Page 3 of Chef’s Kiss (A Knights Through Time #20)

The garden had always been Tristan’s sanctuary, even in its current state of wild abandon.

He’d risen before dawn as was his custom, unable to shake the restlessness that had plagued him through another sleepless night.

The summer air was thick with the promise of rain, heavy and sweet with the scent of roses that had long since forgotten their careful training.

Wild lavender brushed against his boots as he walked the overgrown paths, releasing its sharp perfume into the morning mist.

Here at least, no one whispered of his disgrace. Here, the herbs didn’t care that he’d once been Sir Tristan de Valois, Knight of the Realm, favored of King Edward—before Guy’s treachery had stripped him of aught but his name and this crumbling pile of stone his ancestors had once called home.

The rosemary had grown rampant along the eastern wall, its needle-sharp leaves glistening with dew.

He broke off a sprig, crushing it between his fingers, inhaling the scent that always reminded him of better days.

Of the kitchens at court, where he’d secretly learned to coax magic from common ingredients. Before everything had turned to ash.

A sound made him freeze.

Someone was moving through his garden. Moving carelessly, trampling through beds that had once been his mother’s pride, crushing delicate shoots beneath?—

“Saints preserve me,” he breathed, staring at the most peculiar sight his eyes had ever beheld.

A woman stood among the lavender, but unlike any woman he’d ever seen.

Her hair fell in dark waves around her shoulders, unbound and uncovered like a maiden—or a wanton.

But ’twas her garments that made his jaw tighten with suspicion.

She wore... hose. Men’s hose, but clinging to curves that were decidedly feminine.

And over this shocking display, some manner of tunic that bore strange markings across her chest.

A thief, then. Some brazen creature who thought to mock proper dress while she pillaged what remained of his coffers. The very audacity of it made his blood heat.

“What in the name of all the saints are you doing in my garden?”

The words thundered from his chest before he could temper them.

The woman spun toward him with a startled cry, nearly losing her footing on the rain-slick stones.

When she straightened, he found himself looking into eyes the color of rich earth, wide with what appeared to be genuine confusion rather than fear.

Most women cowered when he spoke thus. This one merely blinked at him as if he were the intruder.

“I’m... I’m lost?” She said, her voice carrying an accent he couldn’t place. Not French, not Flemish, not any tongue he recognized from his travels.

“Lost.” The word tasted of disbelief on his tongue. He stepped closer, noting how she held her ground despite his size. Foolish wench.

“And I suppose you became lost inside my garden walls by mere chance? What manner of...” He gestured at her shocking attire, at a loss for words that wouldn’t be blasphemy. “What are you wearing? What do those symbols mean?”

She glanced down at her tunic as if she’d forgotten what she wore. The strange markings seemed to shimmer in the gray morning light—sorcery, perhaps, though she looked more bewildered than threatening.

“It’s about coffee,” she said, and again that odd accent. “It’s a joke. About coffee and books.”

Coffee. He’d heard the word whispered among merchants who dealt in the most exotic of Eastern goods, that such a thing existed in Constantinople, but what manner of jest could be made of it? And books—what woman spoke so casually of learning? He blinked. She could read?

His hand found his sword hilt. “You’re a thief. Or a spy. Which is it?”

“I’m a food blogger!”

The words meant nothing to him. Absolutely nothing.

He stared at her, this strange creature in her shameful garments, who spoke in riddles and stood in his garden as if she had every right to be there.

The morning air carried the scent of rain and rosemary and something else—something warm and unfamiliar that seemed to cling to her skin.

“A what?”

“I write about food. On the inter—I mean, I’m a cook. Sort of.”

A cook. The words hit him like a physical blow, and something dark and bitter rose in his throat.

Of course. Of course, someone would send him a cook, today of all days, when the six-month anniversary of his disgrace weighed heavy on his soul.

When the memory of Guy’s betrayal cut fresh as any blade.

“Someone sent a cook,” he said, and his voice had gone deadly quiet. “To mock me.”

“No one sent me!” Her voice rose, carrying a note of desperation that might have moved him if he weren’t so furious. “There was this cookbook and lightning and I woke up here?—”

She stopped abruptly, spinning in a slow circle, taking in the crumbling walls, the wild garden, the mist-shrouded hills beyond.

Her face went pale as fresh parchment, and Tristan braced himself for the inevitable swoon.

Women always swooned when faced with aught too overwhelming for their delicate constitutions.

But instead of crumpling gracefully to the ground, she planted her hands on her hips and glared at him with an expression that could have curdled milk.

“Where are the cars?” she demanded. “The trains? Planes? Buses? Hell, I’d even take a bicycle or a golf cart at this point.”

He stared at her blankly. The words meant nothing—complete gibberish. “I know not of what you speak.”

Her eyes narrowed to slits. “Where the hell am I?”

The profanity made him blink. What manner of woman spoke thus? “You are at Greystone Castle,” he said carefully, watching for signs of madness.

She rolled her eyes—actually rolled them, like a petulant child. “In Kansas?”

“I know not this ‘Kansas.’ You are in Yorkshire, in England.” He gestured toward the distant sound of waves crashing against the cliffs. Even from here, the salt tang of the sea carried on the morning breeze.

She went very still. Blinked once. Twice. Then, she shook her head as if trying to clear the cobwebs.

“Too much to drink,” she muttered to herself. “Definitely too much to drink. This is what happens when you mix expensive liqueur with champagne and drink almost an entire bottle by yourself.”

Tristan found himself oddly fascinated by her strange mutterings.

“Who are you?” she asked suddenly, looking him up and down with open skepticism. “And why are you dressed so... funny?”

He drew himself up to his full height, affronted. The woman was clearly addled, but there were limits to what insults he would bear. “I am Lord Greystone, Tristan de Valois, and this is my home.” He gestured pointedly at her scandalous attire. “If anyone is dressed oddly, ’tis you, mistress.”

She glanced down at herself, then back at him with raised brows. “What, this? It’s just jeans and a t-shirt. Perfectly normal where I come from.”

“Jeans,” he repeated slowly. “And this... tee-shirt. These are garments for men.”

“Says who?”

“Says everyone!” The words burst from him louder than he’d intended. “Saints preserve us, woman, you show your legs like a—” He stopped himself before he could finish that particular comparison.

“Like a what?” Her voice had gone dangerously soft.

“Like...” He floundered, caught between propriety and honesty. “Like someone who has never heard of decency.”

She laughed—actually laughed. “Oh, honey. If you think this is indecent, you’ve clearly never been to a beach.” Her expression suddenly turned thoughtful, then alarmed. “What year is it?”

The question was so odd, asked with such desperate intensity, that he answered without thinking. “’Tis the Year of Our Lord 1475. July, if you must know.”

All the color drained from her face. She swayed on her feet, and this time Tristan moved without hesitation, catching her against his chest as her knees buckled.

She felt fragile in his arms, despite her bold words and challenging stares.

The scent of summer rain and something floral clung to her hair.

“Easy,” he murmured, surprised by the gentleness in his own voice. “I have you.”

“It can’t be. It isn’t possible.”

There was real fear in her voice now, though whether from his words or some realization he couldn’t fathom.

He felt the tremor that ran through her slight frame, and something unexpected twisted in his chest. When had he last held a woman thus?

When had anyone looked to him for comfort rather than cowering in fear of his reputation?

Something glinted in the mud near where she’d been standing. Still supporting her with one arm, he bent to retrieve it, keeping her steady against his side. The object was smooth and black as polished obsidian, bearing strange symbols that seemed to glow faintly in the dim light. Sorcery indeed.

“Is that—is that my phone?”

He held the thing up, studying it. It had been warm when he’d first grasped it, pulsing with some inner light. Now it was cold and dark as a stone. “This fell from your... garments. Some sort of talisman? It bears strange symbols and captured light before it died.”

“It’s not a talisman, it’s technology, it’s—” She stopped again, staring at him as if he’d grown a second head. “How do you not know what an iPhone is?”

iPhone. More nonsense words. He tucked the object into his belt, ignoring her distressed sound. “Sorcery, then. Of course. Because this damnable day wasn’t cursed enough.”

As he guided her through the garden gate, past the crumbling walls his father had once walked with such pride, Tristan tried to ignore the way she fit perfectly against his side.

The way her strange, melodious voice made something in his chest tighten with longing he’d thought buried with his honor.

A cook. A mad cook who spoke in riddles and dressed like a man and carried cursed objects. Just what his exile needed—more complications.

But as they approached the great hall, where Hugo would be breaking his fast with his usual complaints about the ale and Mistress Caldwell would be grinding herbs with disapproval, Tristan couldn’t shake the feeling that this peculiar woman was going to change everything.

Saints preserve him.

The scent of lavender clung to his fingers where he’d touched her, and despite everything—the trespassing, the strange garments, the obvious madness—he found himself wondering what other mysteries she might be hiding beneath that sharp tongue and those defiant eyes.

Cease such thoughts, he commanded himself. She was trouble. Beautiful, bewildering trouble wrapped in scandalous clothing and speaking impossible words.

But as thunder rumbled overhead and the first drops of summer rain began to fall, Tristan de Valois found himself almost looking forward to the chaos she was about to unleash on his carefully ordered exile.