Chapter 4

Lucky's POV

He was surprisingly fast at mounting his horse and reached his hand out to me.

“Thanks,” I said and let him help me up behind him. “So, what do I call you?”

“The name’s McCollum,” he said, almost overly dramatic, but with a sense of pride and majesty that seemed to justify it. “Marcus McCollum.”

“You say it as if it’s supposed to mean something,” I said, hoping not to disappoint him too much that I didn’t recognize his face or his name. He turned and looked down at me, and as I had already guessed, he was surprised.

“It does, to a lot of people,” he answered.

“History will remember you,” I nodded, struggling to hide my bitterness. I had known a lot of good men. My grandfather, my father. History wouldn’t remember them. They were good men, peacekeepers. History didn’t remember people like that. It remembered the ones who started wars or exterminated entire ethnic groups for their own selfish purposes. “Good for you.”

I finished the sentence, but as I looked up and met his dark blue eyes, I suddenly felt ashamed. I didn’t know what it was, but somehow it seemed like he had read my mind. And then I knew: even though his words said one thing, his character spoke in a completely different direction. And I was good at reading people. Although this one gave me some trouble. Perhaps my people-meter had broken in the storm? I didn’t know, but looking into his eyes, I felt like shit for what I had said and especially for the way I had said it.

“I’m sorry if I said too much,” I managed to mutter, but the man just shook his head and got Jolly moving at a fast and graceful speed.

“You are one strange woman,” I heard him say as he seemed to be fighting to win back the time he had been unconscious. And me? I was holding on for dear life! I had never been horseback riding before, and this was a far cry from the slow and steady pace I had been enjoying earlier. The wind seemed to claw at my skin, and the only way to defend myself was by hiding my face against his back.

I took a deep breath. He smelled like wool and ash—a scent that could only come from being close to an open fireplace. I knew because that was how my father used to smell. And for a second, I thought it would make me homesick. But it didn’t…

I remembered being overseas with my husband, Grindvald. Every day, I had felt more and more miserable whenever I smelled freshly cut grass or heard the fire crackle as it ate away at the wood in an open fireplace. It was like a hole inside my body that only grew and grew. For a second, I braced myself for the same sensation inside me. I had even prepared a little speech in my head, telling myself that I was going to get home soon if Marcus was the man of honor I believed him to be. But the sensation never came. Instead, I felt at ease and allowed myself to enjoy it.

The horse made a sudden and unexpected stop, and I wasn’t just pulled out of my thoughts - I was nearly thrown off the horse, too.

“M’Lord!”

I looked up and saw two other horsemen in front of us. One was old, and the other seemed young, even younger than me. They were all dressed like Marcus and seemed very relieved to see him. To my surprise, I realized he was the one they called ‘lord.’

“Irve! Pippin!” Marcus responded, and I could hear the smile in his voice. “Sorry for the delay. What’s the status?”

“We were—” the older one started, but quickly stopped when he noticed me. He looked just as surprised to see me as his master had been. And I was starting to understand why. Their hair was either red or dark - ALL of them! - and their eyes were equally dark. I, on the other hand, could have survived the Holocaust. My hair was light like the sun, and my eyes were a blue, almost gray color that made me stick out like a sore thumb in this group.

“Who’s the lady?” he asked again, but this time, he was smiling in a suspicious and amused way, and it didn’t take a brain surgeon to figure out what he was thinking.

“Don’t ask!” Marcus answered before I could and continued speaking in the same language I had heard him use before. The men replied and laughed, and judging by Marcus’s red face, I’d say the joke was on him at my expense. I only understood one word from the entire conversation, and that was when Marcus introduced me: “Lucky.”

It was more annoying than anything I had ever experienced, but I tried to grin and bear it. Whatever they had to say was none of my business, but if he was going to introduce me, he could have at least let me do it myself!

“M’Lord!”

A shout came from the distance, and the laughter quickly died away. A new rider appeared behind them, galloping toward us. He stopped only a few seconds before colliding with us, proving his—like his comrades’—excellent horsemanship. His face was pale, and through a hole in his shirt, I could see blood slowly turning the white and green fabric into a murky red color.

“Giles!”

They continued speaking in the strange language, but this time, it was fast and in short sentences. And then it suddenly hit me. They were being pursued. Only a few seconds later, they all galloped away. I held on, but this time, I had a feeling that we were going to need all the help we could get to survive.

It felt like we flew across the breathtakingly beautiful landscape, and I might have enjoyed myself if not for the fact that, first, we were fleeing, and second, it was killing my ass. Even my neck started to hurt, and I wondered—no matter the answer to the ever-elusive question—how they were able to do this.

Well, there could only be one answer: they were good. Their bodies moved automatically with the horses, their backs were straight, and their heads held high. No matter which direction the horse went—to jump a tree or to turn about—the Scotsmen were one with their animals.

A loud bang sounded like thunder. Jolly stopped so suddenly that he reared up on his hind legs, stomping his hooves in anger. I lurched forward and clung to my companion. Damn, I had nearly been thrown off! I looked up, and my heart sank. In front of us stood a row of men in red coats, men I immediately recognized: soldiers of His Royal Highness, the King of England.