Tristan drained the cup, then set down his goblet with more force than necessary. This woman was like a blade wrapped in silk—beautiful, compelling, and utterly dangerous to one’s peace of mind. “You observe much for a mad cook who speaks in riddles.”
“I prefer ‘charmingly eccentric food critic,’ thanks. And I’m very observant. It’s literally my job.” She crossed one leg over the other, a gesture so casual it made his breath catch.
“Like how you carry yourself—trained for war, but you haven’t seen real battle recently. Your hands are soft enough that you’re not doing manual labor, but they’re not pampered-lord soft either.”
Clever wench. Too clever by half. “Continue.”
“They’re cook’s hands.” She leaned forward again, and the scent of her hair—something clean and floral that had no business existing in his world—made his pulse quicken. “Knife calluses, burn scars, that little crease between your thumb and forefinger from years of gripping kitchen implements. I should know—I’ve got the same marks. Well, mostly. I’m spectacularly bad with actual fire, but knives I can handle.”
Tristan went very still. In all his years of hiding his true passion behind the facade of knighthood, no one had ever looked at his hands and seen the truth written there in scars and calluses. “You know naught of what you speak.”
“Really?” She raised an eyebrow that somehow managed to convey both skepticism and amusement. “Because I’m betting you’ve got a spice collection hidden somewhere, that would make a merchant weep with actual joy. And I’m guessing you know exactly how to balance saffron with verjuice, how to make a sauce that could resurrect the dead.”
Saints preserve him. She was describing his secret life with uncomfortable accuracy, as if she’d peered into his very soul and found it seasoned to perfection.
“Even if your wild suppositions held true,” he said carefully, rising to pace before the fire, “what of it?”
“What of it?” Her voice rose in incredulity. “Dude, you’re like a master chef trapped in a knight’s body, stuck in a castle that’s literally falling down around your ears! It’s like watching Gordon Ramsay work at a gas station hot dog stand.”
“I know not this Gordon Ramsay, but I assume he is some manner of renowned cook?”
“The most terrifying chef who ever lived. Makes grown men weep into their soufflés.”
She studied his face with that unnerving intensity again.
“The point is, you’re wasted here. Hiding. A talent like yours shouldn’t be buried under all this—” she waved at the ledgers “—administrative nonsense.”
The comparison stung because it was so accurate. He moved to stand before the hearth, letting the flames hide the emotion that threatened to break free. “You know nothing of my circumstances. Of what brought me to this place.”
“No,” she agreed, and her voice lost some of its teasing edge. “But I know what it looks like when someone’s been royally screwed over. And I know what it’s like to feel like you’re slowly dying in a place that doesn’t appreciate what you have to offer.”
Something in her tone made him turn. She was staring into the fire now, her face reflecting a pain he recognized all too well.
“You speak as one who knows such trials,” he said softly.
Rachel laughed, but it was sharp as broken glass. “Kansas isn’t exactly the culinary capital of the world. I spend my days reviewing chain restaurants where ‘exotic’ means they put paprika on the french fries. I write thousand-word reviews about whether the Olive Garden breadsticks are worth the twenty-minute wait, and I pretend I don’t dream of critiquing actual cuisine prepared by actual chefs who know the difference between cumin and cardamom.”
The honesty in her voice caught him off guard. This strange woman, with her impossible garments and otherworldly knowledge, was offering him something he hadn’t expected. Understanding. And perhaps... kinship.
“What happened to you?” she asked suddenly, turning those earth-brown eyes on him with startling directness.
“What brought the great chef-knight to his crumbling castle of accounting?”
Rachel watched emotions flicker across Tristan’s face like flames in a draft—pain, anger, something that might have been shame. She’d hit a nerve, which meant she was right about the disgrace thing. Her pattern recognition was working overtime, the same instincts that helped her spot a badly managed restaurant or a chef who’d given up on their craft.
The solar smelled like leather and old parchment, with hints of something warmer underneath—cinnamon, maybe, or nutmeg. Definitely horribly expensive spices in this time, which supported her theory about his hidden culinary skills. The candlelight turned his hair to black silk and carved shadows under those ridiculous cheekbones. If she were reviewing him for her blog, she’d probably give him four out of five stars. Points deducted for excessive brooding and a customer service attitude that needed work.
“I was framed for treason,” he said finally, the words dragged out of him like confessions under torture. “Stripped of my land, my title, my honor. Left with naught but this crumbling keep that my family abandoned years ago, and the knowledge that the man I trusted as a brother sold me for the price of a trade route.”
“Ouch.” Rachel winced in genuine sympathy. “That’s like... if my best friend sold my blog and told everyone I plagiarized my reviews. Except with more potential beheading involved.”
He blinked at her. “I... what?”
“Sorry. Future references. The point is, that sucks. Like, really monumentally sucks.” She leaned forward, studying his face. “How long ago?”
“Six months past.” His jaw tightened, and she could see the fresh wound beneath his careful control. “Six months of exile, of watching my people suffer for my disgrace, of knowing I can do naught to prove my innocence.”
“And you’ve just been sitting here doing... what? Balancing books? Feeling sorry for yourself? Perfecting your brooding technique?”
