared. Being seen as less than human because of what we could do in battle." His fingers unconsciously traced the wolf-paw brand on his forearm. "Here, we're strange because we're different, aye. But not because we're monsters."

The admission struck Alasdair deeply. For all their struggles to adapt, this time had offered them something their own never could—the chance to be judged for who they were, not for the berserker brand they carried.

"Aye," Alasdair agreed softly. "There's freedom in that."

"I suppose we'll need homes too," Macrath added, almost shyly. "Proper ones. For when wives find their way to us."

Alasdair's heart clenched in his chest, a fierce and aching joy blooming there. He thought of Jill's smile. Her laugh. Her hand slipping into his.

"Aye," he said simply. "Homes. Futures."

They worked in companionable silence for a while longer, the steady rhythm of hammer on metal speaking its own language. When Alasdair finally withdrew his project from the forge for the last time, it had taken clear shape—a delicate replica of a lavender sprig, twisted from silver wire with painstaking detail. The hot metal glowed briefly before cooling to a soft shine in the dim light.

"For her hair," he explained when he caught Macrath watching. "A small thing, but..."

"But made with intention," Macrath finished for him, understanding in his usually stern eyes. "The best gifts always are."

The dinner bell rang across the yard, its cheerful tone cutting through the steady patter of rain. Alasdair carefully set his creation aside to cool, already anticipating Jill's reaction. Would she understand the significance? In his time, such a gift would have been a clear declaration of intent, a token that spoke of future promises.

As they stepped out into the rain, pulling their modern jackets tight against the chill, Alasdair felt the weight of the piece in his pocket. The Brollachan was defeated, but Tavish's visions suggested other dangers might follow. The practical challenges of establishing their place in this world remained daunting.

Yet for all these obstacles, Alasdair felt a certainty he'd rarely known in his former life. This place, these people—they had become home in a way his own time never truly had. Whatever battles lay ahead, they would face them together, not just as warriors, but as brothers with purpose.

The farmhouse shone warm and inviting in the rainy twilight, light spilling from windows in golden rectangles across the wet yard. Through one window, Alasdair caught a glimpse of Jill, seated at the kitchen table with her mother, her face animated as she spoke. Even from a distance, the sight of her sent a surge of warmth through his chest, a feeling he was only now learning to name.

"You're staring again," Macrath observed dryly.

"Aye," Alasdair agreed without embarrassment. "And likely will be for many years to come, if the gods are kind."

Macrath clapped him on the shoulder—a gesture that said more than words ever could. As they hurried through the rain toward the waiting warmth, toward the family that had somehow become theirs across time itself, Alasdair felt the weight of the silver token in his pocket—a promise, a beginning, a bridge between worlds.

Tonight, he would give it to her. Tonight, they would take another step forward on this improbable journey together. And tomorrow, whatever it might bring, they would face with the strength of both their worlds combined.