Both the four-legged kind and, possibly, the kind that had fallen through time and landed in his garden with nothing but attitude and questionable clothing choices.
The thought should have terrified her. Instead, as she drifted off to sleep with the memory of his gentle hands and unguarded voice warming her better than any fire, Rachel found herself smiling into the darkness.
CHAPTER 8
The castle slept, but no matter how much Rachel tried, her mind wouldn’t quiet. She’d spent the better part of an hour staring at the rough-hewn ceiling beams, listening to the wind whistle through the arrow slits and trying not to think about how her blog followers were probably wondering why she’d gone silent. Did time move the same way here? Was her apartment still there, a country away and over five hundred years in the future, with her laptop slowly dying on the kitchen counter next to the cursed cookbook?
Or had the cookbook vanished when she had? It didn’t travel through time with her, nothing did but her phone and what she was wearing. Stupid cursed cookbook.
The questions chased themselves around her head like hamsters on a wheel, getting nowhere fast.
But underneath the practical worries, another thought kept surfacing, one she’d been trying to ignore since yesterday’s pottage disaster had somehow turned into a moment of shared understanding over spices and technique. Tristan’s hands as he’d tasted her cooking, the way his eyes had lit up with something that looked like professional respect. The careful way he’d pronounced “turmeric” like he was savoring the word itself.
She wondered if he ever cooked alone, when there was no one around to judge or whisper about propriety. If he ever stood in those kitchens late at night, surrounded by his precious spice collection, creating the kind of dishes his skill deserved instead of hiding his talent like some shameful secret.
The thought made her restless in ways that had nothing to do with temporal displacement and everything to do with winter-blue eyes and callused hands that knew their way around exotic ingredients.
Finally, she gave up on sleep and slipped out of bed, wrapping a rough woolen cloak around her shoulders. Maybe Sir Whiskerbottom was prowling the halls, hunting mice with the dedication of a tiny, furry health inspector. Or maybe—and this was definitely not why she was getting up, absolutely not—she’d find the kitchens empty except for banked fires and lingering scents that spoke of someone who understood that cooking was more than mere sustenance.
The corridors were dark as pitch, lit only by the occasional torch that cast dancing shadows on the stone walls. Rachel made her way carefully toward the kitchens, guided by memory and the faint scent of smoke that seemed to permeate every inch of this place. Her bare feet made no sound on the cold floors, though she had to bite back a curse when her toe hit the edge of an uneven stone.
Medieval castles were basically death traps designed by people who’d never heard of safety regulations. Or common sense.
She pushed open the kitchen door as quietly as possible, expecting to find the usual nighttime stillness broken only by the gentle snoring of banked fires and possibly Sir Whiskerbottom’s purring.
Instead, she found Tristan.
He stood at the great hearth, his back to the door, completely absorbed in whatever he was doing. The dying embers cast a warm light across his broad shoulders, turning his dark hair to midnight where it fell past his collar. He’d shed his leather vest, leaving him in just his linen shirt, the fabric soft and nearly translucent in the firelight. Rachel’s mouth went dry at the sight of how the cloth clung to the defined muscles of his back as he moved.
The scent hit her next—something incredible that made her stomach rumble with sudden, desperate hunger. Garlic and herbs, the rich smell of browning meat, something sweet and complex that spoke of exotic spices and careful technique. It smelled like the kind of cooking that made people weep with joy, the kind that belonged in restaurants with Michelin stars and wine lists thicker than phone books.
“Good gravy,” she breathed, taking a step closer before she could stop herself. “What are you making?”
Tristan spun toward her with the speed of someone trained for battle, a long wooden spoon raised like a weapon. For a heartbeat, his face held the fierce mask she was used to—all sharp angles and dangerous edges. Then recognition flickered in those winter-blue eyes, followed immediately by something that looked like panic.
“Rachel.” Her name came out rough, like he’d swallowed gravel. “You should not be here.”
“Says who?” She moved closer, drawn by the incredible aromas rising from whatever he was tending over the coals. “It’s a kitchen, not a sacred shrine. Although judging by that smell, maybe it should be.”
He turned back to the fire with sharp, jerky movements, using the wooden spoon to stir something in a small copper pot suspended over the glowing embers. “Go back to your chamber. ’Tis late.”
“Not until you tell me what that is.” She stepped up beside him, close enough to feel the heat radiating from the fire and from his body. Close enough to catch his scent—leather and steel and something warm and spicy that made her want to lean closer and breathe him in.
“Because whatever you’re cooking smells like heaven had a baby with paradise and raised it on a diet of pure bliss.”
Despite himself, his mouth twitched. “Your comparisons grow more peculiar each day.”
“My compliments get more creative when I’m impressed. And trust me, I’m very impressed right now.” She peered into the pot, her eyes widening at what she saw.
“Is that... are you making a sauce?”
The question seemed to hit him like a physical blow. His jaw tightened, and he moved as if to block her view of his work. “Merely... warming some broth.”
“That’s not broth.” She stepped around him, ignoring his growl of protest, and leaned closer to examine the contents of the pot. The liquid was a deep golden brown, thick with what appeared to be minced herbs and garlic, rich enough to coat the back of a spoon. The aroma was complex and layered—wine, certainly, and stock, but also something floral and mysterious that made her want to identify every component. “That’s a proper pan sauce. A really good one, judging by the consistency.”
“You know naught of?—”
“I know plenty.” She turned to face him, noting the way his hands had tightened around the spoon, the careful way he held his body as if bracing for attack.
