The scent that wafted out made Rachel’s knees nearly buckle.
Cinnamon and pepper, saffron and something floral and exotic that spoke of distant lands and impossible luxury. The small chamber beyond was lined with shelves holding clay pots and wooden boxes, silk bags and metal containers that gleamed in the light filtering through a narrow window.
“You have been holding out on me,” she breathed, stepping into what could only be described as a foodie’s dream disguised as a medieval spice vault.
“This is incredible,” she whispered, moving closer to examine the collection with the reverence of someone who understood exactly what she was looking at. Each vessel was carefully labeled in Tristan’s precise script, and the combined effect was like stepping into the private vault of some legendary spice merchant. “These must be worth a fortune. Multiple fortunes.”
“Aye.” Tristan moved to stand beside her, his presence warm and solid at her back. “Worth more than this castle and all its lands combined. Pepper from the Indies, saffron from the hills of Spain, cinnamon bark from Ceylon that I traded my grandfather’s sword to obtain.”
He lifted one of the silk bags, opening it to reveal what looked like golden threads that caught the light like captured sunshine. The scent that rose from it was complex and heady, smelling of flowers and honey and something infinitely precious.
“Saffron,” he said softly, his voice taking on a quality that made her think of silk and reverence and long afternoons spent worshipping at the altar of flavor. “It takes the stigmas of a thousand flowers to produce an ounce. This bag alone could purchase a small manor.”
“I know,” Rachel said, then caught his surprised look. “I mean... I’ve heard tales. Of its rarity. Its value. The way it can transform simple rice into something that would make angels weep.”
The way he looked at her then—like she’d just spoken his native language, like she understood something fundamental about who he was beneath the armor and careful control—made her chest ache with longing.
“Your grandfather’s sword,” she repeated, trying to process the magnitude of what he was telling her. “You traded a weapon—a family heirloom—for spices?”
“A knight’s sword is for taking life,” Tristan said simply. “These are for creating something beautiful. For honoring the gifts we’ve been given by transforming them into something worthy of sharing with those we...” He stopped, seeming to struggle with words that refused to come.
“Those you what?” she prompted gently.
“Those we would woo,” he finished, the words coming out in a rush like a confession under torture. “Those we would court with more than pretty words and empty gestures. I thought... someday, when this madness with Guy is resolved, when my name is cleared and my honor restored... I might find a woman worthy of such treasures.”
Rachel’s breath caught as understanding crashed over her like a wave. “You’re talking about Westminster. About a second chance to cook for the king.”
“Aye.” His hands were clenched at his sides now, tension radiating from every line of his body. “One final chance to prove that I am more than a disgraced knight with naught to offer save a crumbling castle and a reputation in ruins. If I can create a feast worthy of royal notice, if I can use these treasures to show what I’m truly capable of...”
He turned away from her, staring out the narrow window at the morning sky. “Then perhaps I might have something to offer a woman of worth. Something more than shame and exile.”
The raw vulnerability in his admission hit her like a physical blow. This wasn’t just about clearing his name or regaining his position at court—this was about becoming worthy of love again. About proving to himself and the world that he was more than his disgrace.
“Tristan,” she said, moving to stand beside him at the window. “You don’t need to prove anything to me. You’re already?—”
“Worthy?” His laugh was bitter as wormwood. “I am a man who lost everything because I trusted the wrong person. A knight without title or fortune or prospects. What have I to offer any woman, save recipes for disaster?”
“You have yourself,” she said fiercely, turning to face him fully. “You have your skill and your passion and your ridiculous dedication to making the perfect sauce at midnight when you think no one is watching. You have your kindness to animals and your ability to make me laugh even when I’m covered in garden dirt and feeling sorry for myself.”
He stared at her as if she were speaking in tongues. “You think these things have value?”
“I think those things are priceless,” she said, reaching out to place her hands on his chest, feeling the rapid beating of his heart beneath her palms. “I think any woman would be lucky to have them. To have you.”
“Rachel.” Her name was a prayer on his lips, rough with emotion that made her knees forget their basic function.
“But,” she continued, her voice slightly unsteady, “if Westminster is what you need to believe in yourself again, then we’ll make sure it happens. We’ll use these beautiful, precious treasures to create something so incredible that the king will weep with envy.”
“We?” he asked, with something that looked dangerously like hope in his eyes.
“We,” she confirmed firmly. “Because I may be a disaster in medieval kitchens, but I know flavors. I know how to balance sweet and savory, how to build layers of taste that tell a story. And you... you’re a genius who just happens to need someone to remind him of that fact.”
The smile that spread across his face then was devastating in its beauty, transforming him from forbidding knight to something that made her heart skip several beats in succession.
“Show me more,” she whispered, her voice slightly hoarse with emotion.
What followed was like being given a private tour of culinary paradise. Tristan opened container after container, each one releasing scents that transported her to places she’d only dreamed of visiting. Star anise that smelled like Christmas morning and distant adventures. Cardamom pods that burst with floral complexity when crushed between his fingers. Vanilla beans—actual vanilla beans, impossibly precious in this time—that made her close her eyes and inhale deeply enough to make herself dizzy.
“This,” he said, lifting a small glass vial that contained what looked like liquid amber, “is olive oil from the groves of Tuscany. Sweet as honey, with a finish that lingers on the tongue like memories of summer.”
