Page 4 of Crazy About Jill (Highland Berserkers #1)

CHAPTER 4

A lasdair's legs trembled as he pushed through the dense undergrowth, his sodden clothes clinging to his skin like a second hide. The taste of salt lingered on his lips, a reminder of their desperate swim to shore. Behind him, his brothers' ragged breathing matched his own, a chorus of exhaustion and disbelief.

The wolf-paw brand on his forearm throbbed painfully, as if awakened by the strange energy of this place. He flexed his fingers, willing strength back into limbs that had been submerged in cold seawater for too long.

They'd emerged from the sea less than an hour ago, only to find themselves in a world gone mad. Huge growling birds in the sky. Strange vessels without sail or oar on the water. And now, something darker—a sense of malevolence that felt disturbingly familiar in this bewildering place.

"It went this way," Macrath growled, gesturing toward a thicket of ferns. "The Brollachan leaves a trail of dead things."

Indeed, the vegetation had blackened where the creature passed, leaves curling inward as if in agony. A miasma of putrefaction hung in the air, the unmistakable taint of the ancient entity.

"We should keep moving," Fergus urged, his eyes wide with fear. "Find shelter, figure out where we are."

"Aye," Lachlan agreed. "We're in no condition to fight that...thing."

Alasdair shook his head. "It followed us through the vortex. We cannot outrun it forever."

"But we've nothing to fight with but our blades," Cillian whispered, his young voice strained. "And I dinnae think steel will harm it."

"It never has before," Tavish added grimly.

A sound cut through the night—a high-pitched wail, rhythmic and piercing. The berserkers dropped into fighting stances, weapons raised.

"What manner of beast makes such a cry?" Tavish whispered.

"I know not," Alasdair replied, his knuckles white around the hilt of his dagger. "Nothing I've ever heard before."

Then came a different sound—the distant but unmistakable thud of hoofbeats approaching through the forest.

"Someone comes," Fergus murmured, pointing in a different direction than the strange wailing had come from.

"Look there," Cillian said, indicating a faint light moving among the trees.

A beam of light swept through the darkness, bouncing off tree trunks and illuminating patches of ground.

"Be ready, but hold your blades," Alasdair ordered quietly. "We know not friend from foe in this strange place."

The light drew closer, and Alasdair caught a glimpse of its wielder—a slender figure mounted on horseback. A woman, by the looks of it, though her garments were unlike any he'd seen. Tight blue trews hugged her legs, and she wore some kind of close-fitting jacket over a thin tunic.

Strange attire for a woman , he thought. The clothing revealed the shape of her form in a way that would be considered improper in his time. No Highland woman would venture forth in such fitted garments—they'd be deemed indecent by his people's standards.

But it was her face that caught and held his attention. In the harsh beam of her light, he could make out high cheekbones and a determined jawline framed by long, dark hair tied back in a single braid.

Something stirred in his chest—recognition perhaps, though he knew they'd never met. The feeling was unsettling, as if his soul remembered what his mind could not.

She called out something in a language he couldn't understand, her voice clear and commanding despite the obvious question in her tone.

"What tongue is that?" Tavish wondered aloud. "Not the speech of any clan I know."

"It has a rhythm to it...almost like our own, but twisted," Fergus observed, his scholar's ear catching nuances the others missed. "Like our words turned inside out."

"Scatter," Alasdair ordered in a low voice. "Circle behind. If she means harm, or has others with her, we'll have the advantage."

His brothers slipped into the darkness with practiced stealth, leaving Alasdair to face the stranger alone. He stepped forward cautiously, his hand resting on the hilt of his dagger.

The forest floor was soft beneath his boots, pine needles cushioning his steps. The night air carried unfamiliar scents—an overwhelming sweetness, chemical and false, that burned his nostrils alongside the clean tang of saltwater.

The woman's eyes widened, and she raised a strange, short staff to her shoulder. The stance was practiced—like an archer with a bow, yet utterly foreign.

Something in her stance—the confidence, the readiness—told Alasdair this was no helpless maiden. This was a warrior in her own right.

"Stop!" she shouted, the word strange but its meaning clear from her tone and posture.

When Alasdair didn't immediately halt, a deafening crack split the air. Splinters flew as a nearby tree exploded, a large branch falling to the ground in a spray of bark and needles. An acrid scent filled his nostrils, making him flinch and stumble backward, heart slamming into his ribs.

“Devil’s teeth!" Macrath swore from the shadows. "What manner of weapon is that?"

It was a warning. She could have struck him, but chose not to. This woman had power that could have ended his life in an instant—yet she had shown mercy.

Goddess? Demon? Alasdair's mind reeled. "We mean ye no harm, lass," he said, slowly raising his empty hands, palm outward. A universal gesture of peace. "We're lost, far from home."

His voice sounded raw even to his own ears, hoarse from swallowing seawater and from the shock of their impossible journey.

Her brow furrowed, and she tilted her head slightly. "Who are you? Where did you come from?"

The words were in his own tongue—though her accent was strange, the cadence not quite right. Alasdair's eyes widened in relief. "You speak the old tongue," he noted. "Are we still in Alba—Scotland?"

His brothers emerged partially from the shadows, listening intently.

The woman's eyes darted between them, wary but curious. "No, you're far from Scotland. My father taught me the language. He's...interested in Scottish history. Now answer my question. Who are you?"

Alasdair straightened, drawing on years of formal introductions at clan gatherings. "I am Alasdair of Clan MacTyre. These are my brothers—Fergus, Cillian, Lachlan, Macrath, and Tavish. We are warriors from the Highlands of Scotland. And we...we do not know where we are."

“Well, you’re far from Scotland. You're in Washington state," she replied. "The United States of America."

The names meant nothing to Alasdair. He exchanged confused glances with his brothers.

"I've never heard of such a place," he admitted.

"I'm not surprised," the woman said, her voice softening slightly. She seemed to hesitate before asking, "What year do you think it is?"

The question was so strange that Alasdair almost laughed. "The year of our Lord 839, of course."

She inhaled sharply, her grip tightening on her weapon. "It's...that's not plausible. That was over a thousand years ago."

Silence fell like a physical weight. A thousand years? The enormity of it threatened to crush Alasdair's very soul.

The blood drained from his face, his limbs suddenly leaden. The forest seemed to spin around him, trees blurring into a green haze as his breath came in short, painful gasps. His heart hammered against his ribs like a war drum, each beat sending shock waves through his body. A thousand years from home. Everyone we knew—gone to dust centuries ago.

“A thousand years?” Macrath growled. “The druid cursed us, aye—but this?”

“It’s not a curse,” Fergus said, voice trembling. “It’s...time.”

"Who are you?" Alasdair asked, needing to focus on something, anything, to keep from drowning in the implications of their situation.

"I'm Jill Greenwood," she replied, lowering her weapon slightly.

He bowed his head. "Lady Greenwood."

She wrinkled her nose. "Okay, no. Just Jill, please."

"Very well…Jill."

"My father seems to be expecting you, though I have no idea how he could be.”

"Your father knows of us?" Hope kindled in Alasdair's chest.

"Apparently. He told me to bring you to our ranch. Said it wasn't safe in the open."

"He's right about that," Alasdair replied grimly. "A creature from our homeland—a Brollachan—has followed us. A shapeless evil that consumes all it touches."

Now it was Jill's turn to look shocked. "A Brollachan? Like in the old stories?" Her eyes widened. "My father used to tell me tales about them when I was a child. I always thought they were just legends."

She shook her head in disbelief. "First men in medieval clothing appear on our property, then you speak ancient Gaelic, now you're talking about mythical creatures...This doesn’t make sense."

"Many legends have teeth, lass," Tavish said softly.

A rustle in the underbrush made them all tense. The Brollachan was still out there, hunting.

"We should go," Jill said, urgency in her voice. "My father will have answers. And we'll be safer at the ranch."

Alasdair hesitated, his pride warring with practicality. They were strangers in a strange land, with a monster at their heels. This woman—this Jill—offered shelter and possibly answers.

His brothers looked to him, waiting for his decision. Even Macrath, always the most defiant, seemed to recognize the gravity of their situation.

"We accept your hospitality," he said finally, the formal words feeling right despite the bizarre circumstances. "And offer our protection in return."

Jill's lips curved in what might have been a smile. "I'm pretty sure the woman with the rifle is the one offering protection at the moment, but I appreciate the sentiment."

There was a warmth in her eyes that belied the teasing tone, a kindness that eased some of the tension in Alasdair's shoulders.

Her horse nickered nervously, sensing something in the darkness beyond. Alasdair stepped forward instinctively, placing a calming hand on the beast's neck. He murmured soothing words, and to Jill's visible surprise, the animal immediately settled.

"You have a way with horses," she observed.

"Lachlan is the true horseman among us," Alasdair replied, nodding toward his quietest brother. "But all Highland warriors know the value of a steady mount."

Lachlan approached slowly, his eyes fixed on the chestnut mare. "She's beautiful," he said softly, running his hand along her flank. "Strong-spirited but gentle-hearted."

"Her name is Chestnut," Jill offered, watching the interaction with evident fascination.

As they prepared to leave, Alasdair caught Jill studying him with an intensity that made his skin warm despite his sodden clothing. Not just curiosity in her gaze, but a flicker of something deeper—as if she'd discovered something long sought but unexpected.

"What is it?" he asked, suddenly self-conscious.

Jill shook her head slightly. "Nothing. It's just—you're exactly like the warriors in my father's stories. Right down to the wolf pelts."

"Your father knows of Clan MacTyre?" Alasdair couldn't keep the surprise from his voice.

"I'm beginning to think he knows a lot more than he's ever told me," Jill replied, her tone suggesting a reckoning to come.

A crack of branches behind them ended further conversation. The Brollachan was drawing closer.

"We must go," Alasdair urged. "The beast grows bolder."

Jill nodded, her expression hardening with resolve. "Stay close."

The soft glow of moonlight filtered through the treetops, casting dappled shadows across her face. For just a moment, with her head held high and determination in her eyes, she reminded Alasdair of the warrior queens of old.

As they moved through the darkened forest, Alasdair couldn't shake the feeling that their meeting was more than mere chance. This woman who spoke their tongue, whose father somehow expected them—it seemed fated, somehow.

But to what purpose? He watched Jill's confident movements as she led them through the trees. And at what cost?

Only time—something they’d already shattered—would reveal what fate had in store.