Page 26 of Chef’s Kiss (A Knights Through Time #20)
T he morning mist clung to the herb garden this morning, turning the air soft and dreamlike as Rachel made her way along the overgrown paths.
Three days had passed since her knife-throwing triumph, and she’d found herself drawn to this quiet corner of Greystone each day, seeking the peace that seemed to elude her within the castle walls.
The scent of rosemary and lavender filled her lungs as she knelt beside a patch of parsley that had grown wild and unruly.
Working with her hands in the earth grounded her in ways she hadn’t expected—there was something deeply satisfying about coaxing order from chaos, about nurturing growth from soil and sunlight.
Plus, it beat trying to figure out what passed for breakfast when your options were “questionable porridge” or “bread that could double as armor plating,” though Marta was making progress in the kitchen, though she still only let Rachel help occasionally.
“You’re up early.”
She jumped, sending flying. Rachel turned to find Tristan leaning against the garden wall, hands on his thighs, his hair damp with sweat.
“Couldn’t sleep,” she said, wiping her hands on the rough linen of the apron she wore over her kirtle.
“Looks like you’ve been out in the lists.” A thin sheen of sweat caught the morning light along his throat, and there was something different about his expression, softer than his usual careful control.
He grinned. “Aye. Don’t want the lads running to fat.”
As if. The men all looked like they could double for an action star without exerting themselves.
“You know, the rooster situation here is completely out of control. That bird starts crowing at what feels like midnight and has the vocal range of a dying opera singer.”
His mouth twitched in what might have been amusement. “Edgar has always been... enthusiastic about his duties.”
“Edgar?” She blinked at him. “You named the rooster Edgar? What’s next, are the chickens called Gertrude and Brunhilde?”
“My mother named him,” Tristan replied, moving closer with that stalking walk that always made her pulse quicken.
“She said he had the bearing of a king and should be addressed accordingly.”
The mention of his mother brought a softness to his features that changed his entire face, and something warm unfurled in her chest.
“She sounds like she had a sense of humor,” Rachel said. “Anyone who gives royal titles to barnyard animals gets my vote for medieval comedy gold.”
“Aye.” He knelt beside her, close enough that she could smell the scent of soap, male, and steel that clung to his skin. “She would have liked you, I think. Your... irreverence for things others hold sacred.”
“Is that a compliment or an insult? Because I’ve been called worse things by restaurant managers who thought my reviews were too honest about their tragic excuse for hollandaise sauce.”
“’Tis an observation,” he said, but there was warmth in his voice that made her think it might be the former. “She once scandalized the entire court by suggesting that King Edward’s cook might benefit from learning a thing or two about proper seasoning.”
Rachel laughed, the sound bright in the morning air. “No wonder you learned to appreciate good food. Questioning culinary authority was practically a family tradition.”
They worked in silence for a while, Tristan helping her divide the overgrown herbs. The earth released its rich, loamy scent as they worked, mixing with the sharp green smell of broken stems and the warming air that promised another sweltering summer day.
“These gardens were my mother’s pride before my parents retired to Thisten Castle,” he said quietly, his voice carrying the weight of memory like a stone worn smooth by years of handling.
“She spent hours here, teaching me which herbs could heal and which could harm, which spices could transform simple fare into something that would make grown men weep with longing.”
The pain in his voice was carefully banked, like coals covered with ash but still burning underneath.
She found herself studying his profile—the sharp line of his jaw, the way his dark lashes cast shadows on his cheeks, the scar that cut through his eyebrow like a reminder of battles fought and survived.
“Is that where you learned to cook? Really learned, I mean? Because what I witnessed in your midnight kitchen session was definitely not amateur hour.”
Tristan’s hands stilled on the rosemary he’d been pruning. When he looked at her, his gaze held something that looked almost like relief—as if her acceptance of that hidden part of himself was a gift he hadn’t dared hope for.
“Partly,” he said finally. “But the true education came later, when I was fostered at other courts. There was a cook at Lord Pemberton’s castle—a man who’d traveled to Constantinople in his youth, who knew secrets of spices that seemed like magic to a lad of twelve.”
He sat back on his heels, his gaze distant with memory. “Master Giovanni taught me that cooking was not merely about sustenance, but about creating beauty from simple ingredients. About honoring what you had been given and transforming it into something worthy of... of love.”
The last word came out rough, as if it had torn something inside him to say it.
“He sounds incredible,” Rachel said softly. “What happened to him?”
“Died of a fever the winter before I was knighted.” Tristan’s voice was matter-of-fact, but Rachel caught the pain beneath his careful control. “I never had the chance to tell him that he’d taught me more about honor than any knight I’d ever known.”
The morning air seemed to thicken with unspoken emotion, heavy with the scent of herbs and the warmth of shared memory. Rachel’s heart clenched at the raw vulnerability in his admission—this proud, strong man revealing the tender places where loss had carved permanent hollows.
“Is that why you kept cooking after you came here?” she asked gently. “To honor his memory?”
“Perhaps.” He turned to look at her, and the intensity in his gaze made her breath catch. “Or perhaps because some hungers can only be satisfied by creating something beautiful, regardless of whether anyone is there to appreciate it.”
The words hung between them, loaded with meanings that had nothing to do with food and everything to do with the way he was looking at her—like she was something precious and impossible and entirely worth the risk.
“Tristan,” she whispered, not sure if it was a question or a prayer.
He reached out slowly, as if afraid she might disappear like morning mist, and brushed a streak of dirt from her cheek with his thumb. The simple touch sent sparks racing through her entire nervous system, and she found herself leaning into his palm without conscious thought.
“There’s something I must show you,” he said, his voice gone rough with something that made her pulse quicken. “Something I’ve carried in secret since my disgrace. Hidden away like some shameful treasure.”
“What kind of something?”
“Treasures from my past life.” His hand dropped from her face, but his gaze never left hers.
“The only things of value I managed to save when Guy stripped everything else away. I thought... when this madness is resolved, when my honor is restored... I might find someone worthy of sharing them with.”
Rachel’s heart started hammering against her ribs. “Are you asking what I think you’re asking?”
“I am asking nothing yet,” he said quickly, color rising in his neck. “I am merely... showing you what manner of man I might be again. If the saints see fit to grant redemption to one such as I.”
While his response should have been disappointing, she couldn’t keep the smile from her face as they made their way through the garden toward a section of the castle she’d never explored, climbing a narrow spiral staircase that wound upward through stone walls thick enough to muffle sound and sunlight alike.
At the top, Tristan produced a key from somewhere about his person and unlocked a heavy wooden door.
The scent that wafted out made Rachel’s knees nearly buckle.
Cinnamon and pepper, saffron and something floral and exotic that spoke of distant lands and impossible luxury. The small chamber beyond was lined with shelves holding clay pots and wooden boxes, silk bags and metal containers that gleamed in the light filtering through a narrow window.
“You have been holding out on me,” she breathed, stepping into what could only be described as a foodie’s dream disguised as a medieval spice vault.
“This is incredible,” she whispered, moving closer to examine the collection with the reverence of someone who understood exactly what she was looking at.
Each vessel was carefully labeled in Tristan’s precise script, and the combined effect was like stepping into the private vault of some legendary spice merchant.
“These must be worth a fortune. Multiple fortunes.”
“Aye.” Tristan moved to stand beside her, his presence warm and solid at her back. “Worth more than this castle and all its lands combined. Pepper from the Indies, saffron from the hills of Spain, cinnamon bark from Ceylon that I traded my grandfather’s sword to obtain.”
He lifted one of the silk bags, opening it to reveal what looked like golden threads that caught the light like captured sunshine. The scent that rose from it was complex and heady, smelling of flowers and honey and something infinitely precious.
“Saffron,” he said softly, his voice taking on a quality that made her think of silk and reverence and long afternoons spent worshipping at the altar of flavor. “It takes the stigmas of a thousand flowers to produce an ounce. This bag alone could purchase a small manor.”
“I know,” Rachel said, then caught his surprised look. “I mean... I’ve heard tales. Of its rarity. Its value. The way it can transform simple rice into something that would make angels weep.”