Heat bloomed across her face.
“Right then,” Hugo said, apparently deciding to take mercy on her obvious discomfort, “shall we see if you can hit the target twice in a row? Or was that just beginner’s luck?”
“Let’s find out,” Rachel said, hefting another blade and trying to ignore the way her pulse had quickened at the thought of Tristan watching her succeed.
But as she drew back her arm for another throw, she found herself hoping that wherever he’d gone, he was still close enough to see her triumph again. There was something intoxicating about earning approval through skill rather than accident, about proving she could be more than just a disruption in his carefully ordered world.
The knife flew true once more, striking the target with satisfying precision.
“Remarkable,” Hugo said with genuine admiration. “Two perfect throws from someone who’d never held a blade this morning. You’ve got the instincts for this, mistress. The kind of natural ability that makes good warriors—or good partners for warriors who need someone watching their backs.”
Rachel found herself looking at him with new understanding. Hugo wasn’t just teaching her practical skills—he was showing her that she could belong in this world, that she could become someone worthy of standing beside a knight, even a disgraced one.
“Hugo,” she said quietly, “can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“Why does Tristan blame himself for what happened at Westminster? I mean, really blame himself, not for just the obvious reasons.”
Hugo was quiet for a long moment, hefting a blade while he considered his answer. When he spoke, his voice carried the weight of years and hard-won wisdom.
“Because the lad has spent his whole life trying to be worthy of the love people gave him,” he said finally. “His parents, his sister, his friends. Even after they were gone, he kept trying to earn something he’d already been freely given. When Guy betrayed him, when the king cast him out... it confirmed every fear he’d ever carried about not being enough.”
He looked at her directly, his scarred face serious. “Then you appeared, offering friendship and affection without conditions, without knowing about his titles or his shame. Just seeing him, accepting him, caring about him as he is. It terrifies him.”
“Why?”
“Because he can’t figure out how to earn it,” Hugo said simply. “Can’t devise a strategy or complete a quest that will make him worthy of what you’re offering. So he’s convinced himself that accepting it will only bring you harm, just like everyone else he’s ever cared about.”
“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” she said fiercely.
Hugo’s grin was sharp as a blade. “Aye, it is. But fear makes fools of us all, especially when it comes to matters of the heart. The question is, what are you going to do about it?”
CHAPTER 14
The morning mist clung to the herb garden this morning, turning the air soft and dreamlike as Rachel made her way along the overgrown paths. Three days had passed since her knife-throwing triumph, and she’d found herself drawn to this quiet corner of Greystone each day, seeking the peace that seemed to elude her within the castle walls.
The scent of rosemary and lavender filled her lungs as she knelt beside a patch of parsley that had grown wild and unruly. Working with her hands in the earth grounded her in ways she hadn’t expected—there was something deeply satisfying about coaxing order from chaos, about nurturing growth from soil and sunlight. Plus, it beat trying to figure out what passed for breakfast when your options were “questionable porridge” or “bread that could double as armor plating,” though Marta was making progress in the kitchen, though she still only let Rachel help occasionally.
“You’re up early.”
She jumped, sending flying. Rachel turned to find Tristan leaning against the garden wall, hands on his thighs, his hair damp with sweat.
“Couldn’t sleep,” she said, wiping her hands on the rough linen of the apron she wore over her kirtle.
“Looks like you’ve been out in the lists.” A thin sheen of sweat caught the morning light along his throat, and there was something different about his expression, softer than his usual careful control.
He grinned. “Aye. Don’t want the lads running to fat.”
As if. The men all looked like they could double for an action star without exerting themselves.
“You know, the rooster situation here is completely out of control. That bird starts crowing at what feels like midnight and has the vocal range of a dying opera singer.”
His mouth twitched in what might have been amusement. “Edgar has always been... enthusiastic about his duties.”
“Edgar?” She blinked at him. “You named the rooster Edgar? What’s next, are the chickens called Gertrude and Brunhilde?”
“My mother named him,” Tristan replied, moving closer with that stalking walk that always made her pulse quicken.
