“I shall endeavor to meet your expectations,” he replied solemnly, though his eyes danced with mischief. “Though I confess myself curious about these standards. What manner of romantic gestures did the men of your homeland employ?”
“Oh, you know,” Rachel said airily, “the usual. Dinner at chain restaurants, flowers bought from gas stations, romantic texts sent at two in the morning asking if I was still awake. Really swept me off my feet with their creativity.”
The blank look on his face reminded her that none of those things had been invented yet, which made his confusion both adorable and slightly tragic.
“Never mind,” she said, standing on her toes to press a quick kiss to his lips. “Your way is infinitely better. Plus, you have actual vanilla beans. Do you know how incredible those are? Most people where I come from have never even seen real vanilla—just artificial extract that tastes like a sad approximation of the real thing.”
“I shall remember that,” he said solemnly, as if filing away important intelligence about her preferences. “Vanilla beans for the lady. Noted.”
As they made their way back down the spiral staircase, Tristan’s hand warm and sure in hers, Rachel felt like she was floating several inches above the stone steps. The morning that had started with restless insomnia and garden weeding had somehow transformed into the most romantic moment of her entire life.
She was being courted by a medieval knight with a secret treasure chamber full of exotic spices and a talent for creating poetry out of cardamom and desire. A month ago, she’d been reviewing chain restaurants in Kansas. Now she was falling for a man who seasoned everything—including her heart—with exactly what it needed.
But beneath the giddy rush of new love, a small voice in the back of her mind whispered warnings about the feast to come. Westminster wasn’t just about proving Tristan’s worth—it was walking directly into Guy’s territory, surrounded by people who already believed the worst about both of them.
She squeezed Tristan’s hand tighter, pushing away the fear that tried to creep in around the edges of her happiness. They had two weeks to prepare, two weeks to create something so magnificent that no one could deny his skill or question his loyalty.
Two weeks to prove that some things were worth fighting for, no matter how dangerous the battlefield.
CHAPTER 15
The thunder of hoofbeats across the courtyard shattered the peaceful afternoon like a stone through glass, followed by the sharp commands of someone who was clearly accustomed to having the world rearrange itself according to her will.
Isolde was back.
Rachel looked up from the kitchen table where she’d been attempting, yet again, to master the art of medieval pastry—an endeavor that was going about as well as her first attempt at soufflé in culinary school, which was to say, catastrophically.
Through the narrow window, she caught sight of a small cavalcade approaching the gates. Isolde rode at its head, dressed in emerald velvet that seemed to shimmer with its own inner light, her dark hair coiled beneath a proper headdress. Even from this distance, Lady Isolde Beaumont radiated the kind of authority that made hardened knights check their posture and servants scurry to appear busy.
“Saints preserve us,” Marta muttered from her position by the hearth, where she’d been tending a pot of what might charitably be called stew. “Her ladyship returns, and is in fine spirits by the look of it.”
Rachel wiped the flour from her hands and tried not to think about how her apron was stained with enough kitchen disasters to scandalize a convent. “How can you tell she’s in fine spirits from here?”
“The way she sits her horse,” Marta replied with the confidence of someone who’d spent decades reading the moods of nobility from a safe distance. “Like a cat that’s found a particularly fat mouse and knows exactly how she means to play with it before the killing blow.”
The comparison made her shiver slightly, though whether from anticipation or dread, she couldn’t say. In the two weeks since Isolde’s departure, she and Tristan had settled into something that felt dangerously like domestic bliss. They spent mornings in the garden after he’d trained in the lists, afternoons cooking together, but only after her horse and knife lessons with Hugo, and evenings by the fire with Sir Whiskerbottom purring between them like a furry chaperone. The cat left dead rodents in the chapel, the garrison, and, of course, all over the castle.
She’d almost let herself forget that they were living on borrowed time, that somewhere beyond Greystone’s crumbling walls, enemies were plotting and courts were scheming and the real world was waiting to intrude on their carefully constructed paradise.
Apparently, that intrusion had just arrived in silk and velvet.
By the time Rachel made her way to the great hall, Isolde had already taken command of the space with the thoroughness of a general claiming conquered territory. She stood before the great hearth, still travel-dusty but magnificent in bearing. Parchment rustled in her gloved hands as she examined what appeared to be official documents, their red wax seals catching the firelight like drops of blood.
Tristan paced before her like a caged wolf, his usual controlled demeanor cracked enough to reveal the desperate hope and terror warring beneath his careful mask. Hugo lounged nearby with studied casualness, though Rachel noticed his hand resting on his sword hilt with the unconscious readiness of a man prepared for trouble.
“Sister,” Tristan said, his voice carefully neutral despite the tension radiating from every line of his body. “Your return is... earlier than expected.”
“By a day.” Isolde’s smile was sharp as a blade and twice as dangerous. “I did promise swift action, did I not? Though I confess, even I am surprised by how quickly certain... opportunities... presented themselves.”
She held up the parchment, and Rachel caught sight of the royal seal—the golden lions of England pressed into red wax that seemed to glow in the firelight. The very air in the hall seemed to thicken with possibility and dread.
“What news?” Tristan asked, though his voice had gone hoarse with something that might have been hope or fear or both.
“The best possible news,” his sister replied, her dark eyes dancing with satisfaction. “It seems that certain parties at court have grown... curious... about your situation. Whispers have been circulating about the true nature of your exile, and questions have been raised about the evidence that condemned you.”
Rachel’s heart skipped several beats as she moved closer, drawn by the electric tension filling the hall. The scent of Isolde’s perfume was almost overwhelming this close—expensive French roses layered with something that might have been sandalwood or myrrh, the kind of complex fragrance that spoke of wealth and secrets and the ability to bend the world to one’s will.
“What manner of questions?” Tristan’s voice was deadly quiet now, the tone of someone who’d learned not to hope too quickly or trust too easily.
