Page 7 of Crazy About Jill (Highland Berserkers #1)

CHAPTER 7

A lasdair's muscles coiled tight as he watched Conall settle onto the bench across from them. The stranger's eyes, sharp and knowing, seemed to pierce right through Alasdair's carefully maintained facade of calm. Suspicion gnawed at his gut.

Nothing about this place felt familiar—not the strange smooth surfaces, not the unnatural light glowing from the barn, and certainly not this man who seemed to know far too much about them. Each time Conall opened his mouth, Alasdair felt as if he were hearing a ghost—the accent and cadence belonged to their own time, not this strange future world.

The twins—William and Joe, Jill had called them—hovered nearby, their expressions a mix of wariness and curiosity. Jill herself stood behind her father, arms crossed, her amber eyes flicking between Conall and the warriors as if assembling pieces of a puzzle.

Alasdair found his gaze drawn to her more often than was wise. The way she carried herself, strong yet graceful, reminded him of the shield-maidens in the old tales. A woman of substance, not merely beauty. Her presence was oddly comforting in this bewildering world.

"You claim to have been expecting us," Alasdair said, forcing his voice to remain low and controlled. "Explain."

Conall's weathered face creased into a smile that did nothing to ease Alasdair's wariness. "It's a long story, lad. But the short of it is, you and your brothers have traveled through time. You've come over a thousand years into the future."

Alasdair nodded grimly. He'd already heard this twice now—first from Jill in the forest and then from Conall when they'd arrived. The enormity of it had already crashed over him like a wave. Now, he needed answers, not repetition.

"Aye, we've gathered that much," he replied, his voice steady. "But how did ye know we would come? And why here, to your land specifically?"

Conall studied him with newfound respect. "Clever lad. The portal that brought you here has existed for centuries. It's one of several throughout the world. I settled near this one deliberately after I was cast through twenty-seven years ago—to help others who might follow."

"How did you know to expect us?" Fergus asked, leaning forward with interest.

"I didn't know exactly who would come through," Conall admitted, "but I've been monitoring the site for years."

As Conall spoke, Alasdair noticed how his fingers moved in subtle patterns, almost like the weaving of invisible threads. The hair on the back of his neck stood up as realization dawned.

"You're a druid," Alasdair said, his voice dropping to a dangerous growl. In an instant, he was on his feet, dagger drawn. His brothers followed suit, weapons appearing in their hands. "Like the one who cast us here."

The twins stepped forward protectively, but Conall raised a hand to halt them.

"Aye," Conall admitted calmly, making no move toward a weapon. "I was once a druid of the old ways. That's why they exiled me—I refused to use my powers as they demanded."

"Druids sent us here to die," Macrath snarled, his massive frame tensed for violence. "Why should we trust another of their kind?"

Jill stepped between them, her eyes wide with shock. "What is happening? Dad, what are they talking about?"

"Stand aside, lass," Alasdair warned, not taking his eyes off Conall. "Druids are masters of deception. Whatever he's told you?—"

"If I meant you harm," Conall interrupted, still eerily calm, "I wouldn't have sent my daughter alone to find you. I wouldn't have opened my home to you."

Alasdair's grip on his dagger tightened. "And why wait for strangers from the past? What do ye gain from this?"

"You were cast out too?" Fergus asked, leaning forward. "From our time? But how?—"

"Da?" Jill interjected, her voice sharp with confusion. "What are you talking about? You told me you learned ancient Gaelic from your grandfather. You said our family had preserved it through generations."

A flash of guilt crossed Conall's weathered features. "I'm sorry, lass. There are things I haven't told ye. Couldn't tell ye, until now."

Alasdair's blood ran cold. “Ye mean to say," Alasdair continued, not lowering his weapon, "that ye too were flung forward through time by druid magic? Ye're from our time?”

Conall’s gaze was steady. "When were you cast out?"

"The year of our Lord 839," Alasdair answered, watching Conall's reaction carefully.

A look of surprise crossed the older man's face. "I was born in 789, fifty years before your time. I was a druid in Alba for many years before my own brethren cast me out. I came through the same portal twenty-seven years ago."

Macrath spat on the ground. "More druid treachery!"

"Aye," Conall agreed, surprising them. "But sometimes treachery can be a gift, though we don't see it at first. I found my home here, my family. And now you have the same chance."

Jill's eyes flicked between her father and the armed warriors, fear and confusion warring in her expression. Alasdair found his resolve weakening at the sight. Whatever Conall had done, she was innocent in it.

He felt a sudden, unexpected pang of sympathy for the woman who had taken them in.

Slowly, deliberately, he lowered his dagger—though he did not sheathe it. A nod to his brothers had them easing their stances as well, though wariness remained etched in their features.

"And the Brollachan?" Alasdair asked, the memory of the shapeless creature sending a chill down his spine. "It came with us."

Conall's eyebrows shot up, genuine alarm flickering across his face. "The Brollachan? By all the saints...sometimes the rifts draw in more than their intended targets. Dark things, hungry things from the old world. This is grave news indeed."

"We fought it in the woods," Lachlan added, his voice steady though his fingers twitched as if reaching for his absent sword. "It retreated, but 'twas no mortal wound we dealt it."

"Ye ken of these creatures?" Alasdair pressed, studying Conall's face. If this man truly came from their world, perhaps he might hold knowledge that could help them fight the beast.

"Aye, though I've never faced one. They're shapeshifters—ancient evil that feeds on fear and chaos." Conall's weathered hand traced a protective symbol in the air. "If it's here, we'll need to deal with it before it grows stronger."

As Alasdair recounted their encounter, he noted his brothers' reactions. Fergus leaned forward, eyes bright with a curiosity that Alasdair couldn't help but envy. Macrath's hand kept straying to where his sword should have been, while Tavish paced restlessly behind them. Cillian stared at his hands as if they might hold answers to questions he dared not ask.

"Well," Conall said finally, "we'll deal with the beast. But first, you need a place to stay, to adjust. I can offer you shelter in the bunkhouse, and work here on the ranch in exchange for food and lodging."

"Work?" Macrath snorted. "We're warriors, not farmers. And we'll no' be taking orders from a druid."

"We're survivors," Alasdair corrected him firmly, though his eyes remained wary as he watched Conall. "And if working this land means shelter and food while we find our footing, then so be it." He turned to Conall. "What kind of work?"

He couldn't help but notice how Jill straightened slightly at his words, approval flickering briefly in her eyes. Something warm unfurled in his chest at that small gesture of respect.

"Horses still need tending, fences still need mending - some things haven't changed in a thousand years." Conall's eyes twinkled. "Though I'll warn you, the horses are a bit more pampered these days."

A ghost of a smile touched Alasdair's lips despite himself. Horses, at least, were familiar. A touchstone in this bewildering new world. But then Conall's expression grew serious.

"You need to understand - there's no going back. The rifts only work one way. This is your world now. You'll need to learn our ways, our language." He paused. "Which brings me to my next point. I can help with that, though you may not like the method."

"More druid magic?" Alasdair's voice hardened, his fingers curling into fists. His hand dropped instinctively to his dagger again. Magic had cost them everything—their homes, their promised brides, their very lives as they knew them. "We'll learn your tongue the natural way."

"You don't have time," Conall said bluntly. "The world moves faster now. You need to communicate to survive. Without the language, you'll be vulnerable—and in this age, vulnerability can be deadly in ways you cannot yet imagine."

Alasdair felt the weight of leadership settling onto his shoulders as his brothers looked to him for guidance. If this was what it took to protect them...

Jill stepped forward and placed a hand on Alasdair's arm—the first time she had touched him. "I can vouch for my father," she said, her voice tight with conflicting emotions. "Whatever else he's kept from me, I know he wouldn't harm you."

The warmth of her touch sent an unexpected jolt through him. Her eyes met his briefly. There was both uncertainty and determination in them. The connection was fleeting but powerful, a moment of understanding that caught him off-guard.

"Do it," he said through gritted teeth. "But know this—if ye mean us harm, if this is some trick..."

"I would never harm those who share my fate," Conall said quietly.

Before Alasdair could question him further, Conall leaned forward, his eyes taking on an otherworldly gleam. One hand rose instinctively to the strange pendant at his chest—a piece of bone or stone, worn smooth with age. The air hummed with power as he began to chant in a language that made Alasdair's skin crawl.

The words seemed to writhe in the air, twisting and coiling around them like living things.

"Dad, what are you doing?" Jill's alarmed voice seemed to come from very far away.

A warmth began to build in Alasdair's chest, spreading outward. His vision blurred and panic clawed at his throat as the strange warmth reached his head, seeping into his very thoughts. He fought against it instinctively, his warrior's spirit rebelling against this invasion.

Memory flashed behind his eyes—McKinnie's betrayal, the druid's spell, the horrible paralysis that had preceded their journey through time. Was this another trap? Had they escaped one prison only to stumble blindly into another?

Then, as suddenly as it had begun, it was over. Alasdair gasped, blinking rapidly as the room came back into focus. He opened his mouth to demand answers - and froze as unfamiliar words filled his thoughts.

"What...what have you done to us?" he asked, the strange new language feeling both alien and natural on his tongue. The words were there in his mind, as if they had always been there, yet he knew they had not been moments before.

"Given you English," Conall answered in the same tongue, looking rather pleased with himself despite the beads of sweat on his brow. "Though I couldn't do anything about that accent of yours. The lasses will no doubt fancy it anyway."

"Dad!” Jill exclaimed, stepping between them. "You just...how did you...what exactly is going on here?"

Her closeness sent a wave of unexpected awareness through Alasdair. The scent of her—lavender and something soft and strange, unlike anything he knew. It wrapped around him like a physical touch.

"Later, Jilly-bean," Conall said, his tone gentle but firm. "There's much to explain, but first our guests need food and rest."

Alasdair exchanged stunned glances with his brothers, seeing his own mix of awe and unease reflected in their eyes. This place held more wonders - and more dangers - than they could have ever imagined.

"I can understand the twins," Cillian marveled, his young face alight with wonder.

"Welcome to the 21st century, lads," Conall said, rising from the bench. "Now, who's hungry? Fair warning - the food's changed a bit too."

"Changed how?" Lachlan asked warily.

"Well, we don't typically start the day with ale, for one thing," Conall replied with a chuckle. "And you'll find the fare both more varied and less...gamey."

“If it fills my belly, I’ll eat it,” Macrath grumbled, though his eyes betrayed eager interest.

They followed Conall toward the bunkhouse in the distance, and Alasdair felt a curious mix of fear and excitement stirring in his chest. They were lost in time, yes - but they were also at the dawn of a new adventure.

Yet as they walked, Alasdair couldn't help but cast one last glance at Jill, her face a portrait of bewilderment and hurt. She had guided them here, welcomed them, given them water, treated them like people instead of monsters...and now discovered her own father had been keeping secrets from her all her life.

In that moment, he vowed silently that whatever new world they were building here, it would not be founded on lies. They had seen enough of deception's bitter fruit to last a thousand lifetimes.

"Are ye coming, lass?" he asked softly, pausing as they approached the bunkhouse.

Her amber eyes met his, a storm of emotions swirling in their depths. "I don't really have a choice, do I?" she replied. "Apparently, there's a whole world of things I don't know about my own family."

"Family secrets can be painful," Alasdair said, thinking of his own past, the brand that had marked him outcast, the name they'd been forced to bear. "But they dinnae define who ye are."

A small, grudging smile touched her lips. "That's...surprisingly insightful for someone who just arrived from the ninth century."

Despite everything, Alasdair found himself returning her smile. Perhaps they both had much to learn in this strange new arrangement.