Page 33 of Chef’s Kiss (A Knights Through Time #20)

T he dungeons of Westminster Palace smelled like despair seasoned with centuries of regret, with high notes of mold and something Rachel really didn’t want to identify.

She sat on what could generously be called a stone bench, though it had clearly been designed by someone who thought comfort was a character flaw that needed correcting.

Her midnight blue silk gown, the one Isolde had sworn would make her look “properly demure and unthreatening”—now bore the distinctive patina of medieval incarceration.

The expensive fabric that had seemed so elegant hours ago now felt like a costume from someone else’s life, someone who belonged in the royal courts instead of dungeon cells with questionable hygiene standards.

Seven nobles. Seven people writhing in agony because she’d insisted on garnishing their feast with herbs that someone had switched for poison.

She pressed her palms against the rough stone wall, trying to stop her hands from shaking.

Never in her life had she been arrested, let alone imprisoned.

She’d never even gotten a speeding ticket.

Never faced the very real possibility that medieval justice might involve things like public execution and crowd entertainment.

The dampness of the walls seeped through her sleeves, carrying the musty scent of centuries-old despair that made her stomach clench with nausea.

“This is a nightmare,” she whispered to herself, then louder, with forced bravado. “I’ve had food poisoning incidents before, but this is definitely a new personal low. Usually when I ruin someone’s meal, they just leave a bad review, not threaten to burn me at the stake.”

Tristan paced their shared cell like a caged wolf whose territory had been invaded by incompetent sheep.

His elegant court doublet—midnight blue velvet with silver threading that had probably cost more than her rent—was torn at the shoulder where the guards had been less than gentle.

Each footstep against stone echoed with barely contained fury, and the scent of smoke from wall torches mixed with his rage until the very air felt combustible.

The silence stretched between them like a chasm, filled only with the rhythmic drip of water somewhere in the darkness and the distant sounds of palace life continuing above them.

She found herself remembering another evening, just weeks ago, when that same careful stride had carried him through Greystone’s kitchens while she’d babbled about spice combinations and proper seasoning techniques.

“You see patterns others miss,” he’d said that night, his voice warm with something that had felt dangerously close to admiration. “You understand flavors in ways that would take years to learn. ’Tis a gift.”

The memory felt like a knife twisting in her chest now.

“Cease your babbling,” he said finally, his voice carrying that deadly quiet that preceded explosions. “Your jests ring hollow when seven people lie dying from what you claimed would revolutionize royal cuisine.”

The harsh words hit her like a physical blow, and something cold settled in her stomach.

Fear, yes, but also the horrible recognition that he might be right.

Maybe she was exactly what she’d always feared—utterly unremarkable, deluding herself into thinking she had anything special to offer.

Maybe falling through time had just given her a wider stage for her particular brand of mediocrity.

“You think I did this?” she asked, proud that her voice came out steady despite the way her heart was hammering against her ribs like a bird trying to escape a cage. “You actually think I deliberately poisoned random nobles to destroy your one shot at redemption?”

He stopped pacing to stare at her, and the expression on his face was worse than anger.

It was the look of someone who’d just realized they’d been played for a fool by someone they’d trusted completely.

The same look her college roommate had given her when she’d discovered Rachel had accidentally scheduled two different study groups in their room at the same time, turning what should have been quiet preparation into chaos that had cost everyone their focus.

The same look her mother had worn when Rachel’s “help” with Christmas dinner had resulted in burned rolls and a turkey that emerged from the oven three hours late. “Maybe you should just... watch next time, sweetheart. Let someone more experienced handle the important parts.”

“I think you brought chaos from the moment you appeared in my garden,” he said, each word precisely aimed to wound. “Speaking of cursed cookbooks and falling through time, dressed in garments that belong to no fashion known to Christendom.”

Thunder rumbled overhead, filtering through the narrow window slit with the promise of storms to match her mood. The sound made her jump despite herself, and she hated how the involuntary flinch revealed just how terrified she really was beneath her protective layer of snark.

The irony wasn’t lost on her. For the time she’d spent at Greystone, she’d felt like she was finally becoming someone important.

Someone whose opinions mattered, whose knowledge had value.

Tristan had listened to her ideas about cooking, had actually implemented her suggestions, had made her feel like she was contributing something meaningful for the first time in her adult life.

She remembered the way his face had lit up when she’d suggested using her “foreign spices” to enhance traditional dishes.

How he’d watched her hands as she’d demonstrated knife techniques from her time, his attention focused and intent as if she were sharing precious secrets instead of basic culinary knowledge any decent cook should know.

“You make me remember why I loved this,” he’d said one evening, flour dusting his hands as they’d worked side by side. “Why cooking felt like magic instead of mere necessity. I had forgotten what ’twas like to create instead of simply surviving.”

And now he looked at her like she was a walking disaster. Like trusting her had been the latest in a long line of poor judgment calls that had defined his fall from grace.

“The pottage that sparked religious panic amongst my people,” Tristan continued, his voice growing colder with each accusation.

“The market day that nearly saw you burned for witchcraft. Training sessions that became entertainment for bored guardsmen. And now this—people dying whilst I played the besotted fool.”

The word ‘besotted’ cut deeper than the rest, dripping with scorn for whatever softness he’d shown her.

As if the gentle touches, the careful instruction, the moments when his guard had dropped enough to let her see the man beneath the armor—as if all of it had been a mistake he was now reconsidering.

Something cracked inside her chest—not her heart, exactly, but something vital that had been holding her together since she’d first landed in his garden.

The expensive silk of her gown suddenly felt suffocating, like borrowed finery from someone who actually belonged in places like this instead of wreaking havoc with the best of intentions.

“I was trying to help,” she said, but the words came out weak and unconvincing even to her own ears.

“Help?” His laugh held all the warmth of winter frost, sharp enough to cut. “Seven nobles may die whilst Guy de Montague doubtless celebrates his victory with the king’s finest wine. Saints preserve me, some aid indeed.”

The brutal honesty of it carved pieces from what remained of her composure.

She could smell the acrid smoke from the torches, mixing with fear-sweat and the accumulated misery of generations who’d rotted in these same stones.

The chill from the walls crept through her silk like the knowledge that she’d finally, definitively, proven what she’d always suspected about herself.

That she was forgettable. Replaceable. The kind of person who tried to help and only made things worse. The middle child who’d learned early that being loudly wrong got more attention than being quietly right, but who’d never quite mastered the art of being remarkable enough to matter.

“I should have heeded every warning about trusting strangers who speak of impossible things,” he continued, his voice quieter but no less cutting. “Should have remembered Guy’s lessons about the price of faith misplaced.”

Rain began pattering against stone somewhere above them, the sound echoing through their cell like applause at the world’s worst dinner theater. The chill crept through her gown like the knowledge that she’d finally, definitively, ruined something that actually mattered.

“’Tis what I earned for forgetting that trust is a luxury I cannot afford,” Tristan said, resuming his restless pacing. “For believing that someone like me could deserve—” He stopped abruptly, jaw clenching like he’d caught himself before revealing something too personal.

“Deserve what?” she asked, though part of her already knew and dreaded the answer.

“Redemption. Honor. A future that wasn’t built on the ashes of past mistakes.” He laughed again, the sound bitter as burnt coffee. “For thinking that perhaps the fates had finally sent me something good instead of another test I was destined to fail.”

The raw pain in his voice made her chest ache in ways that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the horrible realization that she’d become his latest disappointment in a life apparently full of them.

Just like she’d been her parents’ disappointment when she’d chosen food blogging over law school.

Just like she’d been her editor’s disappointment when her reviews were too honest for the magazine’s advertiser-friendly standards.