“Then why did you stop?”
Something shuttered in his expression, the vulnerability disappearing behind his careful mask. “Some pleasures become impossible when honor is lost.”
“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” she said bluntly, and his eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Food is about nourishment, about bringing people together, about creating joy from simple ingredients. Honor has nothing to do with it.”
“You know nothing of?—”
“I know plenty about feeling like you don’t deserve the things you love,” she interrupted, her voice gaining strength as she spoke.
“About convincing yourself that you’re not worthy of pursuing what makes you happy. But you know what? That’s just fear talking. Fear dressed up as nobility or responsibility or whatever other excuse you want to use.”
He stared at her for a long moment, something complicated flickering in his eyes. “You speak with great certainty for one so young.”
“I speak with great experience for someone who’s spent way too much time settling for less than she deserved,” she replied, meeting his gaze steadily. “Don’t make the same mistake I did.”
The kitchen had grown quiet around them, the servants having finished their portions and drifted back to their duties, but the air still hummed with the lingering aroma of spices and the strange tension that seemed to crackle between her and Tristan whenever they stood too close together.
“Perhaps,” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper, “tomorrow you might show me what other... innovations... You’re capable of.”
“Is that a challenge, my lord?”
“’Tis an invitation,” he replied, and this time his smile was real and devastating and made her forget temporarily how to form coherent thoughts.
“If you think you can handle more than simple pottage without burning down my kitchens.”
Rachel grinned, feeling more alive than she had since arriving in this impossible place. “Bring it on, Lord Broodypants. I’ve been accused of worse things than witchcraft. Usually by restaurant managers who couldn’t handle honest reviews about their tragic excuse for hollandaise sauce.”
“I do not doubt it,” Tristan said, his laughter rich and warm and making something flutter dangerously in her chest. “Though I confess, I find myself curious about these... hollandaise sauces... you speak of.”
“Oh, honey,” Rachel said, settling back against the kitchen table with the satisfaction of someone who’d just discovered she had more ammunition than she’d realized. “You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into.”
As the servants continued to chatter excitedly about the strange foreign woman who could make even barley taste like something worth eating, Rachel allowed herself a moment of pure satisfaction. She might be trapped in the Middle Ages with no coffee, no internet, and no indoor plumbing, but at least she could still cook.
And maybe, just maybe, she could teach a certain brooding medieval knight that some pleasures were worth the risk.
Even if everyone thought it was magic. Or witchcraft.
CHAPTER 7
Rachel discovered the cat on her third morning at Greystone Castle, huddled beneath a broken cart in the courtyard like a small, bedraggled refugee from a particularly unsuccessful battle.
It was orange and white and approximately the size of a loaf of bread, with enormous green eyes that held the kind of world-weary expression she usually associated with overworked restaurant servers during the dinner rush. One ear was torn, giving it a permanently lopsided appearance, and its fur stuck up in tufts that suggested it had either been through a windstorm or had given up entirely on personal grooming.
“Oh, honey,” Rachel murmured, crouching down despite the fact that her borrowed medieval dress—she’d finally surrendered to Mistress Caldwell’s increasingly pointed comments about proper attire—made the movement an exercise in advanced origami. “You look like I feel.”
The cat regarded her with the skeptical expression of someone who’d heard that line before and wasn’t impressed. But when she extended her hand, it sniffed cautiously, then bumped its head against her palm with a purr that sounded like a tiny, broken engine trying to start.
“Right, that’s it,” she decided, scooping up the creature despite its halfhearted protest. “You’re coming with me. We outcasts have to stick together.”
The cat settled into her arms with the resigned grace of someone who’d learned to accept whatever small kindnesses life offered, even if they came from strange women in questionable clothing. Its purr grew stronger, a warm vibration against her chest that made something tight in her ribcage loosen for the first time since she’d arrived in this godforsaken century.
She’d always been a cat person. Dogs required too much enthusiasm and unconditional affection—traits that had never come naturally to her. Cats understood sarcasm, appreciated personal space, and maintained realistic expectations about life’s general disappointing nature. This particular cat looked like it had been personally betrayed by the universe on multiple occasions, which made it practically her spirit animal.
“What shall we call you?” she asked, scratching behind the good ear as she made her way toward the kitchens. The morning air carried the scent of wood smoke and something that might charitably be called breakfast, though her standards for that particular meal had declined dramatically since arriving in the Middle Ages. “Sir Whiskerbottom? Lord Fluffington? Something appropriately medieval and ridiculous?”
The cat fixed her with a look that suggested it had opinions about ridiculous names and none of them were favorable.
“Right, Sir Whiskerbottom it is,” she decided, pushing through the kitchen door with her shoulder. “Very dignified. Very knightly. Suits you perfectly.”
