Strange Intimacy

‘I’d offer to show you the way myself, but my wife’s waiting for me,’ he added, and it was while Isobel was assuring him that she could manage quite well on her own that she saw, out of the comer of her eye, another man watching them, with a faintly speculative expression on his face.

The platform had virtually cleared now, most of the other passengers having hurried away for buses or cabs, or been greeted by waiting relatives and friends. The few people who were left were, like themselves, stragglers, who were unfamiliar with their surroundings, and were taking a little time to get their bearings.

But the man watching them now was none of these. Indeed, she didn’t think he had disembarked from the train at all. Propped against the wall of the waiting-room, his hair long, and slightly rumpled by the breeze, he looked as if he had been there some time. But his suede jacket, which hung open on broad shoulders, was obviously expensive, and the black shirt and narrow black woollen trousers it exposed did not look like chain-store chic. Low-heeled black boots completed his attire, and Isobel, who was not in the habit of noticing men, or what they wore, felt an uneasy prickling down her spine. Who was he? she wondered. And why was he watching them? She didn’t know anybody in Scotland. Particularly not a man whose lean dark features bore all the harsh beauty of his Celtic forebears.

‘I’m not carrying a load of cases,’ Cory declared rudely, as the man who had helped them off the train walked away, and Isobel turned on her daughter with thinly veiled frustration.

‘We don’t have a load of cases, Cory,’ she retorted through her teeth, and then drew herself up to her full height as the other man—the man who had been watching them—pushed himself away from the wall, and came strolling loosely, but purposefully, towards them.

‘May I be of some assistance?’ he enquired, and Isobel was briefly shocked by the fact that there was not a trace of a Scottish brogue in his voice. She had been so sure he was a Scot, and his lazy drawl disconcerted her.

‘Um—no,’ she replied, refusing to meet his eyes. She had read somewhere that so long as eye-contact wasn’t established a woman had a chance of avoiding an unpleasant encounter. She looked beyond him to where a porter was wheeling a trolley on to the platform, and, grasping Cory’s arm, she said, ‘Go and grab him, will you? He’ll help us with these, and show us where we can get a taxi.’

‘Must I?’

Cory was obviously more interested in what was going on between her mother and the stranger than in summoning the porter. And, judging by the way she was looking up at the man through her lashes, Isobel guessed that in a year or so she would be facing yet another problem with her daughter.

‘Yes, you must——’ she was beginning, when the man spoke again.

‘You are Isobel Jacobson, aren’t you? I heard you call your daughter Cory, so I was pretty sure I was right.’

Isobel swallowed, and this time there was no avoiding those eyes, which she saw, with some amazement, were almost as black as his hair. ‘Who are you?’ she exclaimed, as Cory propped one hand on her hip and adopted what Isobel privately called her provocative pose.

‘Rafe Lindsay,’ he said, his thin lips parting to reveal slightly uneven white teeth. ‘Clare’s brother-in-law. I had to come down to Glasgow on business, so I offered to meet you and drive you back to Invercaldy.’

Clare’s brother-in-law!

Isobel gazed at him, as if she still couldn’t believe it, and his smile broadened into a grin. ‘Do you want to see my driving licence?’ he offered, putting a hand inside his jacket, but Isobel quickly came to her senses. No one else but an associate of Clare’s would have known who she was, and who Cory was. But Clare had said her husband was brother to the Earl of Invercaldy, and this was definitely not the Earl. He was too young, for one thing—probably only a couple of years older than herself—and no member of the aristocracy that she had seen would ever wear his hair so long—it overhung his collar by a good two inches at the back. Well, not in this century anyway, she amended, recalling Bonnie Prince Charlie’s followers’ luxuriant locks. And, come to think of it, Rafe Lindsay did have a look of one of those swarthy Highlanders—if he really was a Scot. A younger brother, perhaps?

But, ‘That won’t be necessary,’ she informed him, rather primly now. And then, causing Cory to give her a disgusted look, ‘You don’t have an accent.’

It was a foolish remark, and he would have been quite at liberty to ignore it, but instead he chose to answer her. ‘Noo? Och, if I’d ha’ known you’d prefer the vernacular, I’d no ha’ tried to hide ma brogue,’ he mocked, with all the broad Scottish vowels she could have wished. Then, summoning the hovering porter with an ease Isobel could only envy, he indicated the luggage. ‘My car’s outside. Shall we go?’

For the first time since they had left London that morning, Cory looked positively cheerful. After exchanging a challenging look with her mother, she slung her canvas holdall over her shoulder, and started after Rafe Lindsay and the porter. Evidently this new development met with her approval, anyway, and Isobel knew she ought to feel grateful for that at least. But, as she followed them, she was aware that her own feelings were decidedly mixed.

CHAPTER TWO

‘WHATEVER possessed you to do such a thing?’ The Dowager Countess of Invercaldy gazed at her eldest son with undisguised displeasure. Then, twisting the pearls at her throat with a restless finger, she went on, ‘What kind of an impression is she going to get of the family, if you choose to behave like one of your own workers? Good heavens, Rafe, I don’t know what your father would say if he were still alive!’

‘I doubt he’d regard it as a hanging offence,’ remarked her son drily, lifting the cut-glass decanter and pouring a generous measure of whisky into his glass. ‘I only gave the woman a lift, Mama. I didn’t abduct her for God’s sake!’

‘No. But you didn’t know her!’ retorted his mother. ‘Approaching her at the station, like a common adventurer! What must she have thought? And what will you do if she tells everyone that the Earl of Invercaldy—picked her up?’

‘I did.’ Her son swallowed half the liquid in his glass.

‘Rafe, you know perfectly well what I mean. She’s quite at liberty to say whatever she chooses. She might even accuse you of being so—eager—to meet her, you drove down to Glasgow for just that purpose.’

‘That’s rubbish, Mama, and you know it.’ Her son regarded her with rather less tolerant eyes now. He finished his whisky, and looked at her coolly over the rim. ‘I had an appointment with Phillips. You should know—you made it.’

‘I know that, and you know that, but no one else. I don’t expect you’re going to go about the village broadcasting your affairs to all and sundry.’ She watched him pick up the decanter again, and her lips grew pinched as he poured another measure. ‘I suppose I should be grateful you were sober at the time. You were sober, I take it? You didn’t go to Phillips’ office stinking of alcohol, I hope?’

Rafe chose not to answer that remark, and, as if realising she was treading on dangerous ground, the Countess retrenched. ‘What was she like, anyway? Clare says she has a young daughter. I doubt if she’ll find Invercaldy very entertaining after London. Are they awfully southern? You know—the kind of people who think everything grinds to a halt north of Watford!’

Rafe turned, his refilled glass in his hand. ‘I have no idea what they think of us, Mama,’ he replied tautly. ‘But they’re not savages, if that’s what you’re implying. The woman seems fairly well educated, and according to Clare her father was some kind of historian. The daughter’s another matter. Thirteen going on thirty, if you get my meaning.”

‘A pocket Lolita!’ exclaimed his mother disparagingly. ‘I might have known there’d be something wrong with appointing an Englishwoman! Why ever did you let Clare persuade you that she knew best? They’ll be settling into Miss McLeay’s cottage now, and we’ll never get them out!’

Rafe sighed. ‘May I remind you that Dr Webster was in favour of appointing Mrs Jacobson? And she is going to work for him, after all. The Websters have known her for almost twenty years, apparently. But she and Clare lost touch after the Websters moved away.’

‘Mrs Jacobson!’ The Dowager Countess clicked her tongue. ‘What’s happened to her husband? Will you tell me that? She’s how old? Mid-thirties? Forty?’

Rafe looked down into his glass. ‘Younger,’ he said flatly, not at all sure why he felt the need to correct her. It didn’t matter to him how old his mother thought the woman was. She’d hardly spoken a word to him during the more than two hours’ drive from Glasgow. While he’d been organising the stowing of their luggage, she had scrambled into the back of the Range Rover, and he had been left with the predatory Cory. Who had shown no qualms at all about ignoring her mother’s orders, and climbed into the seat beside him.

‘Very young to be a widow, then, wouldn’t you say?’

His mother’s voice intruded on his thoughts, and Rafe raised his glass to his lips. ‘Clare said her husband had died in a road accident,’ he declared at last, wishing she would give it a rest. In the Dowager Countess’s opinion, anyone who had not been born north of the Clyde wasn’t worth bothering about. ‘Does it matter? You’re not likely to have anything to do with her.’

‘No,’ his mother offered the grudging acknowledgment. ‘No, I suppose you’re right. In any case, they may not like living here. We can only hope.’

‘Mmm.’

Rafe took the remainder of his drink across to the stone fireplace, propping one booted foot on the fender, and gazing down at the glowing logs. Although the building had a perfectly adequate central-heating system, there was enough wood on the estate to ensure a plentiful supply of fuel for the open fires his mother liked to keep about the place.

But now, as he stared into the curling blue flames, he discovered his own thoughts were not so easy to divert. Contrary to his wishes, he was curious about Isobel Jacobson. Her cool reserve had piqued his interest, and for the first time since Sarah had died he found himself thinking about a woman with something more than mild contempt. It wasn’t that he was attracted to her, he assured himself, with characteristic candour. It was just that he felt sorry for her. It couldn’t have been easy, finding herself a widow, with a daughter like hers to contend with. In his opinion, Cory—was that really her name?—required serious attention.

The view from the cottage windows was spectacular. Even in the fast fading light, Isobel had stood in her bedroom and stared and stared at the wonderful panorama of earth and sky spread out before her. She had seen fields, sloping down towards a vast expanse of water, with horned Highland cattle peacefully grazing in the reeds. And trees, bare in places, but in others showing the gorgeous colours of autumn. And mountains, fold after fold of dark-shrouded peaks, beneath a sky that had still been painted with the delicate shades of evening.

The sun had already slipped behind the mountains before Rafe Lindsay had parked his dust-smeared vehicle in front of the cottage, but the amber-shredded clouds had still borne the heat of the sun’s passing. They had risen through pink and mauve to deepest purple, with here and there a prick of light that marked the appearance of a star. There was no moon, and the shadows had soon darkened into night, but Isobel had felt no sense of apprehension. It might be slightly premature, but she had already felt she could be happy here.

Which was surprising, considering her ambivalence during the journey, particularly the latter half. But she simply wasn’t used to dealing with men on a personal basis. Not younger men, anyway. And definitely not men who looked like Rafe Lindsay. Living with Edward, who had been inclined to regard her as his property, she had got out of the habit of making friends with other men. Not that she had ever got into the habit, anyway, she admitted ruefully. After all, she had been married at eighteen. Apart from her father, Edward was the only man she had ever really known.

And it had been kind of Clare’s brother-in-law to come and meet them, because from what she’d gleaned from his conversation with Cory her friend had been less than scrupulous with her instructions. It appeared that even if they had transferred themselves and their luggage to Queen Street Station they would have had to wait some time for their connection. And the train would have been slower, and less direct in its approach.

Nevertheless, she knew she had been less than sociable during the drive. She had left it to her daughter to make all the overtures, and she was quite aware that Cory had taken advantage of her position. But it would have been too embarrassing to chastise the girl in front of Rafe Lindsay, and instead she had spent the journey fending off the advances of a friendly retriever, who had shown his affection by licking her face.

Amazingly, the cottage had been unlocked, and their escort had made his departure, after depositing their luggage in the front room. Isobel had offered her thanks, albeit rather belatedly, and he had made some deprecating comment, but that was all. With a brief half-smile, he had swung back into the powerful vehicle, raising his hand politely before driving away.

Now Isobel turned from stowing the empty cases away in the bottom of an enormous wardrobe, and found Cory standing in the doorway. The girl had done little in the way of unpacking, and her only real source of interest had been in choosing the downstairs bedroom for herself. Isobel hadn’t minded. The dormer room, at the top of the narrow staircase, might be smaller, but the view was worth it. The cottage was so overfurnished that all the rooms seemed tiny anyway. It was just as well they had put their own furniture into storage. It was certain there was no room for it here.

‘When are we going to eat?’ Cory demanded plaintively now, and, glancing at her watch, Isobel saw that it was after eight. She had been so intent on unpacking and putting their things away, so as not to waste what little space there was, she had forgotten all about making a meal.

‘Oh—whenever,’ she replied, glancing half contentedly about her. ‘Clare said she’d leave some food in the fridge. I suggest we go down and see what there is.’

‘I know what there is,’ declared Cory, not moving. ‘There’s some eggs, and cheese, and a pot of something that looks like yoghurt. Honestly, you’d think we were vegetarians! Why couldn’t she have bought some beefburgers or some steak?’

Isobel’s contented air vanished. ‘You should consider yourself lucky that she’s left us anything at all,’ she retorted crisply. ‘And beefburgers aren’t good for you. They’re full of fat!’

‘So is butter, but she’s left us some of that,’ countered Cory, not to be outdone. ‘And there’s only brown bread. I ask you, brown bread!’

Isobel refused to let her daughter’s attitude spoil their first evening at the cottage. ‘Brown bread won’t hurt you for once,’ she remarked, gesturing for Cory to move out of the doorway. ‘I’ll make omelettes. Cheese omelettes. And we can have the yoghurt for dessert.’

Cory trundled down the steep narrow stairs ahead of her, grumbling about the inconveniences of living in a village. ‘I bet there isn’t even a McDonald’s within thirty miles,’ she muttered, considering that a great distance. But privately Isobel suspected the nearest fast-food establishment was a lot further than that.

‘How old was this Miss McLeay anyway?’ Cory asked some time later, sprawled at the scarred pinewood kitchen table, watching her mother prepare their meal. ‘I bet she was ninety if she was a day. All this old furniture! It looks like it came out of the ark.’

‘Well, I think it’s rather charming,’ declared Isobel, looking appreciatively through the archway that divided the kitchen from the living-room and viewing the lamplit chintz-covered sofa and chairs with some affection. There were too many occasional tables, of course, and even Miss McLeay could not have wanted all these knickknacks. But the general impression was homely, and Isobel thought it would look really cosy when the fire was lit. For the present, they were making do with an electric heater. There was an Aga in the kitchen, which she thought might heat the rather antiquated radiators she had seen, but that would have to wait until tomorrow and daylight, when she might feel more equipped to experiment.

‘It’s not very big, is it?’ Cory persisted, as her mother riffled through the drawers, looking for a cheese-grater. ‘Grandma said it would probably be an old crofter’s cottage. Do you think that’s what it was? Before the old lady lived here?’

‘Crofter’s cottages didn’t have central heating,’ retorted Isobel flatly, resisting the urge to take her mother-in-law’s name in vain. ‘Have a look in that cupboard, will you? Clare said the place was fully equipped. There must be a grater somewhere. If not, I’ll just have to crumble the cheese myself.’

Cory got reluctantly to her feet and did as she was asked. But apart from a couple of cans of soup, which Isobel suspected must be well past their sell-by date, it was empty.

However, she was not to be disappointed. An examination of the gas cooker solicited the fact that there was a drawer at the bottom practically filled with baking tins and utensils of all kinds. Among the clutter was a hand-held grater, and Isobel carried it to the sink to wash as Cory resumed her seat at the table.

‘This Clare …’ she remarked, after a few minutes, and Isobel glanced up from the cheese.

‘Mrs Lindsay, to you,’ she corrected swiftly, and then winced as her knuckles connected with the grater.

‘All right.’ Cory pulled a face. ‘Mrs Lindsay, then. Is she married to Rafe’s brother?’

‘She’s married to Mr Lindsay’s brother, yes.’ Isobel brushed the last of the cheese from her fingers, and turned back to the pan. ‘I expect you’ll meet her tomorrow. She said she’d pop by to see how we’re settling in.’

Cory shrugged, evidently not impressed by this prospect. ‘I wonder if—if he’s married?’ she mused, reverting to her previous topic. ‘You know: Rafe. Oh, all right.’ She gave an exaggerated sigh at her mother’s expression. ‘Mr Lindsay, then. He’s really cool, isn’t he? Did you notice how long his eyelashes were?’

‘I noticed you had a little too much to say for yourself,’ responded Isobel, choosing not to get into a discussion about Rafe Lindsay’s attributes, and Cory pulled a face.

‘Well, at least I said something, instead of sitting there like a dummy,’ she retorted cheekily. ‘You didn’t even cut a smile when he apologised about the dog.’

‘I hardly know the man, Cory.’ Isobel found herself on the defensive once again. ‘Just because he was kind enough to offer us a lift doesn’t mean I have to like him. I thought he was rather arrogant, actually. I don’t think your father would have liked him.’

‘Oh, well——’ Cory’s response to that was revealing ‘—Dad wouldn’t like any man who looked twice at you. He’s—he was—terribly old-fashioned.’ She rubbed an impatient hand across her eyes. ‘I was always telling him so.’

‘Yes.’

Isobel surveyed her daughter with an unexpected rush of emotion. Even though it was nearly a year since Edward’s accident, they could both be caught by an unwary comment, and the remonstrance she had been about to offer died unspoken in her suddenly tight throat. But today had been a rather traumatic day, in more ways than one, and she could only hope that in these new surroundings they might both find it easier to adapt.

‘You’re not going to cry, are you?’ Cory’s terse question hid a wealth of uncertainty, and with a determined effort Isobel shook her head.

‘No.’ She paused, before continuing deliberately, ‘But I don’t think you should talk about your father like that. He wasn’t old-fashioned. Not really. He was just—not interested in current fads and fancies.’

‘That’s for sure.’ Cory gathered confidence from her mother’s calm response. ‘But that doesn’t mean you have to act like you’re already middle-aged. I mean, you’re not young. But you’re not old either.’

‘Oh, thanks.’

‘And you must have noticed how attractive Rafe was.’

‘Cory, how many more times do I have to tell you—I’m not interested in any other man, attractive or otherwise? Now, did you decide if you wanted cheese in your omelette or not?’

The impromptu meal was far better than even Isobel could have anticipated. The milk Clare had left for them was rich and creamy, and without the means to make filter coffee they had to make do with instant. But instant coffee made with fresh milk, and not the half-skimmed variety Isobel had usually bought at home, was almost an indulgence, and they were sitting enjoying their second cup when someone knocked at the door.

Not surprisingly, Isobel was loath to answer it. Beyond the faded floral curtains, the night was as black as pitch, and, although common sense told her they were far from the reach of thieves and muggers, old habits died hard.

‘Aren’t you going to see who it is?’

Cory was looking at her a little apprehensively now, and, realising she was in danger of alarming her daughter, probably unnecessarily, Isobel got to her feet. ‘I suppose so,’ she said, pretending an indolence she was far from feeling. But then Clare called,

‘Isobel! It’s only me!’ and all her anxieties vanished.

Reaching the door in two strides, she turned the key and threw it open. And Clare came into the room on a cloud of French perfume. Her rich cream fur and long boots looked out of place in the shabby living-room, but, Isobel reflected, her own attire suited it to a T. The lady of the manor, calling on one of the peasants, she mused drily. But that wasn’t fair. It wasn’t Clare’s fault that she had not bothered to change.

‘Isobel, darling!’ Clare exclaimed now, kissing the air beside her friend’s ear with the smoothness of long experience. ‘And this must be Cory! Hello, dear. Your mummy didn’t tell me you were so grown-up!’

She went towards Cory, and Isobel saw her daughter draw back in some alarm. But happily, Clare didn’t embarrass either of them by attempting to kiss her too. Instead, she contented herself with bestowing a charming smile on her, before turning back to her friend.

‘Well, now,’ she said. ‘What do you think of this place? Isn’t it cosy? Have you got everything you need?’

‘I think so.’ Isobel answered her last question first. ‘I’ve unpacked, and we’ve had supper, and we were just dawdling over our coffee. Would you like a cup? I can easily——’

‘Oh, no. No.’ Clare lifted her hand in denial, as if the very idea was anathema to her. ‘Colin and I have just got back from having supper with the Urquharts—Robert and Jessica Urquhart, that is—and I couldn’t drink another drop.’ She gave a rather girlish giggle. ‘They’re such a lovely couple. He’s the local sheriff.’

‘I see.’

Isobel nodded, and, as if realising she was being rather indiscreet, Clare glanced about her. ‘I must admit, I’m amazed at the amount you’ve accomplished. And in such a short space of time, too. I quite expected to find you in the middle of things. The train must have been on time for once. Did Mr MacGregor collect you from the station? Well, of course, he must have done.’ she smiled again. ‘You’re here, aren’t you?’

‘Mr MacGregor?’

Isobel felt slightly confused. Who was Mr MacGregor? She was sure the man had said his name was Lindsay. Well, of course he had. Cory had used that name earlier, when she had been berating her mother for not talking to him.

But, before she could say anything more, Cory chimed in. ‘He picked us up in Glasgow,’ she said, giving her mother a look of sly complicity. ‘He said the trains aren’t usually reliable. That’s why he came to meet us.’

Clare turned to the girl now, a frown drawing her sandy brows together. ‘Tom MacGregor drove all the way to Glasgow——’ she began, a look of consternation marring her pale sculpted features, and Cory offered her mother a wicked grin.