I narrowed my eyes. “I used to run in full armor from dawn till dusk, you measly little worm. I can handle a bit of sun.” My voice dropped into a low, warning whisper.
The truth, however, was that Jack had outfitted us in what he called “authentic period-accurate” clothing—layers of thick, suffocating wool. And I was already drenched in sweat at the height of an Italian summer.
Tristan’s face blanched. “Okay, I see your point. But I’ve never done that. I’ll only slow you down.”
He wasn’t wrong. He was already slowing me down with his incessant whining.
I turned to Count Montego. “If it’s no trouble, could you drop us off at an address if it’s on your way?”
“Most certainly!” the count gushed. “Where are you headed?”
I reached into the pocket of my pleated overcoat—far too heavy for this infernal heat—and pulled out a damp piece of paper. I handed it to the Count, who studied it briefly before nodding.
“Yes, I can take you there. No trouble at all.”
With that, the count and I climbed into the driver’s seat while Tristan hauled himself into the carriage. Knowing him, he’d probably nap—the weak, pathetic excuse for a man.
The journey to Malik’s address was time-consuming. The count kept up a constant stream of conversation as we traveled, regaling me with tales of the region, his extravagant dinner parties, and his many acquaintances. It became increasingly clear that Count Montego thrived in the center of high society, basking in the attention of nobility and commoners alike.
At last, we pulled up in front of an opulent villa nestled among olive trees and rolling hills.
The count reined in the horses and turned to me with a generous smile. “I’ll wait to ensure the party you’re looking for is here.”
I nodded in appreciation and stepped onto the sunbaked road, my eyes fixed on the villa’s grand entrance. “Thank you.”
Hopping off the driver’s seat, I poked my head through the curtained window of the carriage.
Sure enough, Tristan was curled up on the seat, fast asleep.
Shaking my head, I turned and trekked up the stone walkway, passing an enormous fountain where carved Italian maidens poured water from their clay jugs. I reached the massive wooden door at the top of the stone staircase, flanked by two sculpted lions. Lifting the iron knocker, I rapped it firmly against the iron plate.
Moments later, the door swung open, revealing a petite young woman with dark hair and eyes as black as coal.
“Yes, may I help you?” she asked in cultured Italian.
I straightened instinctively, old military habits kicking in. “How do you do? I’m here to see Eyan Malik.”
Her expression remained neutral. “Forgive me, sir. Signore Malik is not at home. He sent word—he will arrive in two days.”
Two days.
The words hit like a gut punch.
“Who shall I say stopped by?” she asked politely.
I swallowed my frustration and gave her my name. “I’ll return.”
She nodded and shut the door, leaving me standing there, feeling the disappointment of wasted effort.
With a sigh, I turned and descended the stairs, my boots scuffing against the warm stone. By the time I reached the carriage, Count Montego was curiously watching me.
“Why the glum face, Roman?” he asked.
“My friend, Eyan Malik, isn’t home yet. He’ll return in two days.” And for those same two nights, I had nowhere to sleep.
Count Montego’s face lit up with surprise. “Eyan Malik lives here? I haven’t seen him in years! I wonder when he purchased this place.” Then, with a dramatic sweep of his hand, he added, “You must stay with me. I have rooms galore, no children—only my servants for company. An old man like me gets lonely without friends.”
“No, we can’t accept your help,” I declined.
