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How could he have ever asked Hannah to stay on the eve of certain war?

More messengers had arrived after the first group, and the situation was worse than he had first thought.

The treaty was over.

It seemed the chief wasn’t concerned with particulars such as the date of the truce’s expiration. This time, the messengers were not reivers spreading possible rumors, but two of Tristan’s own clansmen. That Sutherland had announced his decision so openly, so publicly, was a fatal blow to the ten years’ peace.

The border between Saxford and Sutherland was about to descend into chaos again. And there was nothing he could do to stop it.

Having missed both meals, Tristan climbed down the stone stairs to see what Cook could muster up for him. Even though the sun had set hours ago, he knew the man would still be hard at work. The smell of freshly baked bread wafting from the kitchen confirmed it.

The soft light of the oven’s fire greeted him. As expected, Cook stood alone in the center of the large space, kneading dough.

Of course Hannah would not be here at this time of night. “You’ve no one to help you finish?”

The gray-haired servant did not look up.

“Finish? Why?” he asked gruffly, continuing his task.

“So you can rest.”

As soon as he said it, Tristan could have kicked himself. Cook had told him more than once why he spent every waking moment in the kitchen. But still, he always hoped something . . . someone . . . would change the old man’s mind.

“Rest,” Cook scoffed.

Tristan reached for a finished loaf of rye bread and, to Cook’s obvious dismay, tore off half of it.

“Take it all,” the older man said. “What am I to do with the rest of it?”

Tristan returned the remainder of the loaf to the table. “Serve it. Eat it. It is, after all, what you typically do—”

“Not like that.”

Finally, Cook looked up. His brown eyes were tired, and perhaps resigned. So many of Saxford’s people had lived their entire lives here. They and their families had watched it change hands over the last hundred years. Scottish . . . English . . . and then an absentee English lord until Kenton finally obtained it from the king. Tristan vowed the people of Saxford would never worry for their safety again.

“I will not let them take Saxford,” he said.

And meant it.

Cook sighed, pulled his hands away from his work and looked up once again. And then the most miraculous thing happened. The corner of his mouth actually lifted, if only slightly.

A smile?

“I know,” Cook said.

The half-smile was gone. But it had been there, and Tristan considered it a victory. Perhaps he should leave it at that. After all, Tristan had not been here when Cook’s wife and newborn daughter died during childbirth. But the man’s losses still affected him these many years later, and Tristan had never spoken of it to him. Perhaps it was time.

“You’re a good man,” he said honestly. “And a talented one. They would have been proud.”

Cook didn’t respond, but neither did he throw a pot or growl. It felt like another victory, and Tristan turned to leave.

“She said the same. Just this mornin’.”

Tristan stopped just as he hunched under the arched opening to the stairwell that led back outside.

“She?” he asked without turning around.