“Can’t help it,” Hugo sniffled, dabbing at his eyes with an embroidered cloth clearly prepared for the occasion. “Our Tristan is marrying the finest lass in Christendom.”
Father Clement muttered something about irregularity and foreign brides, but Isolde’s arched brow sent him retreating fast.
Rachel entered the hall just as Tristan appeared at the opposite arch.
Her breath caught.
Black velvet clung to Tristan’s broad shoulders, silver embroidery catching the light. His hair had been coaxed into temporary obedience. But it was his expression that undid her—wonder, desire, and a trace of disbelief that she was real.
“Saints preserve me,” he whispered, though it carried across the hall. “You are beautiful beyond all imagining.”
Heat flared across her cheeks. “You’re not too bad yourself, honey. Very dashing. Very… swoony.”
“Swoony?” Isolde echoed dryly.
“It’s a technical term,” Rachel shot back, eyes never leaving Tristan. “Means ‘likely to cause involuntary sighing and weak knees.’”
“Accurate,” Hugo bellowed, wiping tears again.
The ceremony blurred into Latin phrases and vows whispered with trembling voices. What she remembered afterward was his hand closing warm over hers, the tremor in his words when he promised forever, and the look in his eyes when Father Clement declared them husband and wife.
“You may kiss your bride,” the priest intoned.
The kiss was everything—soft, then deeper, until the world melted into heat and devotion. He tasted of mint and honey and him.
The hall erupted—cheers, Hugo sobbing like a waterfall, even Mistress Caldwell dabbing discreetly at her eyes.
“Well,” Rachel murmured against Tristan’s lips, “that was definitely swoony.”
His smile was devastating. “Indeed. Though I wonder what comes after swoony.”
“The feast,” Hugo thundered, already waving a tankard. “And after that?—”
“—the feast,” Tristan cut in firmly, cheeks tinged pink. “Which I may have overseen … and prepared more than my fair share of.”
“You cooked for your own wedding?” Rachel laughed, her heart tumbling in her chest.
“Someone had to ensure proper seasoning,” he said solemnly.
“You, Mr. Broodypants, are ridiculous.” She touched his jaw, eyes stinging with joy. “Ridiculous and perfect.”
The feast that followed was a triumph—lavish dishes, laughter ringing off the stone, toasts from friends who’d bled and laughed beside them, mistrals playing, and everyone dancing. But the true blessing arrived on silent paws.
Sir Whiskerbottom trotted into the hall, tail high, paused before the high table, and released one imperious meow.
“I believe,” Tristan said gravely, “we have been officially blessed by the highest authority.”
“Sir Whiskerbottom knew we belonged together long before we did,” Rachel agreed, scratching his torn ear.
Later, standing on Greystone’s steps with Tristan’s arm around her waist, Rachel breathed in candle smoke, roses, and contentment.
“No regrets?” he asked softly.
“About marrying a medieval knight with terrible plumbing but excellent pastry?” She leaned into him. “Best decision of my life.”
“Even though?”
“Even though,” she confirmed. “Though I’ll complain loudly about the plumbing.”
