Page 10 of Chef’s Kiss (A Knights Through Time #20)
Tristan stared down at the deceased mouse, then at the cat, who was now sitting at attention like a soldier awaiting orders, his green eyes bright with professional satisfaction.
Something shifted in his expression—surprise, certainly, but underneath that, something that looked almost like fondness.
“Sir Whiskerbottom,” he said finally, the name rolling off his tongue with only the slightest hesitation.
“That’s his name, yes.”
“’Tis a ridiculous name for a... kitchen supervisor.”
“I think it suits him perfectly,” Rachel replied, reaching down to scratch behind the cat’s good ear. “Very distinguished. Very professional.”
Tristan was quiet for a long moment, studying the cat with an intensity that seemed disproportionate to the situation. When he finally spoke, his voice had lost its edge of irritation and taken on something that sounded almost... wistful.
“My mother had a cat,” he said quietly, so quietly that she had to strain to hear him over the crackling of the fire.
“A great gray beast that ruled the kitchens like a tiny tyrant. The cook swore it could sense a storm coming three days before it arrived and always knew which grain sacks were going bad before anyone else noticed.”
“Smart cats make smart kitchens,” Rachel said softly, recognizing the pain in his voice and the way his carefully maintained walls seemed to crack just slightly when he spoke of his mother.
“Aye.” He cleared his throat, the vulnerability disappearing behind his familiar mask of control. “Well. If the creature is to remain, it will earn its keep. No lounging about like some pampered court pet.”
“Understood, my lord,” Rachel said solemnly, though she couldn’t quite suppress the smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Sir Whiskerbottom takes his responsibilities very seriously. Don’t you, Sir Whiskerbottom?”
The cat in question fixed Tristan with a steady gaze and released a single, dignified meow that somehow managed to convey both agreement and mild condescension.
“Saints preserve me,” Tristan muttered, but Rachel caught the ghost of a smile flickering across his features. “What manner of madness have you brought to my kitchens?”
Sir Whiskerbottom picked up his catch and left the kitchens to eat in peace.
By evening, the novelty of having a cat in residence had worn off for most of the castle’s inhabitants, but Rachel found herself genuinely charmed by Sir Whiskerbottom’s dedication to his new role.
He’d spent the afternoon making rounds like a tiny, furry health inspector, examining grain stores, testing the warmth of spots near the hearth for optimal napping conditions, and establishing a complex hierarchy with the kitchen staff that somehow placed him firmly at the top despite being the size of a small loaf of bread.
She’d retired to her chamber earlier than usual, exhausted by another day of navigating medieval social customs and trying not to think too hard about how she was going to get home—or if it was even possible.
Or did she even want to? That last thought was dangerous, the kind that made her chest tighten with possibilities she wasn’t ready to examine too closely.
But sleep eluded her, chased away by restlessness and the lingering scent of smoke that clung to everything in this impossible place.
After an hour of tossing and turning on the surprisingly comfortable straw mattress, she gave up and decided to check on Sir Whiskerbottom.
The castle was quieter at night, but she’d learned that cats kept their own schedules regardless of human preferences.
The corridors were dark, lit only by the occasional torch that cast dancing shadows on the stone walls. Rachel made her way carefully toward the kitchens, her bare feet silent on the cold floors, guided by memory and the faint glow of banked fires.
She pushed open the kitchen door as quietly as possible, not wanting to startle any late-night workers who might still be about their duties. But the kitchen was empty, filled only with the scent of dying embers and the lingering traces of the day’s cooking.
Almost empty.
In the corner, near the great hearth where the stones still radiated gentle warmth, a figure sat slumped in one of the worn wooden chairs.
Her breath caught as she recognized Tristan’s broad shoulders, his dark hair falling forward to hide his face.
He was perfectly still, his breathing deep and even with the rhythm of exhausted sleep.
And curled against his chest, purring with the contentment of someone who’d found the perfect sleeping spot, was Sir Whiskerbottom.
Rachel’s heart did something complicated in her chest as she watched them.
Tristan’s large hands, those same hands that could wield a sword or handle the delicate work of seasoning a sauce, were curved protectively around the small cat.
His usual mask of careful control had melted away in sleep, leaving behind something vulnerable and almost boyish that made her throat tighten with unexpected tenderness.
“Daft creature,” she heard him murmur, so softly she almost missed it. His voice was rough with sleep, completely unguarded. “Think you can charm your way into favor with your shameless purring?”
Sir Whiskerbottom’s purr grew louder, a tiny engine of pure contentment, and one of Tristan’s hands moved to scratch behind the cat’s good ear with unconscious gentleness.
“Aye, well,” he continued in that same soft voice, talking to the cat as if confessing secrets he’d never speak aloud in daylight. “Perhaps there’s room for one more lost soul in this crumbling place. God knows we’ve all been cast out from where we belong.”
The raw pain in his voice made her chest ache. This proud, strong man, reduced to finding comfort in a stray cat because he’d been stripped of everything else that mattered. She wanted to step forward, to offer comfort, to tell him that being cast out didn’t mean being worthless.
But she also understood that this moment wasn’t meant for her.
This was Tristan at his most unguarded, revealing the gentleness he kept hidden beneath layers of anger and pride.
To intrude would be to steal something precious, something he’d given only to a small cat who asked for nothing but warmth and scratches behind the ears.
So instead, she memorized the scene. The way the dying firelight turned his hair to silk, the careful curve of his hands around the tiny body, the soft expression that transformed his entire face from forbidding to beautiful.
This was the man beneath the armor, the one who collected exotic spices and cooked with passion and mourned his mother, who’d loved cats.
This was the man she was beginning to fall for, whether she was ready to admit it or not.
As quietly as she’d entered, Rachel slipped back into the corridor, leaving Tristan to his private moment with Sir Whiskerbottom.
But she carried the image with her back to her chamber—proof that beneath all his brooding and careful distance, the knight of Greystone Castle had a heart soft enough to comfort strays.
Both the four-legged kind and, possibly, the kind that had fallen through time and landed in his garden with nothing but attitude and questionable clothing choices.
The thought should have terrified her. Instead, as she drifted off to sleep with the memory of his gentle hands and unguarded voice warming her better than any fire, Rachel found herself smiling into the darkness.