Page 6 of Crazy About Jill (Highland Berserkers #1)

CHAPTER 6

A lasdair's heart pounded as they stepped from the trees into open meadowland, the forest's protection falling away behind them. His gaze swept across the vast clearing, landing on strange structures that loomed ahead—too massive, too precise, too unnatural. The air thrummed with unfamiliar energy.

What manner of place is this?

The scent of flowers rode the breeze, sweet and strange—like home, but not. Fields upon fields of purple plants stretched out, their hue barely visible in the deepening twilight, reminding him painfully of Highland heather in bloom. But these unknown flowers were arranged in unnaturally perfect rows, stretching farther than any farm he'd ever seen."Stay close," he murmured, voice low. "And be ready for anything."

"Ready with what?" Fergus replied under his breath, his hand twitching toward a sword long lost to the vortex. "Most of our weapons are gone."

"No' entirely," Macrath said, flexing his hands and adjusting the dagger at his belt. "We've still got these. And Tavish and Lachlan still carry their swords."

His leather bracer felt suddenly light against his forearm where his own sword would normally rest. The loss of his broadsword—the weapon that had seen him through a hundred battles—left him feeling naked, vulnerable.

Ahead, Jill guided her mount toward a towering structure she'd called a barn, riding with the ease of someone who'd spent her life in the saddle. The horse itself was familiar, but its strange tack gleamed with polished metal—unlike any harness Alasdair had ever seen.

The scent of hay reached his nose, grounding and real. But it was layered with sharp, biting odors he couldn't name—like metal struck by lightning, or herbs distilled beyond recognition. And beneath it all hummed a low vibration that set his teeth on edge.

"What is that sound?" Cillian asked, eyes narrowing.

"I dinnae ken," Alasdair replied, voice quiet but steady. "But keep alert."

His eyes scanned the horizon, marking potential threats, possible escape routes, defensible positions—the instincts of a lifetime at war refusing to quiet even in this bewildering place. He found himself checking for signs of the Brollachan too, the creature's corrupt stench still fresh in his memory. One enemy he understood in this land of incomprehensible wonders.

The buildings unnerved him. Smooth walls loomed in the gathering darkness, too straight, too clean—like they'd been conjured by magic rather than built by hand. Metal beasts sat idle nearby, their purpose unknown.

Is this the land of the fae? Or some stranger place still?

A shadow flitted past in the dim light—a bird seeking its roost as night approached. At least some creatures remained the same across the centuries. The thought offered small comfort.

Jill dismounted with effortless grace, eyes flicking toward the house before returning to the warriors. Her grip on her weapon had loosened—an unspoken signal of trust that didn't go unnoticed.

"Wait here," she said, and disappeared into the barn.

Alasdair's gaze followed her, drawn despite himself. There was something about the way she moved—quietly assured, her spine straight, her purpose clear. She was protecting someone. That much was obvious from how her eyes kept darting toward the main house with concern. A parent? A child?

Or a husband?

The thought hit harder than it should. A sour twist bloomed in his gut, sharp and unwelcome.

A woman like her would be claimed already—someone inside that house waiting for her return. But the thought didn't sit well.

"She's a fine lass," Tavish murmured beside him, too low for the others to hear. "Carries herself like a chieftain's daughter."

Alasdair shot him a warning glance. "We're centuries from home, with a monster at our heels, and you're admiring the womenfolk?"

Tavish's lips quirked. "I'm a storyteller, brother. I notice things. And I notice how ye look at her."

Heat crept up Alasdair's neck, but he was saved from responding when Jill returned.

The weapon was gone. She approached with caution, but not fear.

"My father's on his way," she said, her amber gaze flicking again toward the house. "You'll need to wait out here."

"We mean no harm," he said gently. "You have my word as a MacTyre."

Jill studied him for a long moment. Then she nodded toward two wooden tables. "You can rest over there. I won't be far."

He shared a glance with his brothers. They were being watched, but not cast out. Offered courtesy—but not trust. It was more than fair.

"The lass is wary," Tavish muttered, hand on his hilt.

"Aye," Alasdair agreed. "Wouldnae ye be?"

They followed her lead with slow, measured steps. Fergus scanned every window, eyes sharp as he assessed the new text. Macrath's fists clenched and unclenched, ready for a fight he couldn't yet identify. Lachlan walked close, his sword sheathed but his body tense, attuned to every sound. Cillian's wide eyes darted from one marvel to another, youth's curiosity battling with a warrior's vigilance.

Cillian leaned in close as they walked. "That strange contraption," he whispered, pointing to a metal beast with huge wheels. "Do ye think it's alive?"

Alasdair followed his gaze to the gleaming vehicle. "I dinnae think so," he answered, though he wasn't certain. "But stay away from it nonetheless."

"I have water in the barn," Jill called over her shoulder. "Please stay here."

She disappeared once more. Alasdair sat heavily on a bench, listening to the hum beneath the air and the whispers of his men.

"What now?" Lachlan asked quietly. "We're stranded. And nothing makes sense."

Alasdair ran a hand through his damp hair, still crusted with salt from their emergence from the sea. "We wait. We listen. We learn. If the druid's magic brought us here, perhaps there's magic that can send us home."

Before Alasdair could answer, the barn lit up—suddenly, brilliantly—like the noonday sun had been trapped inside. The warriors jerked upright, the harsh light painful after their eyes had adjusted to the twilight.

"By the saints!" Macrath exclaimed. "What kind of witchcraft?—"

"Peace," Alasdair said, rising to his feet with deliberate calm. His heart thundered, but his expression stayed neutral. His brothers needed steadiness. He would be it.

"We've seen stranger things today," he reminded them, though his own pulse raced. Light without fire. Weapons that thundered like lightning. A world transformed beyond recognition.

Jill returned moments later, carrying clear vessels filled with water. The light behind her still glowed.

"Water," she said, placing them on the table. "They're sealed to keep it clean."

Alasdair eyed the bottles. "Thank you." He accepted one, noting the strange ridges around the cap. When she opened it with a simple twist, he watched carefully.

The vessel was unlike anything he'd ever seen—clear as finest crystal, yet light as a feather. He turned it in his hand, marveling at how the water remained contained with no visible seal.

"That light in the barn," he said slowly, "how does it burn without fire?"

Jill paused, then gave him a long, unreadable look. As if she wasn't sure whether to be amused, startled, or concerned.

"It's called electricity," she said after a beat. "It's like...captured lightning. But safe."

Alasdair blinked. Captured lightning. Was this a jest? Or some new sorcery?

"Safe lightning?" Lachlan muttered. "What's next—water flowing uphill?"

"You’d be surprised what's possible," Jill murmured, her gaze lingering on him. Steady. Searching.

though her gaze lingered on Alasdair longer than necessary, as if trying to puzzle him out.

That look stirred something in his chest—a warmth that had no place in their current predicament. He forced himself to look away, focusing instead on the horizon where the sun had sunk below the distant mountains.

Then came the growl.

A terrible sound rolled toward them, growing louder. All six warriors rose instantly, hands at their weapons.

Alasdair's fingers closed around his dagger hilt, every muscle coiled to spring. The Brollachan? No—different. Nothing he’d ever heard before.

"Stay calm," Jill said, stepping forward with both hands raised. "It's just my family. A car. You're safe."

He didn't know what a car was, but he didn't like the way it moved—smooth and silent save for that low, rumbling snarl.

He didn't relax, but he kept his blade sheathed, signaling with a glance for his brothers to do the same. Trust earned, not given. It had kept them alive this long.

Moments later two young men appeared—identical in appearance, wide-eyed at the sight of the armed strangers.

"Jill," one of them said, "what in the world?"

They looked nothing like her—brown-haired and broader-featured—but something in their posture marked them as kin. The protective stance of the one on the left spoke of a warrior's instinct.

Then another figure approached.

An older man, weathered and lean, with eyes that seemed to see through flesh and into spirit. Something about him felt...familiar.

Alasdair's skin prickled with an instinctive warning. There was power in this man, though of what kind, he couldn't say. His bearing reminded Alasdair of the druids back home—the quiet confidence of someone who wielded forces beyond the understanding of ordinary men.

"Welcome, warriors," the man said in smooth, fluent Gaelic. "I've been expecting you."

Alasdair's brow lifted, not in surprise but wary curiosity. Of course Jill's father spoke their tongue—she'd learned it somewhere. But hearing it again settled something in his chest he hadn't realized was strained.

The familiar cadence of home eased a tightness in his throat that had been there since their arrival. Yet something in the man's too-knowing gaze put him on edge.

"Ye speak our tongue. Ye know of us. How?"

The older man smiled, but it was the kind that held more secrets than warmth. "All in good time, berserker. All in good time."

The title made Alasdair stiffen. He knows what we are.

Memories flashed through his mind—the heat of battle rage, the power that flowed through his veins when the berserker spirit took hold, the fear in others' eyes when they witnessed it.

He clenched his jaw. Then he knows what was done to us. The betrayal. The vow.

"We seek answers," he said. "And a way home."

The man's eyes narrowed. "Are ye sure home is what ye seek...or justice?"

The words struck a chord, too close to the truth. They resonated in Alasdair's chest like a struck bell—justice for the betrayal, for the lives they'd been denied.

"Both," Alasdair said flatly. "We were promised wives. A future. A place to belong. We were betrayed, drugged, thrown into a maelstrom. If ye know who we are, then ye know what drives us."

"I know your kind," the man replied. "Warriors of great strength, and greater pain." He gestured to the tables. "Rest. Then we'll talk of how ye traveled more than a thousand years to reach this place."

A thousand years.

The words landed like a hammer, despite Jill having told them the same thing in the forest. Hearing it again, from this knowing man with ancient eyes, made it inescapably real. Around him, his brothers shifted in shock.

"A thousand?" Cillian echoed. "The lass spoke truth then. It cannae be..."

But Alasdair already knew. The signs were everywhere—metal beasts, fireless light, Jill's strange weapon. It was true.

The weight of it pressed on him, heavy as armor. A thousand years from their people. From their time. From the lives they were meant to live. What Jill had said in the forest had been shocking, but somehow hearing it confirmed by her father—a man who clearly knew more than he was saying—made the truth sink bone-deep.

He felt hollowed out, scraped raw. Everything they'd known—gone. Everyone they'd ever met or loved—dust for centuries. The crushing enormity of it threatened to drive him to his knees.

But when his gaze drifted to Jill—standing strong, her shoulders squared, her eyes unreadable—he felt something else rise up through the fog of confusion and grief.

Resolve.

She was solid, real. This strange place with its captured lightning and metal beasts might be incomprehensible, but she wasn't. Whatever age they'd landed in, people remained people.

The flowering fields swayed in the evening breeze. The sun still set. Warriors still stood by their brothers. Some things, at least, remained constant across the centuries.

"We have much to learn," Alasdair said, lifting his chin to meet the older man's gaze. "And ye have much to explain."