“I know not this ‘Kansas.’ You are in Yorkshire, in England.” He gestured toward the distant sound of waves crashing against the cliffs. Even from here, the salt tang of the sea carried on the morning breeze.
She went very still. Blinked once. Twice. Then, she shook her head as if trying to clear the cobwebs.
“Too much to drink,” she muttered to herself. “Definitely too much to drink. This is what happens when you mix expensive liqueur with champagne and drink almost an entire bottle by yourself.”
Tristan found himself oddly fascinated by her strange mutterings.
“Who are you?” she asked suddenly, looking him up and down with open skepticism. “And why are you dressed so... funny?”
He drew himself up to his full height, affronted. The woman was clearly addled, but there were limits to what insults he would bear. “I am Lord Greystone, Tristan de Valois, and this is my home.” He gestured pointedly at her scandalous attire. “If anyone is dressed oddly, ’tis you, mistress.”
She glanced down at herself, then back at him with raised brows. “What, this? It’s just jeans and a t-shirt. Perfectly normal where I come from.”
“Jeans,” he repeated slowly. “And this... tee-shirt. These are garments for men.”
“Says who?”
“Says everyone!” The words burst from him louder than he’d intended. “Saints preserve us, woman, you show your legs like a—” He stopped himself before he could finish that particular comparison.
“Like a what?” Her voice had gone dangerously soft.
“Like...” He floundered, caught between propriety and honesty. “Like someone who has never heard of decency.”
She laughed—actually laughed. “Oh, honey. If you think this is indecent, you’ve clearly never been to a beach.” Her expression suddenly turned thoughtful, then alarmed. “What year is it?”
The question was so odd, asked with such desperate intensity, that he answered without thinking. “’Tis the Year of Our Lord 1475. July, if you must know.”
All the color drained from her face. She swayed on her feet, and this time Tristan moved without hesitation, catching her against his chest as her knees buckled. She felt fragile in his arms, despite her bold words and challenging stares. The scent of summer rain and something floral clung to her hair.
“Easy,” he murmured, surprised by the gentleness in his own voice. “I have you.”
“It can’t be. It isn’t possible.”
There was real fear in her voice now, though whether from his words or some realization he couldn’t fathom. He felt the tremor that ran through her slight frame, and something unexpected twisted in his chest. When had he last held a woman thus? When had anyone looked to him for comfort rather than cowering in fear of his reputation?
Something glinted in the mud near where she’d been standing. Still supporting her with one arm, he bent to retrieve it, keeping her steady against his side. The object was smooth and black as polished obsidian, bearing strange symbols that seemed to glow faintly in the dim light. Sorcery indeed.
“Is that—is that my phone?”
He held the thing up, studying it. It had been warm when he’d first grasped it, pulsing with some inner light. Now it was cold and dark as a stone. “This fell from your... garments. Some sort of talisman? It bears strange symbols and captured light before it died.”
“It’s not a talisman, it’s technology, it’s—” She stopped again, staring at him as if he’d grown a second head. “How do you not know what an iPhone is?”
iPhone. More nonsense words. He tucked the object into his belt, ignoring her distressed sound. “Sorcery, then. Of course. Because this damnable day wasn’t cursed enough.”
As he guided her through the garden gate, past the crumbling walls his father had once walked with such pride, Tristan tried to ignore the way she fit perfectly against his side. The way her strange, melodious voice made something in his chest tighten with longing he’d thought buried with his honor.
A cook. A mad cook who spoke in riddles and dressed like a man and carried cursed objects. Just what his exile needed—more complications.
But as they approached the great hall, where Hugo would be breaking his fast with his usual complaints about the ale and Mistress Caldwell would be grinding herbs with disapproval, Tristan couldn’t shake the feeling that this peculiar woman was going to change everything.
Saints preserve him.
The scent of lavender clung to his fingers where he’d touched her, and despite everything—the trespassing, the strange garments, the obvious madness—he found himself wondering what other mysteries she might be hiding beneath that sharp tongue and those defiant eyes.
Cease such thoughts, he commanded himself. She was trouble. Beautiful, bewildering trouble wrapped in scandalous clothing and speaking impossible words.
But as thunder rumbled overhead and the first drops of summer rain began to fall, Tristan de Valois found himself almost looking forward to the chaos she was about to unleash on his carefully ordered exile.
