For a heartbeat they simply breathed together, the world narrowing to citrus-scented air and the weight of his hands steadying her as if he’d never let go again. And then—finally—he kissed her.
It wasn’t a chaste vow or a knight’s polite salute. It was fierce, claiming, the kind of kiss that knocked every last shard of doubt out of her chest. His mouth tasted of rain and determination and a love so sharp it made her knees forget their purpose.
Somewhere at the edge of her senses came a ragged cheer.
“Saints above,” one of the younger knights whispered. “That’s … that’s a proper knight’s pledge, that is.”
“Aye,” another muttered, awe thick in his voice. “Better than banners and tourneys. Look at ’em—like a ballad come to life.”
“Ballad, naught,” Hugo bellowed, wiping at his eyes with absolutely no shame. “That’s what victory looks like!”
Tristan broke the kiss only when she was breathless and laughing against his mouth, happy tears running down her face. He turned, still holding her hand, his eyes like a storm finally at rest.
“To the lists,” he commanded, his voice carrying across the yard like a clarion call. “By twos. Prove yourselves worthy of this day.”
The garrison erupted in clattering enthusiasm, men grabbing helms and swords as if they’d been waiting all year for the order. Hugo barked something about wagering ale on the outcome, and the knights answered with a roar that rattled the lists’ wooden rails.
Rachel leaned into Tristan’s side, citrus still cradled in her hands, her heart pounding for entirely different reasons now.
“Show-off,” she whispered, her grin wicked.
“Only for you, honey,” he murmured back, brushing one more kiss against her temple before striding forward like a man who had just claimed both his honor and his future.
The morning airsmelled of roses and possibility as Rachel stood before the polished metal that served as Greystone’s best mirror, trying and failing to recognize the woman staring back at her.
The gown Isolde had commissioned was a masterpiece of medieval craftsmanship—deep blue silk that shimmered like starlight, sleeves both elegant and functional, and a neckline flattering enough to make her feel gorgeous without scandalizing the clergy into early retirement.
“Great,” she muttered, adjusting the delicate silver circlet that held her veil in place. “I look like I actually belong in this century. Someone should write this down for posterity.”
“’Tis no miracle,” Isolde said from her post at the window, orchestrating the morning’s preparations like a general planning a siege. “Merely what happens when one stops fighting one’s circumstances and embraces them.”
She looked magnificent herself, pink velvet setting off her dark hair and the sharp glint of intelligence in her eyes. Her perfume—roses, sandalwood, and mystery—softened the edges of her wit.
“How are you feeling?” she asked, moving closer to examine Rachel with the same critical precision she’d apply to a political treaty.
“Terrified,” Rachel admitted. “Excited. Like I might throw up or spontaneously combust. You know, the usual wedding cocktail.”
A soft scratch at the door preceded Emmot slipping in, grin subdued for once. He carried a bundle wrapped in cloth, the aroma alone enough to make her stomach growl.
“From the kitchens, mistress,” he said, offering it like a holy relic. “Master Tristan thought you might want something to settle your nerves ere the ceremony.”
Rachel unwrapped it to find a small meat pasty that smelled like heaven wrapped in pastry. Golden crust, herbs, rich filling—and when she bit into it, the taste made her knees nearly buckle. Sage, pepper, a kiss of nutmeg.
“He made this?” she asked thickly.
“Aye,” Emmot said proudly. “Up since dawn, muttering about seasoning. Drove Marta near mad.”
Warmth spread through her chest. Tristan’s love language wasn’t jewelry or sonnets. It was pastry, herbs, and comfort baked at sunrise.
“Tell him it’s perfect,” she said.
“I’ll tell him you swooned properly,” Emmot grinned. “He’ll like that better.”
The great hallhad been turned into a fairytale—fresh rushes on the floors, lavender and rosemary scenting every step, tapestries cleaned and bright against ancient stone. Beeswax candles glowed over tables laden with bread and roasting meats.
Hugo stood near the hearth in a doublet that strained across his shoulders. His face was already blotchy with tears.
“Pull yourself together,” Mistress Caldwell scolded from the high table, though her voice carried surprising affection. “Save the blubbering for the vows.”
