“Yes?”
But before he could finish whatever he’d been about to say, the kitchen door burst open with a crash that made them both jump apart like guilty children.
“Tristan!” Hugo’s voice boomed through the sudden silence, followed immediately by the man himself, massive and slightly drunk and completely oblivious to the tension he’d just shattered. There you are! I’ve been looking everywhere for — oh.”
He stopped short, taking in the scene before him with rapidly sobering eyes. “Am I... interrupting something?”
“No,” Tristan said quickly, stepping back from Rachel with jerky movements that made her heart sink. The careful walls she’d watched him lower were already slamming back into place, his expression shuttering like storm clouds rolling across a clear sky. “Nothing at all.”
Hugo’s gaze moved between them, shrewd despite the ale he’d obviously consumed. “Right. Of course. Nothing.” He cleared his throat meaningfully. “Well, since I’m here, perhaps our... guest… might return to her chamber? ’Tis late, and folk will talk.”
The spell was broken. Whatever fragile connection she and Tristan had built over sauce and shared understanding was dissolving like sugar in rain, swept away by the harsh reality of medieval propriety and his own stubborn pride.
“Of course,” Rachel said, proud of how steady her voice sounded despite the disappointment crushing her chest.
“I should go. Thank you for... for showing me. The sauce. It was educational.”
She turned to leave, but Tristan’s voice stopped her at the door. “Rachel.”
She looked back, hoping to see some trace of the man who’d shared his mother’s recipe, who’d created art from cream and wine and expensive spices. Instead, she found Lord Greystone, remote, controlled and carefully distant.
“Sleep well,” he said, and the words were polite and proper and completely meaningless.
“You too,” she replied, then slipped out into the dark corridor before either of them could see the tears that threatened to spill over.
Behind her, she heard the low murmur of male voices, but she didn’t stop to listen. She’d learned what she needed to know. Tristan de Valois was still in there, beneath all the bitterness and broken pride. He was still the passionate cook who could create magic from simple ingredients, still the man who honored his mother’s memory by making beauty in a world that had tried to strip him of everything beautiful.
Now she just had to figure out how to convince him that being that man wasn’t something to hide from, but something worth fighting for.
CHAPTER 9
Tristan had barely broken his fast when the thunder of hoofbeats echoed across the courtyard, followed by the unmistakable sound of someone demanding immediate entrance in a voice that could cut glass at fifty paces. He knew that voice—had been dreading it for months, if he were honest with himself.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered, setting down his ale with the careful precision of a man preparing for battle. Through the narrow window, he could see a small retinue approaching—four mounted guards flanking a figure in midnight blue velvet who sat her palfrey as if she owned the world and was deeply disappointed by its current management.
Lady Isolde Beaumont had come calling.
The very air seemed to thicken with approaching doom, and even Sir Whiskerbottom, who’d been lazily grooming himself near the hearth, lifted his head with the alertness of a creature sensing an incoming storm.
Hugo, who’d been regaling the hall with some tale involving a tavern wench and a particularly aggressive goose, ceased his rambling mid-sentence. “Your sister approaches,” he observed unnecessarily, his usual jovial expression replaced by something that looked suspiciously like sympathy. “She appears... spirited.”
“She appears ready to separate my head from my shoulders,” Tristan corrected, rising from the high table with movements that felt leaden. The scent of impending confrontation hung in the air like smoke from a funeral pyre. “As she has every right to be.”
The great doors thundered open with a crash that made the very stones seem to tremble, and Lady Isolde swept into the hall like a force of nature wrapped in silk and righteous indignation. She was magnificent in her fury—dark hair coiled in an elaborate headdress that probably cost more than most men earned in a year, her gown cut from fabric so fine it seemed to shimmer with its own light. French perfume clung to her like a battle standard, the scent of roses and something exotic that spoke of wealth and privilege.
She was also, Tristan noted with growing dread, carrying a riding crop with the purposeful air of someone who intended to use it for purposes other than encouraging horses.
“Brother,” she said, and the single word dripped with enough venom to fell a dragon. Her dark eyes—so like his own, though currently blazing with fury that could have lit the hall without benefit of torches—swept the assembled company with contempt before fixing on him with the precision of a crossbow bolt finding its mark.
“How good of you to finally show yourself. I was beginning to wonder if exile had taught you to hide from family as well as responsibility.”
Each word hit like a physical blow, carefully chosen for maximum damage. The taste of bitter shame flooded his mouth as old guilt warred with newer humiliation in his chest. “Isolde. You are... unexpected.”
“Unexpected?” Her voice rose to a pitch that made several servants wince and begin edging toward the exits like mice sensing a hawk overhead. “Six months, Tristan. Six months since you vanished from court in disgrace, leaving me to face the whispers and speculation alone.”
The riding crop whistled through the air as she gestured, and more than one person ducked reflexively.
“Six months of watching lesser men—men who lack half your wit or skill—jockey for positions that should have been yours. Six months of enduring Geoffrey’s disappointment every time someone mentions the de Valois name with pity rather than respect.”
