Cole helped himself. Daniel didn't touch the food. He kept his
attention focused on Grace, who was nervously brushing her hands down
her apron. She wouldn't, or couldn't, look him in the eyes. The
teacups rattled in the saucers as she placed them on the table. She
poured a thick, black liquid into each cup that looked more like shoe
polish than tea.
"Would you like sugar and cream? " she asked.
Cole was looking suspiciously at his cup, but Daniel was still looking
at Grace.
"Is this tea? " Cole asked.
"Yes, " she rushed out. "Is something wrong with it? " "No, no, I'm
sure it's fine." He took a drink and couldn't hide his reaction. It
tasted like bitter hair tonic.
"It just needs a little sugar, " he lied.
"I boiled it too long, didn't I? " she asked. "That's what I did. I
should have timed it. I'll make another pot right away."
"I'd rather have water, " Cole said.
Daniel was trying not to smile. He didn't want to embarrass her any
more than she already was, for she had seen the grimace Cole made when
he tasted her tea, and if Daniel laughed, her discomfort would only
intensify.
"I don't think you're supposed to boil the tea leaves, " he told her.
With a gesture he found utterly feminine, she brushed her dark curls
back over her shoulder. "Cooking is far more difficult than one would
ever imagine, " she remarked.
"Who did all the cooking in your home? " Cole asked.
She seemed surprised by the question. "The cook did the cooking, " she
answered. "And her assistants, of course. Sometimes the downstairs
maids helped. At least I believe they did. Would you like some sliced
pickles, Marshal Clayborne? They're quite good."
"That would be nice, " he answered. "Please call me Cole and call him
Daniel, " he added with a nod toward Ryan.
"Then you must call me Grace. I insist." She proceeded to slice the
pickle with a sharp butcher knife, pulling the sharp blade toward her
wrist. The action drove Daniel crazy. He reached out and grabbed hold
of both of her hands.
"Always cut with the blade angled away from you, " he instructed.
"Like this." He slowly glided the knife through the pickle toward the
plate.
"It's safer that way." When he didn't let go of her right away, she
stared down at his big hands and simply waited. "Thank you, Daniel.
I'll try to remember next time." He noticed the number of cuts on her
fingers. "You aren't used to kitchen work, are you? " he asked as he
let go and leaned back in his chair.
"No, but I'm learning." She once again bent over the pickle with her
knife. Wrinkling her nose and biting her lower lip in concentration,
she cautiously sawed at it until there were half a dozen thin slices
neatly arranged on the plate.
Then, with a triumphant smile, she washed her hands and set her