Page 36 of Chef’s Kiss (A Knights Through Time #20)

T he inn at Hertford was the kind of establishment that advertised itself as “quaint” but delivered on “questionable hygiene with a side of structural damage.” Rachel sat in the corner of the common room, nursing a cup of ale that tasted like it had been filtered through someone’s old boots, watching Tristan brood at a table by the window with the intensity of someone perfecting the art of self-recrimination.

Four days on the road had done nothing to improve the atmosphere between them. If anything, the forced proximity had turned their silence into something with actual weight—thick enough to slice and serve with the inn’s truly tragic excuse for bread.

“Still giving each other the cold shoulder, are we?” Hugo asked, settling his massive frame onto the bench beside her with a creak that suggested the furniture was reconsidering its life choices. “Because I have to tell you, the entertainment value wore thin two villages ago.”

“We’re not giving each other anything,” Rachel muttered, taking another sip of ale and immediately regretting it. “We’re just... existing in the same general vicinity without actually acknowledging each other’s presence. It’s very mature and sophisticated.”

Hugo snorted. “Aye, about as sophisticated as watching two cats circle each other whilst pretending the other doesn’t exist. Though I’ll grant you, the cats usually have more sense.”

Through the grimy window, she could see the market square where vendors hawked their wares to travelers unfortunate enough to be passing through.

The scent of roasting meat and questionable vegetables drifted through the open shutters, mixing with the inn’s signature aroma of unwashed bodies and spilled ale.

“He thinks I’m a walking disaster,” she said quietly, voicing the fear that had been gnawing at her since Westminster. “And the really awful part is, he’s not wrong. I do ruin everything I touch.”

“Bollocks,” Hugo said with enough force to make several other patrons look over. “Absolute bollocks, and if you believe that rot, you’re dafter than Father Clement on his worst day.”

She glanced at him in surprise. Hugo wasn’t exactly known for his philosophical insights—more for his ability to consume alarming quantities of ale while providing running commentary on everyone else’s poor life decisions.

“Think about it, lass,” he continued, lowering his voice but losing none of its intensity.

“You want to know what Tristan was like before you arrived? I’ll tell you.

He’d wake before dawn and work until midnight, pushing himself like a man trying to outrun demons.

Barely spoke save to give orders. Ate whatever Cook set before him without tasting a bite. ”

Hugo’s voice took on the patient tone of someone sharing hard-won truths. “I watched him go through the motions of living without ever truly being alive. ’Twas like watching a ghost haunting his own castle.”

“Because Guy destroyed his life,” Rachel protested weakly.

“Because he’d forgotten he was worth saving,” Hugo corrected firmly. “Then you arrived—this strange lass speaking of impossible places, wearing clothes that marked you as foreign as a purple sheep. Did he cast you out?”

“No, but?—”

“Nay, he gave you shelter. Shared his kitchens, his knowledge, his precious spices from court. And something changed in him.” Hugo’s scarred face softened with memory.

“First time I saw him truly smile in months was when you burned that first batch of porridge and apologized to it like you’d personally offended the grain. ”

Despite herself, Rachel felt her mouth twitch at the memory. She had indeed spent considerable time expressing regret to charred breakfast items while she was getting used to cooking over an open flame.

“You should have seen how he looked at me in that cell,” she said, the memory still sharp enough to cut. “Like I’d personally betrayed everything he’d tried to rebuild. Like trusting me was the final mistake in a long line of poor judgment calls.”

“Aye, I saw how he looked,” Hugo replied, his voice carrying the weight of someone who’d watched his friend suffer for years. “Like a man whose heart was breaking because he thought he’d lost something precious. Not anger, lass. Fear.”

“Fear of what?”

“Fear that he’d been right about himself all along,” Hugo said simply. “That everything he touches turns to ash. That he was cursed to destroy everything good in his life, starting with you.”

The brutal honesty of it hit her like a slap. She’d been so focused on her own guilt, her own failures, that she hadn’t considered how this might look from Tristan’s perspective. A man who’d already lost everything once, watching it happen again.

“Remember,” Hugo continued relentlessly, “this is the same man who gave his mother’s silver to buy medicines for Cook’s fever.

Who takes in every stray animal and starving villager who appears at his gates.

Who worked himself near to death trying to restore prosperity to lands that had been neglected for years. ”

Hugo leaned forward, his eyes intent. “The week before Westminster, do you know what he told me? Said he was going to court you the proper way when this business was finished. Bring you gifts worthy of a lady, ask formally for your hand. He spent hours planning what spices he’d use for your betrothal feast.”

The words made her chest ache with longing for those stolen moments in the kitchens—Tristan’s hands guiding hers as they worked ingredients into something magical, the way he’d looked at her like she was worth wooing with exotic treasures and careful courtship.

“Well, that’s over now,” she said, trying to inject finality into words that tasted like ash. “Even if we clear his name, even if we prove Guy was behind the poisoning, things between us... There’s too much damage. Too many things said that can’t be taken back.”

“Is there?” Hugo asked mildly, but his eyes had sharpened with the focus of someone who’d spotted something interesting. “Or are you just afraid to fight for what you want?”

Before she could answer, commotion erupted near the inn’s entrance—the sound of spurred boots on wooden floors and a voice that made her blood turn to ice water in her veins.

“Ale,” the voice commanded with the casual authority of someone accustomed to instant obedience. “And whatever passes for food in this godforsaken establishment. I’ve traveled far and require sustenance ere I continue my journey.”

Guy de Montague.

The color drained from her face as she recognized the smooth, cultured tones that had pronounced her guilt so eloquently at Westminster. Hugo had gone rigid beside her, his hand dropping instinctively to his sword hilt. Across the room, Tristan’s head had snapped up like a wolf scenting danger.

Guy swept into the common room with the fluid grace of someone who’d never met a situation he couldn’t manipulate to his advantage.

He was everything Rachel remembered from Westminster—devastatingly handsome in that polished way that spoke of good breeding and better tailors, with golden hair that caught the light and a smile that could probably charm court ladies out of their dresses before he’d even finished removing his boots.

What she hadn’t noticed before was the calculating coldness in his pale eyes, the way they cataloged every face in the room with the thoroughness of someone evaluating potential threats or opportunities.

“Hugo,” Tristan said quietly, his voice carrying across the room despite its careful modulation. “Pay our reckoning. We leave. Now.”

But Guy’s gaze had already found them, and his perfect features arranged themselves into an expression of delighted surprise that would have won awards for its apparent sincerity.

“Sir Tristan!” he called out, his voice carrying the warmth of old friendship tinged with just the right amount of concern. “And the lovely foreign lady who caused such... excitement... at Westminster. How fortuitous to encounter you here.”

The entire common room had gone quiet, patrons sensing drama the way vultures sensed carrion.

Rachel could taste the metallic tang of danger on her tongue, could smell Guy’s expensive perfume—something with notes of sandalwood and ambition—cutting through the inn’s general atmosphere of unwashed humanity and spilled ale.

“Guy,” Tristan replied with deadly calm, rising from his bench with movements that spoke of coiled violence barely held in check. “What brings you so far from court?”

“Business,” Guy said easily, settling onto a bench with a casual elegance that made the rough tavern furniture look like it belonged in a palace. “His Grace has interests that extend beyond Westminster’s walls, as you well know. Or knew, before your… unfortunate circumstances.”

Tristan’s mouth curved, though his eyes narrowed. “Unfortunate, aye. Yet I’ve always admired how swiftly some men transform disaster into opportunity. Like weeds thriving in ruined soil.”

Guy’s brows lifted in mock surprise. “Weeds? Surely you do me too little credit. I prefer to think of myself as ivy—rooted, persistent. And not easily torn away, no matter how stout the wall.”

“Perhaps,” Tristan said, the single word edged like steel. “And left untended, ivy will bring the wall down.”

The smile never left Guy’s face, but his fingers brushed his satchel, the movement quick, telling. “Then perhaps we must agree that walls—and the men who guard them—should be made stronger.”

Tristan leaned forward slightly, his voice pitched low, almost amiable. “Or that ivy must be cut back before it strangles the entire house.”

Guy tilted his head, as if conceding the point. His smile deepened, knife-sharp behind the civility. “Indeed. But one should take care. In trimming ivy, it is all too easy for the gardener’s blade to slip—and draw his own blood.”

The tavern’s din seemed to hush for an instant, the polished malice of his words lingering like smoke between them.

“Perhaps we should—” she began, but Guy’s attention shifted to her with laser focus that made her words die in her throat.

“Ah, the mysterious lady speaks,” he said with false delight that made her skin crawl. “I confess, I remain fascinated by your... unique... background. Such interesting knowledge of herbs and their... varied... applications.”

“Travel broadens one’s education,” she said carefully, trying to keep her voice level despite the way her heart was hammering against her ribs. “Different lands have different... traditions... regarding the culinary arts.”

“Indeed, they do,” Guy agreed with predatory interest. “Though some traditions prove more... dangerous... than others when introduced to civilized society.”

The threat was clear now, all pretense of casual conversation abandoned.

Guy rose with a flourish, satchel shifting—and with it, several papers slipped free, scattering across the tavern’s floor.

Some landed face down, but others revealed glimpses of seals and neat, official script.

Guy cursed under his breath, dropping to gather them with movements too quick, too frantic to maintain his earlier composure.

“Allow me,” Hugo said with false helpfulness, reaching down with his great paw.

“No need,” Guy snapped, his mask slipping for an instant before snapping back into place. “Merely … correspondence… of little interest to anyone save myself.”

But in his haste, he missed one sheet that slid beneath a nearby table. Hugo’s hand closed over it before Guy straightened, the parchment vanishing into his grasp as easily as a coin.

“Safe travels,” Guy added with forced warmth, sweeping from the inn with considerably less grace than he had entered.

Only when the door shut behind him did Rachel exhale. She glanced at Tristan, whose jaw was still set like stone, and nudged him lightly with her shoulder. “Don’t look at me like that, honey. You’re going to bury that bastard. Besides, no one can resist Sir Scowls-a-Lot when he’s in hero mode.”

For the first time in days, the edge of Tristan’s mouth softened—not quite a smile, but enough to ease the steel in his gaze as Hugo slid the rescued parchment into his hand.

Tristan’s thumb brushed the broken seal before he closed his fist around it, a flicker in his eyes promising that Guy’s arrogance would not go unanswered.

Rachel leaned closer, pulse quickening as she smoothed the paper flat. “This isn’t just numbers … it’s a ledger. Something’s wrong here.”

“Wrong how?” Tristan asked, his shoulder brushing hers as he leaned in to look. The contact sent warmth racing through her despite their circumstances.

“Here,” she said, pointing. “It looks like a code for what was received versus what was paid. It has to be a skim.”

Hugo gave a low whistle. “So the bastard’s been stealing.”

Rachel’s mind leapt ahead, piecing together patterns. For once, her odd, impractical modern knowledge wasn’t a liability. It was their weapon. “It looks systematic. Organized. Not petty theft—this is someone with access to records and payments. Someone like Guy.”

Tristan’s breath hissed between his teeth. “And these are the very routes I was accused of stealing from.”

Hugo’s expression darkened. “Then we’ve bought ourselves time, nothing more. When he realizes what’s missing, he won’t stop at exile. A man like that won’t rest until he’s silenced us.”

Rachel looked between the two men—Hugo’s gruff pessimism, Tristan’s careful hope—and for the first time in days, smiled. This was their chance to fight back. To prove the truth.

Tristan’s smile was small but genuine, the first real warmth she’d seen from him since Westminster. Sir Scowls-a-Lot, she thought, but now with pride instead of exasperation. For the first time, he wasn’t merely enduring his banishment—he was planning the way back.

“In that case,” he said quietly, “perhaps it’s time we stopped running and started fighting back.”

A faint draft slipped through the shutters, carrying the metallic tang of distant rain. Thunder rumbled soon after, promising storms ahead. But for the first time since their banishment began, Rachel found herself looking forward to the weather.