Page 6

Regina leaned forward. “What message?”

“That he is wroth with Lord Waryn of Bristol as well as with the Earl and Countess of Kenshire.”

Oh dear. “And therefore displeased with Camburg as well.”

“Aye. He knows we would not go against Kenshire, nor would we wish to. But I fear our disinvolvement in Edward’s recent campaigns against Wallace have not gone unnoticed.”

By “our” Regina knew he meant both Camburg and Kenshire as they acted, always, as one. Tristan’s father, Lord William Thornhurst, had been appointed seneschal by the current countess of Kenshire’s father, holding Camburg Castle in the earl’s name.

“So your service for him in France meant little? You risked your life for him to send you on your way with, what? A warning? A threat?”

She could see from his expression that was precisely what was happening.

“As I said, tonight is not the time to speak of such things.”

It bothered him, though. And Regina hated to see Tristan upset. So she attempted to make him smile. “My father and I baked a bean cake.”

The previous year they’d not done so, the tradition overlooked somehow, and Tristan had been disappointed. Every year he hoped to be the one to discover the bean, claim the title of “King of the Bean” and have the ability to lord over his father, if for a day. As she expected, that did make him smile.

“Where is your father this eve?” he asked. “I’d hoped to speak with him.”

“Where do you believe him to be?”

“Sleeping at the bakery.”

“Aye.”

Neither said anything for a moment, but the silence was not awkward. It was comforting, in fact. Sitting by this fire, in one of her finest gowns, Regina could almost forget she was but a baker’s apprentice. Her companion, Sir Tristan of Camburg, eldest son to the 1st Baron of Camburg.

When their eyes met, Regina’s heart began to race. Though fleeting, there was a hint of something more than friendship there. As many times as she’d thought it might have been so throughout the years, she just as quickly dismissed it. She and Tristan could not be. It was simply the way of it.

She stood. “We should return before you are missed.” Walking toward the door, Regina stepped under the thick wall of the entranceway, surprised when Tristan’s voice stopped her.

“Before we do . . .”

She turned. Waited.

He looked up.

There, above her, was a bough of mistletoe. Her mind raced back to their discussion of the fire.

I asked for it to be stoked.

Which means he would have asked for the decoration too. Otherwise, this room would not have been adorned with garland, and apparently mistletoe, given how little used it was. Perhaps it was a coincidence. The servants likely put it there of their own accord. Of course Tristan did not request it. She was silly to even think such a thing.

And yet, he waited for her to respond.

Regina’s mouth went dry. She knew not what to say.

“You do know what that means?” Tristan prompted, looking down at her expectantly. She knew that expression as well. He wanted something.

Apparently that something was . . . her?

Nay. Impossible.

“I do,” she croaked out. Then taking a deep breath, unwilling to let the moment linger any longer, she stepped toward him, raised herself on her toes and kissed her friend on his cheek.

As she was about to spin back around, Tristan’s hand stopped her on the shoulder.