Page 5 of Chef’s Kiss (A Knights Through Time #20)

T he solar was Tristan’s retreat from the curious eyes and wagging tongues that filled his hall. Here, surrounded by ledgers that recorded his dwindling coffers and maps that reminded him of battles he’d never fight again, he could almost pretend he was still the knight he’d once been. Almost.

The woman—Rachel, she’d called herself—sat in the chair across from his desk like she owned the place, those strange garments still clinging to her curves in ways that made his jaw clench.

She’d taken to examining his chamber with the focused intensity of a merchant appraising goods, her gaze cataloging everything from his collection of quills to the faded tapestry depicting his family’s heraldry.

“So this is where Lord Broodypants does his brooding,” she said, settling back in the chair with that casual confidence that made his teeth ache. “Very atmospheric. The cobwebs really tie the whole ‘tragic exile’ theme together.”

He nearly choked on his wine. “Lord... what?”

“Broodypants. You know—because you brood. A lot, and you wear leather pants.”

She gestured vaguely at his lower half with the kind of shameless assessment that would have scandalized every woman at court. “It’s better than my first nickname for you.”

Despite himself, Tristan found his curiosity piqued. “Which was?”

“Sir Scowls-a-Lot.” She grinned, and the expression transformed her entire face, making those gold-flecked eyes dance with mischief.

“But I decided that was too obvious.”

“You are... most peculiar.”

“Thank you. I work very hard at it.” She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, in a posture that would have given Father Clement an apoplexy. “Now, Lord Greystone—that’s still your title, right? Or is it just Sir Tristan?”

The casual observation hit like a blade between his ribs, but he kept his expression neutral. Too many people had pried into his disgrace already. “What know you of my affairs?”

“Oh, honey.” She tilted her head, studying him with the intensity of someone evaluating an underdone roast. “I’ve worked in food service.

I can spot a person who’s been served a crap sandwich by life from across a crowded room.

Plus, this whole place screams ‘fallen from grace’ louder than a badly tuned lute. ”

“A badly tuned—" He stopped. “Do you mock everything?”

“Only the things that deserve it. Which, let’s face it, is pretty much everything.” She gestured around the chamber. “Nice digs, by the way. Very ‘Gothic romance meets accounting office.’ Really captures that whole ‘I used to be somebody important but now I spend my evenings doing math’ vibe.”

Tristan drained the cup, then set down his goblet with more force than necessary. This woman was like a blade wrapped in silk—beautiful, compelling, and utterly dangerous to one’s peace of mind. “You observe much for a mad cook who speaks in riddles.”

“I prefer ‘charmingly eccentric food critic,’ thanks. And I’m very observant. It’s literally my job.” She crossed one leg over the other, a gesture so casual it made his breath catch.

“Like how you carry yourself—trained for war, but you haven’t seen real battle recently. Your hands are soft enough that you’re not doing manual labor, but they’re not pampered-lord soft either.”

Clever wench. Too clever by half. “Continue.”

“They’re cook’s hands.” She leaned forward again, and the scent of her hair—something clean and floral that had no business existing in his world—made his pulse quicken.

“Knife calluses, burn scars, that little crease between your thumb and forefinger from years of gripping kitchen implements. I should know—I’ve got the same marks.

Well, mostly. I’m spectacularly bad with actual fire, but knives I can handle. ”

Tristan went very still. In all his years of hiding his true passion behind the facade of knighthood, no one had ever looked at his hands and seen the truth written there in scars and calluses. “You know naught of what you speak.”

“Really?” She raised an eyebrow that somehow managed to convey both skepticism and amusement.

“Because I’m betting you’ve got a spice collection hidden somewhere, that would make a merchant weep with actual joy.

And I’m guessing you know exactly how to balance saffron with verjuice, how to make a sauce that could resurrect the dead. ”

Saints preserve him. She was describing his secret life with uncomfortable accuracy, as if she’d peered into his very soul and found it seasoned to perfection.

“Even if your wild suppositions held true,” he said carefully, rising to pace before the fire, “what of it?”

“What of it?” Her voice rose in incredulity. “Dude, you’re like a master chef trapped in a knight’s body, stuck in a castle that’s literally falling down around your ears! It’s like watching Gordon Ramsay work at a gas station hot dog stand.”

“I know not this Gordon Ramsay, but I assume he is some manner of renowned cook?”

“The most terrifying chef who ever lived. Makes grown men weep into their soufflés.”

She studied his face with that unnerving intensity again.

“The point is, you’re wasted here. Hiding. A talent like yours shouldn’t be buried under all this—” she waved at the ledgers “—administrative nonsense.”

The comparison stung because it was so accurate. He moved to stand before the hearth, letting the flames hide the emotion that threatened to break free. “You know nothing of my circumstances. Of what brought me to this place.”

“No,” she agreed, and her voice lost some of its teasing edge. “But I know what it looks like when someone’s been royally screwed over. And I know what it’s like to feel like you’re slowly dying in a place that doesn’t appreciate what you have to offer.”

Something in her tone made him turn. She was staring into the fire now, her face reflecting a pain he recognized all too well.

“You speak as one who knows such trials,” he said softly.

Rachel laughed, but it was sharp as broken glass.

“Kansas isn’t exactly the culinary capital of the world.

I spend my days reviewing chain restaurants where ‘exotic’ means they put paprika on the french fries.

I write thousand-word reviews about whether the Olive Garden breadsticks are worth the twenty-minute wait, and I pretend I don’t dream of critiquing actual cuisine prepared by actual chefs who know the difference between cumin and cardamom. ”

The honesty in her voice caught him off guard. This strange woman, with her impossible garments and otherworldly knowledge, was offering him something he hadn’t expected. Understanding. And perhaps... kinship.

“What happened to you?” she asked suddenly, turning those earth-brown eyes on him with startling directness.

“What brought the great chef-knight to his crumbling castle of accounting?”

Rachel watched emotions flicker across Tristan’s face like flames in a draft—pain, anger, something that might have been shame.

She’d hit a nerve, which meant she was right about the disgrace thing.

Her pattern recognition was working overtime, the same instincts that helped her spot a badly managed restaurant or a chef who’d given up on their craft.

The solar smelled like leather and old parchment, with hints of something warmer underneath—cinnamon, maybe, or nutmeg.

Definitely horribly expensive spices in this time, which supported her theory about his hidden culinary skills.

The candlelight turned his hair to black silk and carved shadows under those ridiculous cheekbones.

If she were reviewing him for her blog, she’d probably give him four out of five stars.

Points deducted for excessive brooding and a customer service attitude that needed work.

“I was framed for treason,” he said finally, the words dragged out of him like confessions under torture.

“Stripped of my land, my title, my honor. Left with naught but this crumbling keep that my family abandoned years ago, and the knowledge that the man I trusted as a brother sold me for the price of a trade route.”

“Ouch.” Rachel winced in genuine sympathy. “That’s like... if my best friend sold my blog and told everyone I plagiarized my reviews. Except with more potential beheading involved.”

He blinked at her. “I... what?”

“Sorry. Future references. The point is, that sucks. Like, really monumentally sucks.” She leaned forward, studying his face. “How long ago?”

“Six months past.” His jaw tightened, and she could see the fresh wound beneath his careful control. “Six months of exile, of watching my people suffer for my disgrace, of knowing I can do naught to prove my innocence.”

“And you’ve just been sitting here doing... what? Balancing books? Feeling sorry for yourself? Perfecting your brooding technique?”

His eyes flashed dangerously. “I have been surviving. Keeping my people fed and sheltered whilst my reputation crumbles to dust. ’Tis not so simple as you make it sound.”

“I’m not saying it’s simple. I’m saying it’s fixable.”

“Nothing is fixable!” The words exploded from him with enough force to make the candle flames dance. “The evidence was damning, the trial swift. No one will hear my protests of innocence, no lord will grant me audience. I am dead to the world that once knew me.”

“Okay, first of all, you’re not dead. You’re just having a really, really bad decade.” Rachel stood, moving closer to where he stood by the fire.

“Second, has anyone actually tried to investigate this frame job? Like, properly? With actual detective work instead of just moping around dramatically?”

“Detective work?” He looked at her like she’d sprouted a second head.

“Investigation. Research. Following the money, checking alibis, looking for inconsistencies in testimony.” She waved her hands, warming to the subject. “I may write about food for a living, but I’ve watched every episode of every crime show ever made. I know how this works.”

“You... watch crime? For entertainment?”

“We have very strange hobbies in the future.” She stepped closer, close enough to catch his scent—leather and steel and that warm spice she couldn’t identify.

“The point is, I’m good at this. Finding the truth when people are trying to hide it.

Spotting the details everyone else misses.

It’s the same skill set that lets me figure out when a restaurant is lying about their ingredients or fudging their health inspection scores. ”

Tristan stared at her for a long moment, and she could practically hear the gears turning in that medieval brain of his. “You truly believe you could prove my innocence?”

The question was so carefully neutral, so quietly desperate, that it made her chest ache. This proud, strong man, reduced to grasping at straws offered by a woman who’d literally fallen out of the sky into his garden.

“I do,” she said, and realized she meant it. “But it’s going to cost you.”

His expression shuttered. “I have little coin to?—”

“Not money, genius. Room and board. A place to stay while I figure out how to get home. Back to my own time. Protection from your charming friends downstairs who seem convinced I’m going to sprout horns and start hexing the livestock.” She grinned.

“Plus, cooking lessons. Because if you’re half as good as I think you are, I want to learn from you.”

“You would risk your life—your very soul, if Father Clement has his way—to aid a disgraced knight you’ve known for a day?”

“Hey, I’ve made worse decisions. Like that time I agreed to review a sushi restaurant in Topeka. Do you know how far fresh fish has to travel to reach Kansas? It wasn’t pretty.”

Something that might have been amusement flickered in his eyes. “You jest about matters of life and death.”

“Honey, I’m trapped in the Middle Ages wearing clothes that apparently mark me as a harlot, sleeping god knows where, with no coffee, no chocolate, and no indoor plumbing. If I don’t joke about it, I’m going to have a complete breakdown right here on your very atmospheric, disgusting stone floor.”

He studied her face in the firelight, and she felt the weight of his gaze like a physical touch. The silence stretched between them, filled with the crackle of flames and the distant sound of rain against the windows.

“Very well,” he said finally, his voice rough as castle stone. “I will grant you shelter and protection whilst you remain at Greystone. In return, you will endeavor to clear my name of the charges brought against me.”

“Deal.” She stuck out her hand, then realized he probably didn’t know what a handshake was. “It’s a... future custom. To seal bargains.”

Tristan looked at her outstretched hand for a moment, then slowly reached out to take it. His palm was warm and calloused against hers, sending sparks racing up her arm that had nothing to do with medieval magic and everything to do with the way his thumb brushed across her knuckles.

“We have an accord,” he said, and his voice had gone slightly hoarse.

“Accord,” she agreed, trying not to think about how perfectly her hand fit in his, or how the firelight turned his eyes to molten silver, or how this was definitely going to end badly.

But as his fingers tightened around hers and something that might have been hope flickered across his features, Rachel found she didn’t care about sensible choices. She was going to save this brooding medieval chef, prove his innocence, and maybe figure out where she belonged in the process.

Even if it killed her.

Which, given her track record with impulsive decisions and the general mortality rate of the fifteenth century, was a distinct possibility.

“So,” she said, reluctantly pulling her hand free before she did something stupid like wonder what those callused fingers would feel like elsewhere.

“When do we start? And please tell me you have better food than whatever that was they were serving downstairs. Because I have standards, and gruel doesn’t meet them.”

Tristan’s lips twitched in what might have been the ghost of a smile. “I believe something can be arranged.”

“Excellent. This partnership might actually work out.” She grinned at him, bright and challenging.

“Just don’t expect me to call you ‘my lord’ or curtsey or any of that medieval nonsense. I don’t do subservient.”

“I gathered as much,” he said dryly, and there it was—definitely a smile trying to break free. “This arrangement may prove... illuminating.”

“Oh, honey,” Rachel said, settling back in her chair with the satisfaction of someone who’d just successfully negotiated a deal. “You have no idea.”