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Aye, he was behind her. She could sense him there.

“Good eve, Mistress Cateline,” a deep voice boomed. She turned. “Mistress Regina.”

She bowed, as did Cateline. “Sir Tristan.”

Those brown eyes mesmerized her, but today it was his lips she could not stop staring at. They had closed over hers, glided so effortlessly as she opened to him . . .

Leaning down, Tristan whispered into her ear, “Keep looking at me that way, Reggie, and I will not have the opportunity to carry out my plan.”

He stood at full height once again, forcing her to look up. “Your plan?”

No sooner did the words leave her mouth than another voice called, “King of the Bean!”

The crowd cheered and suddenly she felt a hand grab hers, tugging. Without letting her go, Tristan pushed his way through the crowd to the table near the back of the hall, where some had already taken bits of the cake she and her father had baked. The bean was hidden, she knew, directly in the middle.

Tristan let her hand go and moved to the table. She knew he enjoyed the prospect of this particular tradition, and while guests still ate Christmas supper, the bean cake was typically cut at the beginning of the feast to allow its king, or queen, to enjoy their reward for the remainder of the eve. They could ask anyone present, no matter their station, a question that would have to be answered truthfully. They could request a particular dish or song. They were, in essence, king or queen, for the remainder of the day and eve.

“Will you stay to watch?” Tristan asked her as he made his way closer to the table.

He was acting exceedingly odd. She nodded. Another hand grasped hers, this time a small one. She squeezed it and tousled her brother’s hair. Regina’s parents stood next to him. “How did you get up here so quickly?”

Her father looked at her with a mixture of awe and . . . happiness? He was proud, she surmised, that it was their cake the guests fawned over.

“I wish for a piece,” Tristan said suddenly. He, too, was surrounded by his family. The baron and his wife. And Lady Sophia, who was indeed looking at Regina. She wore an odd expression, as if she knew something Regina did not.

A servant handed Tristan a knife. She felt poorly for him. The overly large cake would be many, many pieces away from revealing its bean. Perhaps another year he would find it. Tristan slowly cut a piece from the very center of the cake. What in the devil? It was as if . . . as if he knew where the bean was located. She looked at her father, but he avoided Regina’s gaze.

“Tis the bean,” he shouted, flicking it out of the cake and lifting it in the air. If anyone thought it odd he would have cut the bean from the middle of the cake, none commented on it.

“King of the Bean,” the crowd chanted. And then suddenly, people were being ushered to the side, and a path between her and Tristan cleared.

He waved his arms to quiet the boisterous crowd.

“As king, I ask my first question.”

It was then she realized Tristan was going to ask a question of her. And she was required to answer honestly. She swallowed, realizing too late this had all been staged. He had known where the bean was located. Everyone had known—her parents, Sophia, the baron and his wife.

“Mistress Regina,” Tristan said.

“Aye, Sir Tristan?” she teased, though her heart was not in the words. Not after what she’d learned about Lady Johanne.

“I would ask you a question which you will answer truthfully.”

“Of course,” she said automatically. All knew the rules of this tradition. “What is your question?”

He closed the distance between them.

Paused.

“First, I have a Christmas gift for you.”

A gift? This was not a part of the tradition. Tristan pulled out a bit of white ribbon from his tunic. He handed it to her. She looked up.

“It was my sister’s.”

She knew immediately he spoke of Elizabeth.

“I am convinced it was she, my sweet, loving sister, gone too soon, who brought us together.” He continued. “I have loved you since the day you handed me that flower at her funeral.”