Page 5 of Crazy About Jill (Highland Berserkers #1)

CHAPTER 5

J ill's mind raced faster than her heartbeat as she guided her horse through the dense forest, acutely aware of the six warriors spread out around her. The soft crunch of pine needles beneath their boots was eerily quiet for men of their size. She glanced back, unable to stop herself from studying them with hungry observation.

This can't be happening. Six ninth-century Scottish warriors? Here? Now? My history professors would be laughing their heads off if I tried to claim such a thing.

They moved nothing like modern men. Where hikers would stumble over roots or catch their clothes on branches, these warriors navigated the forest with predatory precision. They maintained a loose formation—Alasdair at point, the others fanned out in what she recognized as a classic medieval defensive pattern straight out of the military histories she'd studied. Almost exactly like the Pictish war bands described in the Annals of Ulster, her academic brain noted, cataloging yet another impossible verification of authenticity.

The scent of their damp woolen clothes and leather mingled with the forest's earthy fragrance. So different from the synthetic fabrics and cologne of modern men. There was something raw and elemental about them that made the hair on her arms stand up.

"Keep heading northwest," she called, gesturing toward a gap in the trees. "The ranch is about two miles that way."

The ancient words felt both familiar and strange on her tongue. Dad had taught her when she was little, drilling verbs and conjugations during long summer evenings. He knew this would happen someday, didn't he? A lump formed in her throat. All those stories, all those lessons...they weren't just stories.

Alasdair nodded, his attention constantly scanning their surroundings. He moved with the hypervigilance of someone accustomed to ambush, someone for whom danger was a constant companion rather than an occasional visitor.

"Yer land is vast," he remarked, falling into step beside her horse. "Ye must have many men to defend such holdings."

Chestnut snorted gently as the large man approached, but didn't shy away. Even my horse trusts him , Jill realized. Animals always know.

Jill nearly laughed. "We don't really need to...defend it. Not like you're thinking." She hesitated, uncertain how to explain modern property laws to a man from a time when land was taken and held by force.

How do I even begin to explain deeds and property taxes and the sheriff's department?

His eyebrows rose slightly, disbelief evident in the slight tension around his mouth. "All land must be defended, lass. If no' by sword, then by coin or law."

Lass . The familiar address sent an unexpected shiver down her spine.

"Well, I guess that part hasn't changed much," she conceded. The mechanisms differ, but the principles of territorial rights remain surprisingly constant across the centuries.

They approached a swollen stream that cut across their path. The recent rains had turned what was normally a gentle trickle into a churning obstacle. Jill frowned, calculating. Her horse could manage, but on foot...

She opened her mouth to suggest a route upstream—but the warriors were already moving, communicating with subtle hand gestures and glances that spoke of years fighting together. Macrath—the broad-shouldered one with the perpetual scowl—waded in first, testing the current with a sturdy branch. Lachlan quickly joined him, the two men positioning themselves as human anchors in the rushing water.

"We'll form a chain," Alasdair explained, seeing her bewildered expression. "Yer horse can manage, but we'll ensure none of my men are lost."

Something in his voice—the calm authority, the absolute certainty that his solution would work—made her stomach flutter unexpectedly. No committee meetings, no debating options, no second-guessing—just immediate, decisive action.

Get it together, Jill. He's from literal centuries ago. This is NOT the time for...whatever this feeling is.

She maneuvered her horse across first, then watched in fascination as the men linked arms, creating a human chain through the deepest part of the stream. They moved with practiced efficiency, supporting each other against the current. Not one complaint, not one moment of hesitation—just seamless teamwork that spoke of absolute trust.

Cold droplets sprayed her face as Chestnut climbed the opposite bank, the water reflecting the last golden rays of sunlight filtering through the trees. For a moment, the scene looked like something out of one of her father's stories—warriors forging through water, determination etched on their faces.

"You've done this before," she observed as they regrouped on the far bank, water streaming from their clothes.

"Aye, many a time," Alasdair confirmed. "The rivers in the Highlands care no' for a warrior's need to cross them."

His accent gave the words weight and rhythm, turning even simple truth into something that lingered.

Jill found herself wondering what those Highland rivers looked like, what this man's homeland had been like twelve hundred years ago.

"The Highlands must be beautiful," she said softly, surprising herself with the wistfulness in her voice.

"Aye," Alasdair replied, something distant in his eyes. "Wild and free, like a beast that cannae be tamed."

As they continued, Jill noticed the youngest one—Cillian—studying her phone with undisguised curiosity.

"What manner of talisman is that?" he finally asked, pointing to where it was clipped to her belt. "It glowed and made sounds, like naught I've e'er seen."

His expression reminded her of her students back at the university—eager, curious, untainted by cynicism.

"It's called a phone," she explained, unclipping it to show him. "It's...a way to speak with people who are far away." How did one explain telecommunications to someone from the ninth century?

I sound like I'm giving the world's most bizarre history lecture. Except I'm explaining the future to the past.

Fergus moved closer, eyes alight with intellectual hunger. "Like a speaking trumpet? Or a message carried by birds?"

“Something like that.” She smiled, despite herself. Their genuine curiosity was endearing. "Except it can reach anywhere in the world, instantly."

"Anywhere?" Tavish echoed, wonder and skepticism battling in his expression. "Even across the great sea?"

"Even there," she confirmed, unable to suppress the teacher in her that delighted in their fascination. "I could speak to someone in Scotland right now if I wanted to."

Alasdair's gaze sharpened with assessment. "Such power...in so wee a thing." His scrutiny swept over her, reevaluating. "Yer people must possess great magic."

The intensity of his regard made her feel suddenly self-conscious, as if he was seeing past her modern clothing to something deeper.

"Not magic," Jill corrected automatically. "Science. Technology."

"Is there a difference?" he asked, his question surprisingly philosophical.

Macrath grunted. "If it does what she claims, what matter if it's magic or no'? A blade kills whether forged by a master smith or conjured by a witch."

"But one follows the natural order, built on understanding the world," Fergus countered. "The other defies nature's very laws."

Before she could answer, a cold gust of wind cut through the trees, carrying with it a sickly-sweet odor of decay. The change in the warriors was immediate and alarming. They shifted into a tight formation, weapons appearing in their hands as if conjured.

"It's near," Alasdair growled, all traces of curiosity gone from his face. "The Brollachan hunts us still."

The hair on the back of Jill's neck stood up. The temperature seemed to drop several degrees in an instant.

Jill's hand moved instinctively to the rifle secured in its carrier on the saddle. "How can you tell?"

"The stench," Macrath muttered, his massive frame tense as a drawn bow. "Death follows where it treads."

Jill inhaled, detecting only the faintest hint of something rotten beneath the familiar pine and loam of the forest. The fact that they could sense something she barely perceived was unnerving.

Dad's stories about the Brollachan...the shadow that consumes life...it can't be real. But the warriors' reaction was too genuine to dismiss.

"We should hurry," she urged, suddenly eager to reach the safety of the ranch. Whatever this Brollachan was, she had no desire to meet it in the gathering shadows of the forest.

As they quickened their pace, Jill noticed a patch of vegetation beside the trail—withered and blackened as if burned, yet without any sign of fire. The sight sent a chill down her spine.

Just like in the stories. Life drained away, leaving only husks.

"Dinnae go near it," Alasdair warned, noticing her attention. "The creature's passage taints all it encounters."

His hand hovered near her arm, not quite making contact but ready to pull her back if necessary. The protective gesture wasn't lost on her—a warrior's instinct to shield despite having known her less than an hour. Despite the circumstances, the almost-contact sent warmth blooming beneath her skin.

The path widened as they neared the edge of the forest. Through the trees, the first glimpse of the lavender fields came into view, purple and gold in the late afternoon sunlight. Beyond them, the ranch buildings stood solid and reassuring.

The sight of home had never been so welcome. The familiar weathered cedar of the barn, the wraparound porch of the main house, the golden glow of windows against the darkening sky—all of it represented safety, normalcy, in a day that had veered sharply into the surreal.

"There it is," Jill said, pointing. "Home."

The word caught in her throat, suddenly heavy with meaning. Home, where her father apparently had answers to questions she hadn't even known to ask.