Tristan’s smile was devastating—wide and genuine and completely transforming his usually serious features. “I promise. Sir Whiskerbottom will want for naught, regardless of our fate.”
“And third,” she continued, meeting his eyes directly, “when this is over, when Guy is exposed and your name is cleared—we figure out what happens next. Between us. No more avoiding the subject or pretending this is just a business arrangement.”
The look that passed between them was charged with possibilities and promises that made her heart do complicated things in her chest.
“Agreed,” he said quietly.
“Excellent,” Isolde said, clapping her hands together with satisfaction. “Then let us begin planning some medieval espionage. I do hope you’re a quick learner, Rachel Carter of Kansas. You’re about to get a very thorough education in fifteenth-century politics.”
For the first time since falling through time, Rachel felt like she had a purpose beyond just surviving. She was going to help these people reclaim their honor, prove their innocence, and maybe—just maybe—find a place where she belonged in the process.
Even if it killed her.
Which, given their plans to antagonize powerful enemies in an era where poison was a legitimate political tool, was a distinct possibility she was trying very hard not to think about.
CHAPTER 11
The thunder of hoofbeats echoed across the courtyard at dawn, followed by the crisp sound of commands being issued in an posh upper class voice that after a few days, Rachel knew well. She stumbled from her chamber, still blinking sleep from her eyes, to find the castle’s bailey alive with organized chaos.
Isolde stood beside her palfrey, magnificent even at this ungodly hour in a traveling gown of deep burgundy that looked really expensive. Was that real gold thread? On a dress? Her dark hair was coiled beneath a practical wimple, but there was nothing subdued about the sharp intelligence in her eyes or the way she directed her small retinue with the authority of someone born to command.
“You’re leaving?” She asked, breathing heavily after running down the stairs and through the great hall. At least she’d managed to throw on her dress and wrap a woolen cloak around her shoulders so she wouldn’t scandalize the household.
“I am going to court,” Isolde corrected, her voice carrying the satisfaction of someone who’d spent the entire night planning strategy.
“To pull certain strings, grease certain palms, and remind certain people that the de Valois family has not forgotten how to play the game.”
Tristan emerged from the stables, looking calm with his hands loose at his sides, but Rachel caught the tension in his shoulders as he strode across the bailey to meet them. He wore his best black doublet, the one that emphasized his broad shoulders, to see his sister off. Not that Rachel had noticed his shoulders or anything.
“You need not risk yourself for my sake, sister,” he said quietly, his voice rough with something that might have been gratitude or guilt. “If Guy discovers what you’re about?—”
“Guy de Montague is a snake,” Isolde interrupted, accepting her brother’s assistance to mount with the fluid grace of someone born to the saddle. “But he’s not the only one at court with fangs. I have my own allies, my own methods.”
She settled her reins, then fixed both Rachel and Tristan with a look that somehow managed to be both fond and threatening.
“While I am gone, you two will continue your... research... into the trade discrepancies. But carefully. No drawing attention, no dramatic gestures, no—” her gaze flicked meaningfully between them “—complications that might jeopardize what we’re trying to accomplish.”
Heat crept across her cheeks at the implication. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” Isolde said with the kind of smile that had probably made diplomats nervous for generations, “that I have eyes and am not blind to what passes between you. Use the time wisely. Both the investigation and... other matters... that require discussion.”
With that cryptic pronouncement, she spurred her horse toward the gates, her small escort falling in around her like a protective shadow. She paused at the gatehouse to call back over her shoulder, her voice carrying the kind of authority that made even the wind seem to listen.
“I’ll send word within a fortnight. Be ready when the opportunity arises—it may not come twice.”
Then she was gone, leaving behind only the echo of hoofbeats and the faint scent of expensive French perfume that seemed to linger in the morning air like a promise of things to come.
Several days later,Rachel was slowly going insane from the combination of medieval boredom and sizzling tension thick enough to cut with a butter knife.
Not that there were proper butter knives in 1475. Just another item on her growing list of things to mourn about this time period, right after coffee, indoor plumbing, and the complete absence of anything resembling decent Wi-Fi.
She stood at the kitchen window, watching Tristan work in the garden with the intensity of someone who definitely wasn’t thinking impure thoughts about the way his linen shirt clung to his shoulders when he bent to tend the herbs, or rode up to show off a six-pack that would make Chris Hemsworth jealous. The morning sun caught the dark silk of his hair, and when he straightened to wipe sweat from his brow, the fabric pulled taut across his chest in ways that made her mouth go dry.
“Focus and stop ogling the man.” She muttered to herself as she looked at the mess on the table. If she had a packet of yeast—or even proper ale barm—she could coax this into a decent rise. Here, the dough just blinked at her like,no cold butter, no dice.
“This would take five minutes with a stand mixer.” She gave up on shoving her sleeves higher and rolled them to the elbows. “Instead, I’m kneading with smoke in my eyes, banking coals like a dragon, and working with flour that’s bran-flecked and gritty.”
Sir Whiskerbottom, who had claimed a sunny spot on the kitchen table despite Marta’s increasingly creative attempts to dislodge him, fixed her with a look of feline judgment that somehow managed to convey both sympathy and mild disappointment in her life choices.
