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Tristan attempted to concentrate, but the thought of the previous night with Hannah made it difficult. He sat opposite Walter and John, rubbing his head as he listened to their argument. He hadn’t the heart for the familiar talk of Sutherland and the truce. He’d left Hannah’s room soon after making his rash declaration. She hadn’t answered him, but it was just as well. The answer would be one he’d not like. Tristan knew she would never agree to stay without knowing the fate of her sisters. But even without them, he reminded himself, she had another life, in another time.

And yet the thought of Saxford Castle without her . . .

“My lord,” John said, interrupting his thoughts. “If we do not at least attempt to speak to Sutherland—”

“The time for talk is long over, John,” Tristan said. “Sutherland has made it clear he will not honor the conditions of the treaty once it expires. His own warden is powerless to stop him. No one wants war—”

“Sutherland does.”

Tristan shot Walter a look. He was on his side, and the blasted man didn’t even realize it. The merest whisper of words like “talk” or “peace” would throw Walter into a fit of anger.

They sat in Tristan’s solar, a room designed for this very type of meeting. Adjacent to his bedchamber, it had a high window that flooded the room with light. Just now, Tristan wished he could climb out of it and away from this discussion.

And it had nothing to do with him wanting to see Hannah.

“Once blood is shed, the only way forward will be more blood,” John said. “Our allies are well-meaning—”

“But only Saxford stands directly in Sutherland’s path,” Tristan finished for him. It was a refrain he’d heard many times. “I am here for one purpose,” he said, ending the discussion. “To keep Clan Sutherland at bay. Kenton has given us leave to deal with him as we choose. We can call on his men when they are needed. But on this, I agree with Walter.”

John muttered a curse under his breath. “So we sit and wait. For the inevitable.”

Tristan understood the man’s frustration, but any attempt to make peace with Sutherland would merely make them look weak. The lord had made his position known. “We prepare, as we’ve done.”

“Extra men in the village, patrols . . .” John sighed.

Again, Tristan agreed it was not ideal. But it was Sutherland who’d insisted on this course, not them.

He stood. “Aye, and so we wait.”

Walter and John stood with him and took his cue. After they left, Tristan walked toward the window, its wooden shutters opened wide. He watched the sea below for a few moments, remembering the first time he’d taken in this very view. He’d had so much to prove back then. And whether the people of Saxford had mocked him in the beginning, or if he’d only imagined it so, Tristan would never be sure. He only knew that he’d wasted too much time questioning himself—a mistake he would not make again.

Striding from the room, Tristan went off in search of Hannah. Of course, it would not take long to find the woman who would stand out in any crowd. He left the main keep and squinted against the bright midday sun as he stepped through the arched stone entranceway and began to descend the stairs. Voices at the bottom reached him, slowing his steps.

“Nay, my lady. I will not have you—”

“Listen to me, Cook. I understand you are not accustomed to this . . .”

He knew he should either continue down the stone stairway or turn around, but Tristan did neither. He listened to Hannah’s conversation with the ornery cook, in awe at how authoritatively she spoke to him. None before her, other than Tristan himself and perhaps Gerard, had ever dared to do so.

“I’ve been usin’ bread to thicken sauces for longer than you’ve been alive.”

Although his words were harsh, his tone anything but kind, Hannah laughed.

“And how did the squeeze of lemon turn out? That is to say, the sauce last eve—”

“But flour? Beggin’ your pardon, my lady . . .”

Begging your pardon? Had that truly come from Cook’s mouth? Tristan took one more step down, hardly able to believe what he was hearing. So the rumors were, in fact, true?

“Aye, flour.”

She sounded less like an American, as she called herself, each day.

“If it was good enough for the Romans, it’s good enough for you. Do you have any idea how much time this will save you?”

“Ach, girl. I’ll try it this once.” Cook did not sound pleased by the prospect.