Page 8 of Chef’s Kiss (A Knights Through Time #20)
“Turmeric,” he said softly, his voice carrying the kind of reverence she usually reserved for discussing really excellent wine.
“And fresh parsley. And...” He leaned closer to the pot, breathing in the complex aroma, and she found herself holding her breath as she watched him.
“Cinnamon, but not the common variety. The true bark, from Ceylon.”
“You know your spices,” Rachel said, surprised by the knowledge in his voice and the way it made something warm unfurl in her chest. Here was someone who understood, who could appreciate what she’d done.
“I know many things.” His eyes met hers, and she caught a glimpse of something deep and complicated beneath his careful control—pain, yes, but also passion, the kind that came from loving something so much it hurt to be denied it. “This is... unexpected.”
“Good unexpected or bad unexpected?” she asked, trying to keep her voice light despite the way her heart was hammering against her ribs like a bird trying to escape its cage.
Instead of answering, he took the ladle from her hands—his fingers brushing hers just long enough to send sparks racing up her arm and make her forget how to breathe properly—and ladled some of the pottage into a bowl.
He tasted it carefully, his expression giving nothing away, but she could see the slight widening of his eyes, the way his throat worked as he swallowed.
The kitchen held its collective breath like an audience waiting for a critic’s verdict.
“’Tis edible,” he said finally, and Rachel wasn’t sure if she should feel insulted or relieved. Then his lips twitched almost imperceptibly. “More than edible. The flavors are... bold. Unfamiliar. But not unpleasant.”
“High praise indeed,” she said dryly, trying to ignore the way his mouth looked when he almost smiled and failing miserably. “I live for such ringing endorsements. Really gets the blood pumping.”
Something that might have been genuine amusement flickered in his eyes. “You show promise, Rachel of Kansas. Though your methods are...” He gestured at the chaos she’d created, the scattered herbs and flour-dusted surfaces that looked like a small culinary tornado had swept through. “Unorthodox.”
“I work better with gas ranges and measuring cups,” she admitted, wiping her hands on a cloth that had seen better decades. “This whole ‘eyeball the measurements and negotiate with temperamental fire’ thing is like trying to perform surgery with kitchen utensils while blindfolded.”
“Yet you managed to create something that doesn’t poison us all,” he said, taking another spoonful of the pottage with what looked suspiciously like enjoyment. “A not inconsiderable feat, given your lack of proper training in the cookery arts.”
“Are you... are you actually complimenting me?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “Because it sounded almost like a compliment buried under all that backhanded medieval charm.”
“’Tis merely an acknowledgment of competence,” he replied, but she caught the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, changing his entire face from forbidding to something that made her stomach flip in ways that had nothing to do with hunger.
“Though I confess, your use of my spices was... creative. And ghastly expensive.”
“Creative good or creative bad?” She ignored the expensive part.
“Creative... intriguing.” He turned those winter-blue eyes on her with an intensity that made her feel like he was seeing straight through to her soul, cataloging every insecurity and ambition she’d ever harbored.
“Perhaps tomorrow you might attempt something more challenging. If you’re willing to risk further accusations of witchcraft, that is.”
Before she could respond, the servants had begun to creep closer again, drawn by the incredible aroma rising from the pot like moths to a flame. One of the younger girls, braver than the rest, approached with an empty bowl.
“Might I... might I try some, mistress?”
She ladled out a portion, watching as the girl tasted it with the careful reverence of someone sampling ambrosia. Her eyes went wide, and she smiled—the first genuine, unguarded smile Rachel had seen since arriving in this godforsaken time period.
“’Tis like nothing I’ve ever tasted,” the girl breathed, her voice filled with wonder. “Like... like sunshine and faraway places and the feeling you get when something beautiful happens unexpectedly.”
“Exactly,” Rachel said, her chest swelling with pride and something that felt suspiciously like belonging. “That’s exactly what good food should taste like.”
More servants approached, bowls in hand, and soon half the kitchen staff was sampling her improved pottage with expressions of wonder and delight that made her feel like she’d just performed an actual miracle.
Even Marta looked grudgingly impressed, nodding approval as she ladled out portions for the growing crowd.
“Fathoming how a simple wench could conjure such flavors,” she muttered, but there was respect in her voice now instead of suspicion.
“Well,” Tristan said quietly, moving to stand beside her as they watched the servants enjoy their meal, his presence warm and solid and completely overwhelming her senses with the scent of leather and steel and something that was uniquely him.
“It seems your talents extend beyond sharp observation and questionable clothing choices.”
“Was that definitely a compliment this time?” Rachel asked, bumping his shoulder with hers and trying to ignore the way the contact sent electricity racing through her entire nervous system. “Because people might think you’re going soft, Lord Broodypants.”
“’Tis merely... professional curiosity,” he replied, but his voice had gone slightly rough, and when she looked up at him, she found him studying her face with an expression that made her breath catch. “Though I confess, watching you work was... illuminating.”
“Illuminating how?”
Instead of answering, he reached out to brush a streak of flour from her cheek, his thumb tracing across her skin with a gentleness that seemed completely at odds with his imposing presence.
The touch was brief, barely there, but it left her skin tingling and her heart racing like she’d just sprinted up several flights of stairs.
“You approach cooking as I once did,” he said softly, his hand dropping but his gaze never leaving her face. “With passion. With joy. As if each dish were an opportunity to create something beautiful rather than merely... sustenance.”
The pain in his voice was so raw, so immediate, that she found herself stepping closer without conscious thought. “You miss it. Really miss it.”
“Aye,” he said, the admission seeming to surprise him as much as it did her. “More than I thought possible.”
“Then why did you stop?”
Something shuttered in his expression, the vulnerability disappearing behind his careful mask. “Some pleasures become impossible when honor is lost.”
“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” she said bluntly, and his eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Food is about nourishment, about bringing people together, about creating joy from simple ingredients. Honor has nothing to do with it.”
“You know nothing of?—”
“I know plenty about feeling like you don’t deserve the things you love,” she interrupted, her voice gaining strength as she spoke.
“About convincing yourself that you’re not worthy of pursuing what makes you happy. But you know what? That’s just fear talking. Fear dressed up as nobility or responsibility or whatever other excuse you want to use.”
He stared at her for a long moment, something complicated flickering in his eyes. “You speak with great certainty for one so young.”
“I speak with great experience for someone who’s spent way too much time settling for less than she deserved,” she replied, meeting his gaze steadily. “Don’t make the same mistake I did.”
The kitchen had grown quiet around them, the servants having finished their portions and drifted back to their duties, but the air still hummed with the lingering aroma of spices and the strange tension that seemed to crackle between her and Tristan whenever they stood too close together.
“Perhaps,” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper, “tomorrow you might show me what other... innovations... You’re capable of.”
“Is that a challenge, my lord?”
“’Tis an invitation,” he replied, and this time his smile was real and devastating and made her forget temporarily how to form coherent thoughts.
“If you think you can handle more than simple pottage without burning down my kitchens.”
Rachel grinned, feeling more alive than she had since arriving in this impossible place. “Bring it on, Lord Broodypants. I’ve been accused of worse things than witchcraft. Usually by restaurant managers who couldn’t handle honest reviews about their tragic excuse for hollandaise sauce.”
“I do not doubt it,” Tristan said, his laughter rich and warm and making something flutter dangerously in her chest. “Though I confess, I find myself curious about these... hollandaise sauces... you speak of.”
“Oh, honey,” Rachel said, settling back against the kitchen table with the satisfaction of someone who’d just discovered she had more ammunition than she’d realized. “You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into.”
As the servants continued to chatter excitedly about the strange foreign woman who could make even barley taste like something worth eating, Rachel allowed herself a moment of pure satisfaction.
She might be trapped in the Middle Ages with no coffee, no internet, and no indoor plumbing, but at least she could still cook.
And maybe, just maybe, she could teach a certain brooding medieval knight that some pleasures were worth the risk.
Even if everyone thought it was magic. Or witchcraft.