Then entered the kitchen.
A pot of coffee sat near the stove.
Fresh bread rested beneath a clean cloth.
And beside her place at the table was a small note.
Breakfast is ready. I'll be by the woodpile.
She read it twice.
Then smiled.
Nobody at Hawthorne Hall had ever left her a note explaining where breakfast was.
Servants simply appeared when required.
Here, Daniel seemed to understand that sharing a home meant telling another person what was happening.
She poured coffee.
Sat at the table.
And began eating.
The bread was still warm.
For a moment, she closed her eyes.
Then Daniel entered.
“Morning.”
Elizabeth looked up.
“Good morning.”
He smiled.
“Sleep all right?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
He reached toward the coffee pot.
Then stopped.
Elizabeth was staring at his hands.
They were rough.
Scarred.
A shallow cut crossed one knuckle.
Another scar ran along his wrist.
He noticed.
“Something wrong?”
She shook her head.
“No.”
Then hesitated.
“Does it hurt?”
He looked at his hand.
“The cut?”
She nodded.
“Only when I forget it's there.”
Elizabeth stood.
She walked toward the small shelf where she'd seen bandages and salve.
Daniel watched with mild confusion.
“What are you doing?”
She returned holding the supplies.
“Sit.”
He raised an eyebrow.
Elizabeth felt her cheeks warm.
“Please.”
Daniel sat.
She examined his hand.
The wound wasn't serious.
But it needed cleaning.
She carefully tended it, moving with a concentration that made him smile.
He looked toward her.
“You've done this before.”
She nodded.
“My mother taught me basic first aid.”
He smiled faintly.
“Useful skill.”
Elizabeth continued wrapping the knuckle.
Then whispered, “She always said people who work with their hands shouldn't have to pretend they don't feel pain.”
Daniel became still.
He looked toward her.
For a moment, she didn't realize what she'd said.
Then she glanced up.
Their eyes met.
Something unfamiliar passed between them.
Not desire.
Not yet.
Recognition.