Chapter 15
Roman
We landed hard, the impact jarring through my bones. A vast field stretched around us, rolling into verdant hills with wildflowers swaying in the breeze.
A flurry of movement startled me—pheasants, their wings beating wildly, launching into the sky in panicked flight.
I threw up my arm, shielding my face from their frantic flapping.
Then, I pushed myself upright, taking a moment to catch my breath.
I turned in a circle, scanning the open expanse of land, trying to settle myself in this unfamiliar world.
Did we land in the right place?
And how the hell would I even know?
A groan sounded from behind me.
“Christ on a cracker, that landing hurt.”
I turned just in time to see Tristan staggering to his feet, rubbing his ass like a child who’d fallen off a swing.
The restraints binding our wrists vanished in the leap through time.
“Christ on a cracker?” I repeated, arching an eyebrow.
Tristan grunted, shielding his eyes from the sun as he scanned the landscape.
“It’s a modern phrase.” He let out a long, exaggerated sigh. “Fuck. We’re in the middle of fucking nowhere.”
“Shut the fuck up,” I snapped. “I’m already sick of you—don’t make me any sicker.”
I turned on my heel and headed downhill, drawn toward the faint, distant murmur of water.
If there was a stream, there was a chance of a road. And if there was a road, it could lead to civilization.
Tristan ambled after me, snapping a wildflower from its stem.
“Do you have a plan?” he asked.
“Not yet.” My boots sank into the rich loam of the earth.
Tristan twirled the flower between his fingers before tucking it behind his ear, the delicate petals a ridiculous contrast against his arrogant appearance.
“Are you going to make a plan?” he pressed.
I scoffed, shaking my head. What an idiot.
“Of course, I’m going to make a plan.”
Tristan’s eyes flicked as if expecting something to jump out of the tall grass and devour him.
“Will you tell me when you make it?”
“Probably not.”
I tipped my head back, inhaling deeply. There it was—that crisp, clean scent of water.
Tristan opened his mouth, probably to say something equally annoying, but I cut him off.
“Shut up, Tristan!” I snapped. “Enough with the questions. I’m trying to find a road. Do you have it? Then, we’ll head along the road and see if we can find someone who knows something. That’s the best I’ve got right now. Got it?”
Tristan’s cheeks darkened, and for once, he held his tongue.
“Thank you,” he muttered.
At last, we tromped downhill in silence.
And then—finally—a rustic dirt road stretched ahead, flanked by a trickling stream.
It wasn’t fancy, just well-worn, the grooves of wagon wheels and hoof prints stamped deep into the earth.
I paused at the edge of the road, scanning the area before casting Tristan a sideways glance.
“Do you speak Italian?”
Tristan rubbed his forehead, looking about as confident as a drowned rat.
“Let’s see…” He hesitated. “Parlo… uh… parlo un pah—no, wait. Is it po? Yeah. Parlo un po’ d’italiano.”
“That’s perfect. You speak shitty Italian. I, on the other hand, speak fluently, thanks to my mother. From now on, you’d do well to keep your mouth shut. Your role is my manservant. You’ll speak when spoken to, do as you’re told, and nothing more. Understood?” I shot him a warning glare.
“Why do you get to be Prince Charming?” he retorted.
“Prince, what?” I frowned.
“Prince Charming. The guy who gets the girl and all the glory in the movie.” Tristan scowled.
I knew what movies were now, having watched a few with Jack in the 21st century, but this Prince Charming fellow was unfamiliar. Ignoring Tristan, I picked up the pace along the road.
The sun was relentless, beating down on our heads. We stopped to scoop water from a cold creek several times, gulping it down to stay cool.
“You know,” Tristan said, wiping water droplets from his face, “you can get all sorts of diseases from drinking contaminated water—giardia, cholera, dysentery, hepatitis A, typhoid, even polio. Just saying.”
I rolled my eyes and kept walking.
“Good. Maybe you’ll get one and die. But at least wait until you’ve fulfilled your purpose here in Italy, okay?” I squinted into the distance, catching sight of something unusual.
Tristan shot me a glare. “And what exactly is my purpose?”
I didn’t know either, but I wasn’t about to tell him that. “That’s on a need-to-know basis, and you don’t need to know.”
A smile tugged at my lips as I recalled Jack saying the same thing about Lee.
Tristan’s scowl deepened, but for once, he held his tongue.
I shielded my eyes from the glare of the sun. “Look.” I pointed ahead. “A carriage in distress.”
Tristan let out a grunt. “Huh.”
The elegant carriage, crafted from polished dark wood with red-painted wheels, leaned precariously to one side. One of the wheels was buried in thick mud. The two horses, still harnessed to the wagon, stood in the stream, their heads lowered as they slurped water.
From the far side of the carriage, out of sight, came the sounds of splashing and muttered curses.
“Hello, friend,” I called in Italian. “Need some help?”
A man’s face appeared, peering at us through the footwell beneath the driver’s seat. He stared, unblinking, saying nothing.
“Parli italiano?” I asked.
“Sì, sì. Ovviamente parlo italiano. Questa è l’Italia, no?” He grinned.
Of course, I speak Italian. This is Italy, no?
My shoulders relaxed, my face betraying my relief.
The man had a rabbit-like face with bright, round, brown eyes.
He splashed his way around the horses, stopping in front of us with an outstretched hand.
Mud caked his fingers, and his velvet, leather, and silk attire were in a sorry state, streaked with grime.
Realizing the state of his hand, he wiped it hastily on his leather trousers before offering it again.
“I’m Count Mathias Montego, and I seem to have gotten myself into quite the predicament.”
I clasped his hand. “Roman Alexander. We saw your carriage stuck and figured you might need help.” I turned toward Tristan. “This is my manservant, Tristan. He doesn’t speak much. He’s a little… simple.”
I hoped Tristan didn’t understand my Italian.
Count Montego nodded sagely. “I have one like that. I sent him off to get help, and he hasn’t returned.
No idea where he’s wandered off to.” He propped his hands on his slender hips and surveyed the stranded wagon.
“But since you’re here, offering assistance, I gladly accept.
And rest assured, I shall repay you in kind. ”
He grinned, revealing perfectly white teeth—odd for this century. His salt-and-pepper hair, tousled yet artfully so, framed a well-groomed beard. His indulgent expression suggested he was accustomed to fawning attention and getting his way with people.
Switching to English, I ordered Tristan to find a slender log to wedge beneath the wagon wheel.
“Why should I do that?” he countered, pouting.
“Because you don’t want to be left on the side of the road to fend for yourself,” I said, glowering at him.
“Fine.” With an exaggerated sigh, he flung his hand over his head and stomped off into the trees.
I turned back to the count, slipping into Italian. “He’s new at this job.”
Count Montego chuckled. “I can see that. He seems… spirited.”
“A bit, yes. But I’ll have him heeled soon enough.”
A few moments later, Tristan returned, dragging a sturdy branch behind him. “Will this do?” he asked, still sulking.
“Good enough.” I gave it an approving nod.
Together, we positioned the branch beneath the stuck wheel. I climbed into the driver’s seat and took up the reins.
The horses lifted their heads, sensing the shift, muscles tensing in readiness.
With a sharp whistle and a flick of the reins, they heaved forward. The wheel rolled smoothly up and over the log, and within seconds, the carriage was free, back on solid ground.
“Splendid! You gentlemen are wonderful,” Count Montego exclaimed. “Now, how can I repay you? Where would you like to go? I insist.”
Judging by his fine attire, he could easily afford compensation, but I had never been one to rely on others. I shook my head, holding out my palms. “No need, Count Montego. We were happy to assist a fellow traveler. I’m afraid we can’t accept your help.”
I turned to leave, but Tristan grabbed my arm in a vice grip.
“What are you doing? Of course, we can accept his help. Are you out of your mind?”
I arched a brow. “Oh, you suddenly understand Italian now?” I pried his fingers off me.
“I know enough to catch ‘can’t accept help.’ Don’t be an ass. You don’t even know where we are!” He flung out his arms in an exaggerated gesture. “Look around. There could be nothing for miles, and this man offers assistance!”
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Count Montego watching us like we were his entertainment for the day.
I exhaled through my nose. “Act like a manservant.”
“Fine. I’ll be your hired help if you agree to take his offer. Or do you want to traipse through the heat all day?”
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.”