Page 41 of Crazy About Jill (Highland Berserkers #1)
CHAPTER 41
A lasdair stood on the hillside, watching the final preparations unfold below. Workers arranged chairs beneath ancient oak trees and strung lanterns from sprawling branches. The scent of fresh-cut lavender drifted on the balmy breeze, mingling with pine and sea salt—a fragrant reminder of how deeply this place had become home.
As his gaze swept the meadow, he caught the details—workers weaving lavender sprays among chairs, gauzy ribbons drifting in the breeze, tables dressed with pale cloths shimmering in the afternoon light.
And everywhere, unmistakable against the softer hues, bold swaths of pink tartan ran through the decorations.
Alasdair stared for a moment, then shook his head with a slow smile. Jill hadn't forgotten their playful promise, stitching it into the heart of the day like a secret only they would understand.
"Nervous, brother?" Fergus asked, appearing at his side. His sandy-blond hair had grown longer since their arrival, and his once-wary blue eyes now carried the quiet confidence of a man who had found his place.
"Aye," Alasdair admitted, his stomach tightening with a flutter unlike any battle nerves he'd ever felt. "Though not about the choice. Never about that."
"She is a rare woman," Fergus said, his level-headed practicality evident even now. "Ye've been blessed beyond what any of us could have imagined when we first arrived."
Alasdair's hand unconsciously moved to his right forearm where the wolf paw brand—the mark of MacTyre that had once made him unworthy—now rested beneath his sleeve. "From sons of the wolf to men with futures," he murmured. "Who would have believed it?"
Below them, Alasdair spotted Jill emerging from the farmhouse, clipboard in hand. Even from this distance, his heart quickened at the sight of her—the determined set of her shoulders, the graceful efficiency of her movements. Her long brown hair was pulled back in a simple braid that caught the light, and he could almost see the fierceness in those amber eyes that had first challenged him in the forest.
"I should go," he said reluctantly. "Conall says it's bad luck to see the bride before the ceremony."
"Some customs are worth honoring," Fergus replied. "Even the strange ones. And if anyone knows about traditions across time, it would be your future father-in-law."
The bunkhouse was a flurry of activity when he entered. Macrath struggled with a modern tie, his blacksmith's hands too large for the delicate work. Cillian carefully pressed Alasdair's dark suit jacket, his healer's hands steady. Tavish sat cross-legged on his bed, softly strumming a borrowed guitar, while Lachlan was already dressed in his wedding finery.
"Our leader returns," Tavish announced. "How fares the battlefield, brother?"
"It's hardly a battle," Alasdair replied, though his stomach lurched at the thought of standing before so many people, speaking words of commitment in a ceremony still unfamiliar to him.
"It's always a battle when it matters," Macrath said, finally conquering the tie with a triumphant tug. "Just a different kind of weapon."
Cillian approached with Alasdair's freshly pressed suit jacket. "We've come a long way, haven't we?" he asked quietly. "Who would have thought betrayal would lead us here, to this day?"
"Perhaps fate has a sense of humor after all," Alasdair mused.
A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. William poked his head inside, his expression both solemn and amused. "It's time," he announced. "Minister's ready."
"How's your mother?" Alasdair asked, concern momentarily overshadowing his nervousness.
William's face brightened. "You wouldn't believe the difference in her. She was up at dawn arranging flowers, directing the caterers. Dad couldn't get her to sit down for even five minutes." His voice softened. "That healing tea of Cillian's and whatever Dad does with those ancient chants—it's like watching a miracle unfold day by day. She's nearly back to her old self."
A warm relief flooded through Alasdair. Sarah Greenwood—who had once seemed as fragile as spun glass—was blossoming again. The color had returned to her cheeks, and her laughter filled the farmhouse like sunlight.
Alasdair nodded, meeting his brothers' eyes one by one. Without words, they formed a circle, arms clasped in the warrior's grip that had seen them through countless battles across two different centuries.
The walk to the meadow passed in a blur of sensation, golden light filtering through ancient trees, the murmur of gathered guests falling silent as they approached. Alasdair took his place beneath the oak tree next to the minister, its sprawling branches creating a natural cathedral over the clearing.
The gentle strains of string music filled the air—a quartet playing melodies that somehow bridged ancient and modern, familiar yet haunting. Tavish had worked with local musicians to adapt traditional tunes that would resonate with both worlds.
The assembled guests rose, turning to watch the procession. And then?—
Jill appeared at the end of the aisle, her arm linked with her father's. The sight of her stopped Alasdair's breath. Her dress was simple, elegant, falling in soft folds that caught the early evening light. In her hair, woven among loose curls, were sprigs of fresh lavender and tiny white flowers. Around her neck gleamed the silver lavender sprig he had forged for her weeks ago.
But it was her eyes that truly undid him—those fierce amber eyes, bright with unshed tears and a joy that matched the feeling expanding in his chest. As their gazes locked across the distance, the centuries that should have separated them vanished.
When she reached him at last, Conall placed her hand in Alasdair's with a solemn nod that carried centuries of shared understanding between two men from another time. Her hand slipped into his with the surety of coming home.
"Ye take my breath away," he whispered, his voice rough with emotion.
Her smile, radiant and intimate despite the crowd, was his answer. “Twelve centuries was worth the wait," she whispered back.
The ceremony proceeded—a blend of Christian tradition, ancient Celtic ritual, and personal touches. When the time came for their personal vows, Alasdair spoke first, his voice deep with emotion as he focused solely on Jill's eyes:
"Jill Greenwood, I have crossed oceans of time to find you. When I was cast adrift from everything I knew, it was your shore I washed upon, your light that guided me home. You saw me not as relic, but as a man—flawed, seeking, capable of growth and love."
"I vow to honor both our pasts while building our future. I vow to learn your world as thoroughly as you've learned mine. I vow to stand beside you in battle, in peace, in joy, and in sorrow, as long as breath fills my lungs and beyond. For I believe that what we have found is stronger than time itself—a love that would have found its way across any distance, any century."
As he placed her ring on her finger, a hush fell over the gathering. Then Jill spoke, her voice clear and steady:
"Alasdair, when I was a girl, I dreamed of ancient warriors and heroic deeds. When I grew older, I studied them, dissected them, tried to separate myth from reality. But you—you walked out of legend and into my heart, proving that sometimes, the most extraordinary truths lie beyond what we can document or classify."
Soft laughter rippled through the guests who thought this merely poetic language rather than literal truth.
"I promise to stand beside you as you navigate this world that must still seem strange. I promise to be your guide when you need one, your student when you have wisdom to share, and your partner in all things. I promise to remember that love, like time itself, isn't linear but a circle, constantly returning to what matters most."
She slipped a simple gold band onto his finger, and something shifted within him—the last ghost of his old life settling peacefully into place beside the new. Warrior and husband, exile and home-finder—finally, whole.
"By the power vested in me," the minister said, "I now pronounce you husband and wife."
The kiss was brief, but filled with promise—a future forged together.
Later, under the stars, lanterns glowing, they stood watching the celebration unfold. Sarah danced with Conall, her movements fluid and graceful, nothing like the tentative, fragile steps of months past. Her cheeks were flushed with health, her laughter carrying across the meadow, prompting smiles from everyone who heard it.
"Your mother looks radiant," Alasdair observed. "I've never seen her so strong."
"It's remarkable," Jill agreed, her eyes shining with happiness. "Dad says the combination of druid healing and Cillian's ancient remedies is better than anything modern medicine could offer. The doctors can't explain it, but then, they don't know about ninth-century healing plants grown from seeds carried through time."
"What happens now?" she asked, her eyes reflecting the starlight.
Alasdair considered. "Now, we live, Jill MacTyre-Greenwood. We build our home. Share our knowledge. Help my brothers find their paths." He hesitated. "And maybe, when ye're ready...talk of children."
Her eyes widened, joy blooming. "Little ones with your warrior spirit and my academic curiosity? The world might not be ready."
"The world is rarely ready for greatness."
She leaned against him. "I like that future. Though Tavish thinks the portal may not be done with us yet."
"Then we face that too," he said. "Side by side."
She kissed him. "Side by side."
Alasdair's gaze drifted across the celebration. His brothers, mingling and laughing. Sarah and Conall, dancing in the lantern light. Joe and William arguing good-naturedly over the music. Jill's hand found his, her fingers twining through his with a familiarity that still felt like a miracle.
Not vengeance. Not bitterness. But something far greater—love, belonging, purpose.
Everything he had once believed lost, he had found in her arms, in her heart, in the life they would build together. And this was only the beginning.