Page 40 of Chef’s Kiss (A Knights Through Time #20)

T he clang of steel on wood echoed across Greystone’s lists as Rachel’s knife buried itself in the target with a satisfying thunk .

She yanked it free, muttered something unladylike, and threw again—harder this time.

The blade quivered in the center ring, but instead of pride, a knot of restless dread twisted deeper in her chest.

“Another,” Hugo said, handing her a second knife. He watched her stance with the critical eye of a drillmaster, his beard braided with a bit of pink ribbon. “Though if I didn’t know better, lass, I’d say you’re trying to gut your worries, not the target.”

She snorted. “Maybe I am.” She threw again. Dead center. And still her pulse hammered, her throat tight.

It had been weeks since the storm, weeks since she had chosen Tristan, weeks since Lady Jacquetta had swept in with justice and spices and smug political power. And yet Rachel couldn’t shake the gnawing fear that something—or someone—would rip it all away.

A rustle of movement at the edge of the yard made her glance over just in time to see a familiar cat trotting toward them, tail high, green eyes smug as sin. Sir Whiskerbottom dropped something at her boots with the flourish of a king bestowing tribute.

“Oh, not another dead mouse,” she groaned, wiping sweat from her brow.

But it wasn’t a mouse. It was a ragged scrap of paper, edges torn, colors faded. Rachel bent, picked it up—then froze.

Because it wasn’t parchment. It wasn’t medieval at all.

It was glossy brochure stock.

The heading read: Medieval Feasts and Follies: A Modern Reappraisal. And beneath it were words that made her stomach drop through the soles of her boots.

Her words.

A snarky, too-modern-for-the-14th-century critique of a banquet at Lord Eston’s estate: “The venison tasted like despair wearing rosemary’s perfume, and if I’d had to endure one more goblet of watered wine, I’d have committed treason myself.”

Rachel’s mouth went dry. She’d written those very words. One week ago.

Impossible.

Yet here they were, printed in black and white, on a scrap carried by a cat with far too much attitude.

The edges of her vision prickled. If my words are showing up in the future, does that mean time is cracking? Am I going to be sent back?

“Bah.” Hugo plucked the paper from her limp hand, squinted at it, then tossed it aside with the disdain of a man unimpressed by omens.

“Nonsense. Cats bring all manner of rubbish. Likely stolen from the kitchens.”

But she couldn’t laugh it off. Her chest was too tight, her mind spinning with possibilities she wasn’t ready to face. She threw another knife, harder than before, the blade burying itself so deep Hugo had to wrench it free for her.

“Your hands are shaking, mistress,” he said, softer now. “Storm’s long past. Whatever that scrap says, it can’t touch you here.”

She wanted to believe him. She almost did.

Then the sound of bootsteps on stone made her turn, and everything inside her went still.

Tristan was striding toward them, winter-blue eyes fixed on her with a determination that left no room for doubts or museum scraps or impossible fears. In his hands he carried something small, wrapped in linen.

“Rachel.” His voice carried across the lists like a vow. “A word, if you please.”

Hugo’s brows shot up, but he had the good sense to retreat to the sidelines, muttering something about saints and fools.

She wiped her palms on her skirts. “If this is about me accidentally denting the target with my frustration, I swear it was therapeutic, not destructive.”

Tristan went down on one knee in the mud, linen bundle balanced carefully in his palm.

Rachel blinked. “Uh. Sir Broodypants? What?—”

He unwrapped the cloth. Inside lay an orange and a lemon, their skins bright as sunlight, perfuming the damp air with Mediterranean promise.

Her breath caught. Citrus. In Yorkshire.

“I traded half my dignity with Venetian merchants,” he said quietly, offering the fruit like treasure, “to bring you these tokens of the life I would build with you. A hothouse, warmed by glass and stone, so that even in the dead of winter you will have the flavors you miss. Lemons for your sauces. Oranges for your cakes. A garden that answers your longing, rooted here, in this soil.”

So that’s where he’d been for the past few days on his mysterious errand.

Her eyes stung. Not with fear now, but with something fiercer, deeper.

“I thought knights gave rings,” she whispered, voice wobbling.

“I give what you love,” he said simply. “Because that is how I love. By deed. By provision. By building you the future you deserve. Marry me, Rachel.”

Her laugh broke on a sob as she went down in the mud to face him. “Honey,” she said, cupping his face, “that’s the most swoony, ridiculous, perfect proposal I’ve ever heard. But you’re forgetting something.”

His brows drew together, wary. “Forgetting?”

“You,” she said firmly. “Spices, cookware, citrus—and you, Mr. Broodypants. That’s all I want.”

The storm inside her broke then, fear scattering like clouds in sunlight. Because even if time itself came clawing, she would choose him. Again and again and again.

Tristan’s smile was slow, devastating. He pressed the citrus into her hands, then rose and pulled her up with him, his forehead resting against hers.

“Then it is settled,” he murmured. “You, me, and a future sweetened with oranges.”

“And salted with sass,” she added, grinning through her tears.

For a heartbeat they simply breathed together, the world narrowing to citrus-scented air and the weight of his hands steadying her as if he’d never let go again. And then—finally—he kissed her.

It wasn’t a chaste vow or a knight’s polite salute. It was fierce, claiming, the kind of kiss that knocked every last shard of doubt out of her chest. His mouth tasted of rain and determination and a love so sharp it made her knees forget their purpose.

Somewhere at the edge of her senses came a ragged cheer.

“Saints above,” one of the younger knights whispered. “That’s … that’s a proper knight’s pledge, that is.”

“Aye,” another muttered, awe thick in his voice. “Better than banners and tourneys. Look at ’em—like a ballad come to life.”

“Ballad, naught,” Hugo bellowed, wiping at his eyes with absolutely no shame. “That’s what victory looks like!”

Tristan broke the kiss only when she was breathless and laughing against his mouth, happy tears running down her face. He turned, still holding her hand, his eyes like a storm finally at rest.

“To the lists,” he commanded, his voice carrying across the yard like a clarion call. “By twos. Prove yourselves worthy of this day.”

The garrison erupted in clattering enthusiasm, men grabbing helms and swords as if they’d been waiting all year for the order. Hugo barked something about wagering ale on the outcome, and the knights answered with a roar that rattled the lists’ wooden rails.

Rachel leaned into Tristan’s side, citrus still cradled in her hands, her heart pounding for entirely different reasons now.

“Show-off,” she whispered, her grin wicked.

“Only for you, honey,” he murmured back, brushing one more kiss against her temple before striding forward like a man who had just claimed both his honor and his future.

The morning air smelled of roses and possibility as Rachel stood before the polished metal that served as Greystone’s best mirror, trying and failing to recognize the woman staring back at her.

The gown Isolde had commissioned was a masterpiece of medieval craftsmanship—deep blue silk that shimmered like starlight, sleeves both elegant and functional, and a neckline flattering enough to make her feel gorgeous without scandalizing the clergy into early retirement.

“Great,” she muttered, adjusting the delicate silver circlet that held her veil in place. “I look like I actually belong in this century. Someone should write this down for posterity.”

“’Tis no miracle,” Isolde said from her post at the window, orchestrating the morning’s preparations like a general planning a siege. “Merely what happens when one stops fighting one’s circumstances and embraces them.”

She looked magnificent herself, pink velvet setting off her dark hair and the sharp glint of intelligence in her eyes. Her perfume—roses, sandalwood, and mystery—softened the edges of her wit.

“How are you feeling?” she asked, moving closer to examine Rachel with the same critical precision she’d apply to a political treaty.

“Terrified,” Rachel admitted. “Excited. Like I might throw up or spontaneously combust. You know, the usual wedding cocktail.”

A soft scratch at the door preceded Emmot slipping in, grin subdued for once. He carried a bundle wrapped in cloth, the aroma alone enough to make her stomach growl.

“From the kitchens, mistress,” he said, offering it like a holy relic. “Master Tristan thought you might want something to settle your nerves ere the ceremony.”

Rachel unwrapped it to find a small meat pasty that smelled like heaven wrapped in pastry. Golden crust, herbs, rich filling—and when she bit into it, the taste made her knees nearly buckle. Sage, pepper, a kiss of nutmeg.

“He made this?” she asked thickly.

“Aye,” Emmot said proudly. “Up since dawn, muttering about seasoning. Drove Marta near mad.”

Warmth spread through her chest. Tristan’s love language wasn’t jewelry or sonnets. It was pastry, herbs, and comfort baked at sunrise.

“Tell him it’s perfect,” she said.

“I’ll tell him you swooned properly,” Emmot grinned. “He’ll like that better.”

The great hall had been turned into a fairytale—fresh rushes on the floors, lavender and rosemary scenting every step, tapestries cleaned and bright against ancient stone. Beeswax candles glowed over tables laden with bread and roasting meats.

Hugo stood near the hearth in a doublet that strained across his shoulders. His face was already blotchy with tears.

“Pull yourself together,” Mistress Caldwell scolded from the high table, though her voice carried surprising affection. “Save the blubbering for the vows.”

“Can’t help it,” Hugo sniffled, dabbing at his eyes with an embroidered cloth clearly prepared for the occasion. “Our Tristan is marrying the finest lass in Christendom.”

Father Clement muttered something about irregularity and foreign brides, but Isolde’s arched brow sent him retreating fast.

Rachel entered the hall just as Tristan appeared at the opposite arch.

Her breath caught.

Black velvet clung to Tristan’s broad shoulders, silver embroidery catching the light. His hair had been coaxed into temporary obedience. But it was his expression that undid her—wonder, desire, and a trace of disbelief that she was real.

“Saints preserve me,” he whispered, though it carried across the hall. “You are beautiful beyond all imagining.”

Heat flared across her cheeks. “You’re not too bad yourself, honey. Very dashing. Very… swoony.”

“Swoony?” Isolde echoed dryly.

“It’s a technical term,” Rachel shot back, eyes never leaving Tristan. “Means ‘likely to cause involuntary sighing and weak knees.’”

“Accurate,” Hugo bellowed, wiping tears again.

The ceremony blurred into Latin phrases and vows whispered with trembling voices. What she remembered afterward was his hand closing warm over hers, the tremor in his words when he promised forever, and the look in his eyes when Father Clement declared them husband and wife.

“You may kiss your bride,” the priest intoned.

The kiss was everything—soft, then deeper, until the world melted into heat and devotion. He tasted of mint and honey and him.

The hall erupted—cheers, Hugo sobbing like a waterfall, even Mistress Caldwell dabbing discreetly at her eyes.

“Well,” Rachel murmured against Tristan’s lips, “that was definitely swoony.”

His smile was devastating. “Indeed. Though I wonder what comes after swoony.”

“The feast,” Hugo thundered, already waving a tankard. “And after that?—”

“—the feast,” Tristan cut in firmly, cheeks tinged pink. “Which I may have overseen … and prepared more than my fair share of.”

“You cooked for your own wedding?” Rachel laughed, her heart tumbling in her chest.

“Someone had to ensure proper seasoning,” he said solemnly.

“You, Mr. Broodypants, are ridiculous.” She touched his jaw, eyes stinging with joy. “Ridiculous and perfect.”

The feast that followed was a triumph—lavish dishes, laughter ringing off the stone, toasts from friends who’d bled and laughed beside them, mistrals playing, and everyone dancing. But the true blessing arrived on silent paws.

Sir Whiskerbottom trotted into the hall, tail high, paused before the high table, and released one imperious meow.

“I believe,” Tristan said gravely, “we have been officially blessed by the highest authority.”

“Sir Whiskerbottom knew we belonged together long before we did,” Rachel agreed, scratching his torn ear.

Later, standing on Greystone’s steps with Tristan’s arm around her waist, Rachel breathed in candle smoke, roses, and contentment.

“No regrets?” he asked softly.

“About marrying a medieval knight with terrible plumbing but excellent pastry?” She leaned into him. “Best decision of my life.”

“Even though?”

“Even though,” she confirmed. “Though I’ll complain loudly about the plumbing.”

“Decades,” he repeated, eyes filled with wonder. “Decades of your chaos.”

“Decades of your cooking,” she countered, kissing him again, tasting wine and happiness.

Behind them, Greystone glowed with laughter, spice, and love finally claimed. The ancient stones seemed to hum with promise, like even the castle itself had been waiting for this moment.

The taste of forever was sweeter than honey, warmer than wine, and exactly seasoned with chaos.