“And this?” She gestured to a wooden box that seemed to hum with potential.
“Black pepper,” he said, opening it to reveal what looked like tiny black pearls that released a scent so complex and wonderful it made her mouth water. “Worth more per grain than silver. I traded my best bow for this particular batch—pepper from the Spice Islands that the Venetian merchants guard like state secrets.”
The way he spoke about each ingredient was like listening to poetry made edible, his voice taking on a quality that spoke of silk and worship and reverence for the sacred act of creation. She could picture him at Westminster, using these treasures to craft something so magnificent that no one would be able to deny his worth.
But as they explored deeper into his collection, Rachel noticed something that made her heart clench with sudden understanding. These weren’t just spices—they were memories. Pieces of his past life carefully preserved, symbols of everything he’d lost when Guy’s betrayal had stripped away his position at court.
“You saved these,” she said softly, understanding flooding through her. “When you were exiled, when you lost everything else—you saved these.”
“They were all I could carry,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “All that remained of the man I used to be. The man who could create beauty worthy of kings.”
“The man you still are,” she corrected gently. “The man you’ll be again when the feast at Westminster proves to everyone what I already know.”
He turned to look at her then, and there was something in his eyes that made her breath catch—hope and fear and desperate longing all tangled together in a way that spoke of dreams deferred but not destroyed.
“And what is that?” he asked, his voice rough as castle stone.
“That you’re extraordinary,” she said simply. “That you always have been, with or without court recognition. That these spices are just tools in the hands of an artist who could probably make tree bark taste like ambrosia if he put his mind to it.”
The space between them seemed to crackle with tension as they stood there surrounded by the scent of exotic spices and the weight of unspoken promises. Rachel found herself cataloging every detail of this moment—the way the light from the narrow window caught the gold flecks in his eyes, the way his chest rose and fell with carefully controlled breathing, the way her entire body seemed to hum with awareness of his proximity.
“Rachel,” he said, her name a rough whisper that made her pulse spike.
“Yes?”
“If Westminster succeeds...” He paused, seeming to struggle with words that carried the weight of everything he’d dared to hope for. “If my honor is restored and I am once again worthy of calling myself a knight...”
“You’ll what?” she prompted gently.
“I would like permission to court you properly,” he said, the words coming out in a rush like a confession. “To woo you with feasts created from these treasures, to show you that I can be a man worthy of your regard. To prove that what lies between us is more than mere proximity and shared disaster.”
Rachel’s heart stopped beating entirely for approximately three seconds, then resumed at double time. The sincerity in his voice, the careful formality that couldn’t quite hide the desperate hope underneath—it was the most romantic thing anyone had ever said to her.
“Permission granted,” she whispered, her voice shaking with the force of her own emotions.
Something cracked in his carefully maintained control at her words, and suddenly his hands were framing her face, his thumbs tracing the line of her cheekbones with devastating tenderness.
“Tell me I have not misread the signs between us,” he said urgently. “Tell me you feel some measure of what thunders through my chest each time you smile, each time you laugh at my poor attempts at humor.”
Instead of answering with words, she rose up on her toes and kissed him.
It was meant to be a gentle thing, a simple answer to his question, but the moment their lips met, something ignited between them that had nothing to do with gentle and everything to do with the kind of hunger that could consume kingdoms. He kissed her back with a reverence that stole her breath, as if she were something precious and rare that he’d been given permission to worship.
When they finally broke apart, both breathing heavily, she found herself pressed against the shelves of spices with Tristan’s hands braced on either side of her, his eyes dark with want and wonder.
“That was definitely not a mistake,” she said, her voice slightly unsteady.
His laugh was breathless and beautiful, transforming his entire face from forbidding to something that made her heart skip several beats in succession.
“Nay,” he agreed, his forehead coming to rest against hers. “That was a promise.”
Around them, the scent of exotic spices filled the air like incense, blessing this moment with the promise of feasts yet to be created and love yet to be declared. Rachel closed her eyes and breathed deeply, memorizing the smell of saffron and cinnamon, of cardamom and vanilla, of the man who’d just offered her his heart wrapped in silk and poetry.
“So,” she said, opening her eyes to find him watching her with an expression that made her feel like the most precious spice in his collection, “when exactly is this Westminster feast happening again? Because I should probably warn you—I have a tendency to overthink important events until I make myself slightly insane.”
“Within the fortnight, if Isolde’s intelligence proves accurate,” he replied, his smile devastating in its honesty. “Though I confess, the thought of you overthinking anything culinary fills me with equal parts terror and anticipation.”
“Trust me, your way is definitely better,” she said, reaching up to trace the scar that cut through his eyebrow. “Though I should mention that my standards for romantic gestures have officially been raised to impossible levels. Secret spice chambers and declarations of proper wooing? You’ve set the bar pretty high.”
