Page 27 of Chef’s Kiss (A Knights Through Time #20)
The way he looked at her then—like she’d just spoken his native language, like she understood something fundamental about who he was beneath the armor and careful control—made her chest ache with longing.
“Your grandfather’s sword,” she repeated, trying to process the magnitude of what he was telling her. “You traded a weapon—a family heirloom—for spices?”
“A knight’s sword is for taking life,” Tristan said simply. “These are for creating something beautiful. For honoring the gifts we’ve been given by transforming them into something worthy of sharing with those we...” He stopped, seeming to struggle with words that refused to come.
“Those you what?” she prompted gently.
“Those we would woo,” he finished, the words coming out in a rush like a confession under torture.
“Those we would court with more than pretty words and empty gestures. I thought... someday, when this madness with Guy is resolved, when my name is cleared and my honor restored... I might find a woman worthy of such treasures.”
Rachel’s breath caught as understanding crashed over her like a wave. “You’re talking about Westminster. About a second chance to cook for the king.”
“Aye.” His hands were clenched at his sides now, tension radiating from every line of his body.
“One final chance to prove that I am more than a disgraced knight with naught to offer save a crumbling castle and a reputation in ruins. If I can create a feast worthy of royal notice, if I can use these treasures to show what I’m truly capable of. ..”
He turned away from her, staring out the narrow window at the morning sky. “Then perhaps I might have something to offer a woman of worth. Something more than shame and exile.”
The raw vulnerability in his admission hit her like a physical blow. This wasn’t just about clearing his name or regaining his position at court—this was about becoming worthy of love again. About proving to himself and the world that he was more than his disgrace.
“Tristan,” she said, moving to stand beside him at the window. “You don’t need to prove anything to me. You’re already?—”
“Worthy?” His laugh was bitter as wormwood. “I am a man who lost everything because I trusted the wrong person. A knight without title or fortune or prospects. What have I to offer any woman, save recipes for disaster?”
“You have yourself,” she said fiercely, turning to face him fully.
“You have your skill and your passion and your ridiculous dedication to making the perfect sauce at midnight when you think no one is watching. You have your kindness to animals and your ability to make me laugh even when I’m covered in garden dirt and feeling sorry for myself. ”
He stared at her as if she were speaking in tongues. “You think these things have value?”
“I think those things are priceless,” she said, reaching out to place her hands on his chest, feeling the rapid beating of his heart beneath her palms. “I think any woman would be lucky to have them. To have you.”
“Rachel.” Her name was a prayer on his lips, rough with emotion that made her knees forget their basic function.
“But,” she continued, her voice slightly unsteady, “if Westminster is what you need to believe in yourself again, then we’ll make sure it happens. We’ll use these beautiful, precious treasures to create something so incredible that the king will weep with envy.”
“We?” he asked, with something that looked dangerously like hope in his eyes.
“We,” she confirmed firmly. “Because I may be a disaster in medieval kitchens, but I know flavors. I know how to balance sweet and savory, how to build layers of taste that tell a story. And you... you’re a genius who just happens to need someone to remind him of that fact.”
The smile that spread across his face then was devastating in its beauty, transforming him from forbidding knight to something that made her heart skip several beats in succession.
“Show me more,” she whispered, her voice slightly hoarse with emotion.
What followed was like being given a private tour of culinary paradise.
Tristan opened container after container, each one releasing scents that transported her to places she’d only dreamed of visiting.
Star anise that smelled like Christmas morning and distant adventures.
Cardamom pods that burst with floral complexity when crushed between his fingers.
Vanilla beans—actual vanilla beans, impossibly precious in this time—that made her close her eyes and inhale deeply enough to make herself dizzy.
“This,” he said, lifting a small glass vial that contained what looked like liquid amber, “is olive oil from the groves of Tuscany. Sweet as honey, with a finish that lingers on the tongue like memories of summer.”
“And this?” She gestured to a wooden box that seemed to hum with potential.
“Black pepper,” he said, opening it to reveal what looked like tiny black pearls that released a scent so complex and wonderful it made her mouth water.
“Worth more per grain than silver. I traded my best bow for this particular batch—pepper from the Spice Islands that the Venetian merchants guard like state secrets.”
The way he spoke about each ingredient was like listening to poetry made edible, his voice taking on a quality that spoke of silk and worship and reverence for the sacred act of creation.
She could picture him at Westminster, using these treasures to craft something so magnificent that no one would be able to deny his worth.
But as they explored deeper into his collection, Rachel noticed something that made her heart clench with sudden understanding.
These weren’t just spices—they were memories.
Pieces of his past life carefully preserved, symbols of everything he’d lost when Guy’s betrayal had stripped away his position at court.
“You saved these,” she said softly, understanding flooding through her. “When you were exiled, when you lost everything else—you saved these.”
“They were all I could carry,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “All that remained of the man I used to be. The man who could create beauty worthy of kings.”
“The man you still are,” she corrected gently. “The man you’ll be again when the feast at Westminster proves to everyone what I already know.”
He turned to look at her then, and there was something in his eyes that made her breath catch—hope and fear and desperate longing all tangled together in a way that spoke of dreams deferred but not destroyed.
“And what is that?” he asked, his voice rough as castle stone.
“That you’re extraordinary,” she said simply. “That you always have been, with or without court recognition. That these spices are just tools in the hands of an artist who could probably make tree bark taste like ambrosia if he put his mind to it.”
The space between them seemed to crackle with tension as they stood there surrounded by the scent of exotic spices and the weight of unspoken promises.
Rachel found herself cataloging every detail of this moment—the way the light from the narrow window caught the gold flecks in his eyes, the way his chest rose and fell with carefully controlled breathing, the way her entire body seemed to hum with awareness of his proximity.
“Rachel,” he said, her name a rough whisper that made her pulse spike.
“Yes?”
“If Westminster succeeds...” He paused, seeming to struggle with words that carried the weight of everything he’d dared to hope for. “If my honor is restored and I am once again worthy of calling myself a knight...”
“You’ll what?” she prompted gently.
“I would like permission to court you properly,” he said, the words coming out in a rush like a confession.
“To woo you with feasts created from these treasures, to show you that I can be a man worthy of your regard. To prove that what lies between us is more than mere proximity and shared disaster.”
Rachel’s heart stopped beating entirely for approximately three seconds, then resumed at double time. The sincerity in his voice, the careful formality that couldn’t quite hide the desperate hope underneath—it was the most romantic thing anyone had ever said to her.
“Permission granted,” she whispered, her voice shaking with the force of her own emotions.
Something cracked in his carefully maintained control at her words, and suddenly his hands were framing her face, his thumbs tracing the line of her cheekbones with devastating tenderness.
“Tell me I have not misread the signs between us,” he said urgently. “Tell me you feel some measure of what thunders through my chest each time you smile, each time you laugh at my poor attempts at humor.”
Instead of answering with words, she rose up on her toes and kissed him.
It was meant to be a gentle thing, a simple answer to his question, but the moment their lips met, something ignited between them that had nothing to do with gentle and everything to do with the kind of hunger that could consume kingdoms. He kissed her back with a reverence that stole her breath, as if she were something precious and rare that he’d been given permission to worship.
When they finally broke apart, both breathing heavily, she found herself pressed against the shelves of spices with Tristan’s hands braced on either side of her, his eyes dark with want and wonder.
“That was definitely not a mistake,” she said, her voice slightly unsteady.
His laugh was breathless and beautiful, transforming his entire face from forbidding to something that made her heart skip several beats in succession.
“Nay,” he agreed, his forehead coming to rest against hers. “That was a promise.”
Around them, the scent of exotic spices filled the air like incense, blessing this moment with the promise of feasts yet to be created and love yet to be declared.
Rachel closed her eyes and breathed deeply, memorizing the smell of saffron and cinnamon, of cardamom and vanilla, of the man who’d just offered her his heart wrapped in silk and poetry.
“So,” she said, opening her eyes to find him watching her with an expression that made her feel like the most precious spice in his collection, “when exactly is this Westminster feast happening again? Because I should probably warn you—I have a tendency to overthink important events until I make myself slightly insane.”
“Within the fortnight, if Isolde’s intelligence proves accurate,” he replied, his smile devastating in its honesty. “Though I confess, the thought of you overthinking anything culinary fills me with equal parts terror and anticipation.”
“Trust me, your way is definitely better,” she said, reaching up to trace the scar that cut through his eyebrow.
“Though I should mention that my standards for romantic gestures have officially been raised to impossible levels. Secret spice chambers and declarations of proper wooing? You’ve set the bar pretty high. ”
“I shall endeavor to meet your expectations,” he replied solemnly, though his eyes danced with mischief. “Though I confess myself curious about these standards. What manner of romantic gestures did the men of your homeland employ?”
“Oh, you know,” Rachel said airily, “the usual. Dinner at chain restaurants, flowers bought from gas stations, romantic texts sent at two in the morning asking if I was still awake. Really swept me off my feet with their creativity.”
The blank look on his face reminded her that none of those things had been invented yet, which made his confusion both adorable and slightly tragic.
“Never mind,” she said, standing on her toes to press a quick kiss to his lips.
“Your way is infinitely better. Plus, you have actual vanilla beans. Do you know how incredible those are? Most people where I come from have never even seen real vanilla—just artificial extract that tastes like a sad approximation of the real thing.”
“I shall remember that,” he said solemnly, as if filing away important intelligence about her preferences. “Vanilla beans for the lady. Noted.”
As they made their way back down the spiral staircase, Tristan’s hand warm and sure in hers, Rachel felt like she was floating several inches above the stone steps.
The morning that had started with restless insomnia and garden weeding had somehow transformed into the most romantic moment of her entire life.
She was being courted by a medieval knight with a secret treasure chamber full of exotic spices and a talent for creating poetry out of cardamom and desire.
A month ago, she’d been reviewing chain restaurants in Kansas.
Now she was falling for a man who seasoned everything—including her heart—with exactly what it needed.
But beneath the giddy rush of new love, a small voice in the back of her mind whispered warnings about the feast to come. Westminster wasn’t just about proving Tristan’s worth—it was walking directly into Guy’s territory, surrounded by people who already believed the worst about both of them.
She squeezed Tristan’s hand tighter, pushing away the fear that tried to creep in around the edges of her happiness. They had two weeks to prepare, two weeks to create something so magnificent that no one could deny his skill or question his loyalty.
Two weeks to prove that some things were worth fighting for, no matter how dangerous the battlefield.