“Oh, I understand plenty. I understand that you people think indoor plumbing is witchcraft and personal hygiene is optional.”
Hugo raised his tankard, grinning despite the tension, his shoulder roll more pronounced now. “She’s got spirit, I’ll grant her that. Sharp as a blade and twice as cutting. Reminds me of that French lass who took my shoulder apart—fierce as winter wind, she was.”
“She’s dangerous,” Mistress Caldwell countered, those pale eyes never leaving Rachel’s face. “Mark how her hair refuses proper binding, how her eyes bear flecks of gold like some wild creature. Foreign features, foreign ways.” Her voice dropped. “My sister had eyes like that. The merchants praised her beauty before the fever took her.”
“I condition my hair,” Rachel said weakly. “And it’s just brown. Very normal brown hair that I’ve never managed to tame, but it’s not supernatural, it’s just genetics and Kansas humidity.”
More blank stares. Right. Genetics. Not invented yet either.
The smell of unwashed bodies and smoke was making her dizzy, or maybe that was the shock of realizing she was actually, genuinely, completely screwed. No phone. No internet. No modern plumbing, or coffee, or chocolate, or any of the things that made life worth living. Just suspicious medieval people who thought her jeans were instruments of the devil and her hair was cursed.
She caught Tristan watching her with those pale blue eyes, his expression unreadable. There was something almost gentle in his gaze, which was probably pity. Great. Even the growly medieval knight felt sorry for her.
“She needs proper garments,” he said finally. “And food. And...” His gaze flicked to a piece of her butter stick phone case still lying amongst the rushes. It looked like a stick of butter though right now all she could see was the B. “Perhaps it would be best to dispose of the cursed object entirely.”
“Already done, mate,” Hugo said cheerfully, rolling that shoulder again. “Into the flames where it belongs. Like that cursed French blade.” He leaned down and picked up the last piece of the phone case, tossing into the fire with a grin.
“No!” She stared into the fire. “It’s not cursed, it’s just broken! And it’s all I had left of—” Her voice cracked. Of home. Of her real life. Of a world where she understood the rules and could order coffee and people didn’t think her clothes were an abomination unto the Lord.
The hall had gone quiet again, everyone watching her with expressions that ranged from suspicious to curious to downright hostile. The torchlight flickered across their faces, making them look like something out of a fever dream.
One star overall,Rachel thought desperately,for the most dysfunctional restaurant staff in history. Would not recommend for dinner or emotional support.
She swallowed hard, tasting smoke and fear and the bitter realization that she was completely, utterly alone in a world that might as well be an alien planet.
“I want to go home,” she whispered.
CHAPTER 5
The solar was Tristan’s retreat from the curious eyes and wagging tongues that filled his hall. Here, surrounded by ledgers that recorded his dwindling coffers and maps that reminded him of battles he’d never fight again, he could almost pretend he was still the knight he’d once been. Almost.
The woman—Rachel, she’d called herself—sat in the chair across from his desk like she owned the place, those strange garments still clinging to her curves in ways that made his jaw clench. She’d taken to examining his chamber with the focused intensity of a merchant appraising goods, her gaze cataloging everything from his collection of quills to the faded tapestry depicting his family’s heraldry.
“So this is where Lord Broodypants does his brooding,” she said, settling back in the chair with that casual confidence that made his teeth ache. “Very atmospheric. The cobwebs really tie the whole ‘tragic exile’ theme together.”
He nearly choked on his wine. “Lord... what?”
“Broodypants. You know—because you brood. A lot, and you wear leather pants.”
She gestured vaguely at his lower half with the kind of shameless assessment that would have scandalized every woman at court. “It’s better than my first nickname for you.”
Despite himself, Tristan found his curiosity piqued. “Which was?”
“Sir Scowls-a-Lot.” She grinned, and the expression transformed her entire face, making those gold-flecked eyes dance with mischief.
“But I decided that was too obvious.”
“You are... most peculiar.”
“Thank you. I work very hard at it.” She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, in a posture that would have given Father Clement an apoplexy. “Now, Lord Greystone—that’s still your title, right? Or is it just Sir Tristan?”
The casual observation hit like a blade between his ribs, but he kept his expression neutral. Too many people had pried into his disgrace already. “What know you of my affairs?”
“Oh, honey.” She tilted her head, studying him with the intensity of someone evaluating an underdone roast. “I’ve worked in food service. I can spot a person who’s been served a crap sandwich by life from across a crowded room. Plus, this whole place screams ‘fallen from grace’ louder than a badly tuned lute.”
“A badly tuned—" He stopped. “Do you mock everything?”
“Only the things that deserve it. Which, let’s face it, is pretty much everything.” She gestured around the chamber. “Nice digs, by the way. Very ‘Gothic romance meets accounting office.’ Really captures that whole ‘I used to be somebody important but now I spend my evenings doing math’ vibe.”
