Strange Intimacy

‘I think he said his name was Rafe,’ she declared, with the careless skill of a seasoned campaigner. ‘Yeah, it was definitely Rafe, wasn’t it, Mum? And not MacGregor—Lindsay.’ She tilted her head. ‘Hey—that’s your name isn’t it?’

Isobel knew at once what her daughter was up to. It was obvious she resented Clare, and the vaguely condescending air she had adopted since her arrival. And, without her mother’s inhibitions, she had jumped deliberately into the fray, enjoying the success of defeating the enemy.

Clare’s jaw had dropped. ‘Rafe,’ she echoed faintly. ‘Rafe met you in Glasgow! But——’ her dismay was evident ‘—he doesn’t know you, does he?’ She caught her breath. ‘You must be mistaken. Rafe would never——’

‘I’m afraid that was what he said his name was,’ put in Isobel unwillingly, quelling any further outburst from her daughter with a baleful look. She licked her lips. ‘He did say he was your brother-in-law, Clare. I assumed you knew all about it.’

‘Well, I didn’t.’ For a moment, Clare was too upset to guard her feelings. ‘I can’t believe it. Why would he do such a thing?’ She looked angrily at Isobel. ‘How did he know who you were?’

Isobel wrapped her arms about her midriff, feeling an unpleasant sense of distaste. Clare was over-reacting. There was no earthly need for her to behave as if she and Cory had solicited the ride for themselves. Good heavens, it was obvious what had happened. Rafe Lindsay had had to go to Glasgow for some reason, and he had decided to do his sister-in-law a favour and meet her friend. Only Clare wasn’t behaving as if Isobel was her friend; she wasn’t even behaving as if Isobel had a right to be here. Her whole attitude was one of outrage, as if Isobel had dared to impinge on her territory.

‘I think he was just trying to be kind,’ Isobel said now, aware that her voice was much cooler than it had been before. ‘We were practically the last passengers to leave the platform. You hadn’t explained that we had to change stations, as well as trains, and he came to our assistance. As I say, I assumed you knew.’

‘No.’ Clare took a deep breath, evidently trying to calm herself. ‘No, I didn’t. I wouldn’t——’ She broke off, and when she spoke again it was softly, almost to herself. ‘I doubt if Colin or his mother knew anything about it either. But that’s typical of Rafe. He’s always been a law unto himself.’

‘Yes, well——’ Isobel wished Clare would just go now. Maybe in the morning she would be able to view what had just happened with an objective mind, but at this moment all her earlier doubts were rampant. ‘I’m sorry if you think we’ve been presumptuous. It wasn’t intentional. But now, if you don’t mind, we are rather tired——’

‘Of course.’ With a rapid change of mood, Clare twisted her lips into a thin smile. ‘Of course you must be tired. And I must be going. Colin will be wondering where I’ve got to. I promised I’d only stay a minute.’

Isobel forced herself to be polite. ‘Thank you for calling.’ She glanced towards the kitchen. ‘And for the food. You’ll have to tell me how much I owe you.’

‘Heavens, no.’ Clare was almost entirely in control of herself again, and, pulling a pair of thin leather gloves out of her pocket, she began to smooth one over her fingers. ‘What’s a few groceries between friends?’ She allowed her gaze to pass over Cory, before settling on Isobel again. ‘But I have to say, you know how to arrive in style, darling. It’s not every employee who can boast that the Earl of Invercaldy was their chauffeur!’

CHAPTER THREE

WHEN Isobel awakened the next morning, she lay for several minutes just listening to the silence. For so long, she had been used to the sounds of people, and traffic, and even in the depths of night she had always been conscious of the city, living and breathing, just a few yards from her door.

But as she lay there, fending off the full awareness of what the morning might bring, the only sounds that reached her ears were the unfamiliar sounds of nature. There was a rook, making a nuisance of itself, high up in the trees that edged the cottage garden; a cow was lowing, its strident call more indignant than contented; and on the roof a pair of doves were cooing, their repetitive chorus probably what had woken her in the first place.

But that was all she could hear. There were no engines revving, no horns blowing, no jingle of the milk float, as it made its morning deliveries. There wasn’t even the sound of the postman, whistling as he covered his round. Only the wind in the eaves, and an occasional creak as the old house stirred to meet the day.

There was no sound from downstairs either, which hopefully meant that Cory was still sound asleep. Well, it was only a little after seven, she noted, squinting at her watch which she had propped on the cabinet beside the bed. She generally had some difficulty getting her daughter up by eight o’clock at home. At home …

Throwing back the covers—sheets, blankets, and an old candlewick bedspread; evidently Miss McLeay had not gone in for fancy things like duvets and Continental quilts—Isobel padded, barefoot, to the window. This was their home now, and she had to remember that.

It was cold, and she shivered in her short nightshirt, but she pulled the curtain aside, and looked out on that strange but amazing view. And it was just the same, but different. Now the sky was a diffused shade of palest lavender, with a lemony tinge on the horizon, which heralded the early rising of the sun. The mountains in the distance were still wreathed in darkness, and the loch was an opaque mirror, shrouded in mystery. Even the cattle that stood at the edge of the water seemed nebulous, and unreal, their shaggy coats steaming as they waded in the shallows.

Isobel took an enchanted breath, and saw it film the window with condensation. It reminded her of the fact that she was risking getting pneumonia, standing here without clothes. She might not mind there being no traffic on her doorstep, but unless she could do something about the Aga she was going to have to dress more warmly.

Grabbing her dressing-gown, which was, thankfully, a warm towelling one, she tossed her plait over her shoulder and went downstairs. At least she could improve upon the bedding, once their personal belongings arrived, she thought, as she walked into the kitchen. She had filled two trunks with ornaments, books, and bedding, as well as the clothes they had not been able to carry. They should be delivered in a day or so. Until then, they’d have to manage as they were.

When she drew the kitchen curtains, she got another surprise. A huge black cat was seated on the windowsill outside, evidently waiting for someone to let it in. After filling the kettle and setting it on the hob, Isobel unlocked the back door and opened it. And, immediately, the cat abandoned its perch, and strolled into the room.

The air it brought with it was icy, and Isobel hastily closed the door again, and went to turn on the electric heater. ‘I wonder who you belong to?’ she murmured, and then grimaced at the realisation that she was talking to a dumb animal. ‘Oh, well, I’m sure you’d like some milk,’ she added. ‘I just hope I’ve got enough.’

The cat lapped eagerly at the milk she put down for it, and then rubbed itself silkily against her bare legs. ‘A friend for life, hmm?’ observed Isobel drily, not averse to having its company all the same. She had never had a pet, even though she had occasionally suggested to Edward that they should get one. But Edward hadn’t liked dogs, and Mrs Jacobson had declared she was allergic to cats, so despite her and Cory’s appeals the subject had been closed.

The kettle boiled, and she made a pot of tea. Then she collected a cup and seated herself at the table, with the pot and milk jug close by. It had always been one of her favourite times of day, and here, with her elbows propped on the table, and a hot cup of tea between her hands, she felt almost optimistic.

And, after last night, she had not expected to feel so. Indeed, when she had gone to bed, she had felt decidedly depressed. But she was sure she must have exaggerated Clare’s attitude, she thought firmly. The girl she had known could not have turned out as unpleasant as she’d thought.

Still—she caught her lower lip between her teeth—it had been a shock to her, too, to learn that Rafe Lindsay was the Earl of Invercaldy. She had no experience, of course, but to her knowledge it was unusual for a man with his background to put himself out for someone he didn’t even know. And without Clare’s knowledge, too. No wonder she had been aggrieved.

All the same, Isobel couldn’t really understand why Clare had been so annoyed about it. It wasn’t as if she had done anything wrong. In fact, she had refused his offer when he’d first made it, and it had been his explanation that had persuaded her to think that Clare had sent him.

She grimaced at that. Lord, what must he have thought when she’d told him she didn’t want his help? And that awkward journey, when Cory had done all the talking. What had she talked about? Horror movies, mostly, Isobel seemed to remember. They were Cory’s current obsession, and although she didn’t recall Rafe Lindsay’s making any particular comment about them he had listened patiently enough.

She pressed her lips together, and poured herself another cup of tea. He had been rather patient with both of them, she reflected, ruefully. And at no time had he given any hint that he was anything more than Clare’s brother-in-law. Even when she had called him Mr Lindsay. She sighed.

And he had been attractive, she conceded grudgingly. Very attractive, actually. That was why she’d been so surprised when she’d found him staring at her. In the normal course of events, men like him did not stare at women like her. Her features were pleasant enough, she supposed, but no one could describe them as striking. Her face was round and ordinary, with wide-spaced hazel eyes, a fairly straight nose, and a generous mouth. She was not beautiful, by any stretch of the word, and although Edward used to tell her she was ‘all woman’ Isobel knew what he had really meant was that she was homely.

In addition to which she knew she could never aspire to Clare’s style of elegance. She wasn’t fat, but she certainly wasn’t thin either, and only her height offset rounded hips and the full breasts that had always been a source of frustration to her.

Her hair was her only real asset, she thought. And, despite the fact that both Edward and his mother would have preferred her to have it cut, Isobel had clung to her own convictions. Besides, her father had liked it long, and it seemed a small thing to do to keep his memory alive. Loosened from the braid in which she invariably confined it, it fell in a beige silken curtain almost to her hips, and although it was sometimes a chore to wash and dry it was her one indulgence.

Pulling the braid over her shoulder now, she toyed with the elasticated band that secured it. Last night, she had felt too down-hearted to loosen the braid, and brush her hair as she normally did, and this morning it looked dull and untidier than usual. She needed a shower, she thought determinedly. Or a bath, as there didn’t appear to be a shower in the bathroom. No doubt Miss McLeay considered showers a modern extravagance. But perhaps she could make some enquiries about having one installed—if she could just figure out a way to get the Aga working.

She had opened the firebox door, and was considering how to light it, when someone knocked at the back door. It was barely half-past seven. Far too early for callers, and she was examining her smutty fingers in some dismay when a man’s head appeared outside the kitchen window.

It was Rafe Lindsay. No, the Earl of Invercaldy, she corrected herself hurriedly, staring at him as if he were some kind of mirage come to life. It was as if the thoughts she had been having about him had somehow conjured him up, and although she knew she couldn’t be hallucinating the doubts were there.

‘I found this in the car this morning,’ he said, mouthing the words in an exaggerated way, so that even if she couldn’t hear him she could read his lips. He held up a dayglo green and orange haversack, which Isobel recognised instantly as Cory’s. ‘Open the door.’

Isobel grabbed the nearest cloth, which happened to be a tea-towel, she saw with some impatience, and after a moment’s frustrated hesitation scrubbed her fingers on it. Then, with a resigned glance at her towelling robe and worn mules, she did as he asked.

The cat, who had been washing his paws in front of the electric heater, came to arch its back against the newcomer’s legs, and for a moment its appearance created a welcome diversion.

‘Hey, Bothie, you’ve soon adopted your new mistress,’ he remarked drily, bending to fondle the cat’s ears. He straightened and looked at Isobel again. ‘Do you like cats? He belonged to Miss McLeay, but she couldn’t take him with her. Her sister lives in sheltered housing, you see, and they don’t allow pets.’

‘Oh—well, yes.’ Isobel knew she sounded stiff, but she couldn’t help it. It had been hard enough coping with his dark-eyed scrutiny the previous afternoon. It was infinitely harder when she was still in her nightclothes and she knew she hadn’t had a wash, and her hair was a mess.

Rafe Lindsay, meanwhile, displayed all the self-confidence of his forebears. Even in soft denims and rubber boots—not green ones, she noticed wryly—with his hair tumbling about his shoulders, and a night’s growth of beard darkening his jawline, he possessed the kind of understated elegance that only good breeding could achieve. Of course, his shirt was probably handmade, and his leather jerkin was definitely expensive. But it wasn’t just his appearance that gave him that assurance. It was an innate thing, as natural as the lazy smile he now bestowed upon her.

‘Good,’ he said, and for a moment she couldn’t remember what they had been talking about. ‘For Bothie—Bothwell! Miss McLeay had a romantic heart,’ he amended, propping his shoulder against the wall beside the door. His gaze slid over her, resting briefly on her hands, which were still scrubbing anxiously at the teacloth. ‘Having problems?’

‘I—why—no.’ She thrust the cloth aside, and nodded at the canvas bag he was still holding. ‘Thank you for bringing it back—um——’ She couldn’t bring herself to address him as ‘my lord’, even though he probably expected it. ‘It’s—er—it’s Cory’s.’

‘I guessed as much.’ But he still didn’t hand it over, and Isobel shivered as the icy air probed beneath the hem of her nightshirt. ‘You’re cold. May I come in?’

‘Come in?’ echoed Isobel, as if she didn’t understand the words, and then, realising that as this was probably his property she didn’t have a lot of choice, she stepped back. ‘Um—if you like.’

‘Your hospitality overwhelms me,’ he remarked mockingly, as he straightened and stepped across the threshold. He pressed the holdall into her nervous hands. ‘I gather you’ve never used an Aga before.’

Isobel blinked, and closed the door, almost trapping the cat in her haste. Bothwell squeezed inside with an offended air, and went to repair his dignity on the living-room windowsill, while she pressed her hands together and faced her visitor. ‘How do you know that?’

‘The way you were looking at it, when I walked past the window,’ responded Rafe drily. ‘What’s the word I want? Blankly? Yes, I think that covers it. Blankly!’

‘You mean vacantly, don’t you?’ exclaimed Isobel shortly, forgetting for the moment that she had intended to apologise to him if she ever saw him again. ‘I’m not an idiot. I’m just not used to open fires, that’s all.’

‘This isn’t an open fire,’ declared Rafe, without rancour. ‘It’s a wood-burning stove.’ He took off his jacket and tossed it on to the nearest chair. ‘Why don’t you make a fresh pot of tea, and I’ll take a look at it for you?’

Isobel caught her breath. ‘You can’t!’ she said, aghast, feeling an unusual tide of heat invading her throat and neck. ‘That is—I’m fairly sure I know what to do. I—just need some wood to light it.’ She swallowed. ‘Thank you, sir.’

Rafe turned and gave her a dark look. ‘Sir?’

Isobel pressed her lips together. ‘All right—my lord, then. You’ll have to forgive me: I’m not used to dealing with—with the aristocracy.’

His mouth twisted. ‘You’ve been talking to Clare.’

‘It’s true, then.’ It wasn’t until that moment that Isobel realised she had still hardly believed it.

‘That depends what she’s told you,’ he retorted, turning back to the Aga, and rolling back the sleeves of his dark blue shirt over muscular forearms. Then, as if aware of her stillness, he glanced over his shoulder. ‘Just make the tea, Mrs Jacobson. Milk but no sugar for me.’ He paused. ‘You do have milk, I take it?’

Isobel licked her lips. ‘A little.’

Rafe expelled his breath on an impatient sigh. ‘The cat,’ he guessed flatly. ‘Bothie, you old reprobate! You’ll not have to be so greedy!’ Then, with another rueful glance in Isobel’s direction, he added, ‘I’ll have Archie Duncan leave you a quart every morning from now on.’ He turned back to study the stove. ‘He’ll supply you with eggs and bacon as well, if you want it. Anything else, you can usually find in Strathmoor. Or, in an emergency, in the village itself.’

Isobel swallowed. ‘Strathmoor?’ she said doubtfully.

‘That’s our nearest town,’ Rafe explained, examining the contents of a wood-box that was set beside the Aga. He looked round again. ‘Didn’t Clare tell you anything about the area?’

Isobel felt a need to do something, and went to fill the kettle at the sink. When he turned those penetrating dark eyes upon her, she felt as nervous as a schoolgirl, and although she told herself it was only because he had arrived before she was even dressed she didn’t believe it.

‘She—told me about the village,’ she said, aware of the incongruity of her standing here in her nightclothes making tea for the Earl of Invercaldy. While he tried to light the stove for her, she added to herself incredulously. It was unbelievable.

‘But not how to get here, or that you really need a vehicle of some sort to get around,’ remarked Rafe drily, feeding kindling into the grate, and she had to struggle to remember what she had been saying. She was aware of him watching her as she put the kettle on to boil, and everything else seemed of secondary importance. She almost fumbled it, but all he said was, ‘Pass me the matches, will you? I think this is going to work.’

Isobel handed him the box of matches, conscious of the cool strength in the long fingers that brushed hers. Crouched there, in front of the stove, he wasn’t as intimidating as he was standing over her, but he still disturbed her in a deep, visceral kind of way. She told herself it was because of who he was, that she wasn’t used to dealing with men like him. But it was more than that, and she knew it. His kindness disconcerted her: his familiarity broke down barriers she hadn’t even known she’d erected; and his maleness was a threat to her prospectively safe and ordered future.

He lit the wood, made sure the damper was wide open, and closed the door. Presently, the reassuring crackle of the kindling could be heard, and Isobel expelled a relieved breath. ‘As soon as it’s going strongly enough, just add some of these small logs,’ he said, stepping back to survey his handiwork. ‘At least the flue seems to be clear. There’s no down-draught.’

Isobel nodded. ‘I’m very grateful.’

‘Are you?’ His responses were never what she expected, and she hurriedly tried to assure him that she meant what she said.

‘Yes. It was kind of you to come and make sure we were all right,’ she told him defensively. ‘At least now we’ll have some hot water. I—I would have had a bath last night, if—if, well …’

Her voice trailed to a halt, as the realisation that she was being far too familiar put a brake on her tongue. He wasn’t interested in her personal needs, for heaven’s sake. He was her landlord. She was just another tenant to him.

The kettle started to whistle, and with a feeling of relief Isobel went to make the tea. It necessitated emptying the teapot, and refilling it again, and she was glad of the time to reorganise her thoughts. For some reason, he seemed to have the power to reduce her to a stammering idiot, and she’d be glad when he went. After all, he had done his duty. They’d be unlikely to see him again.

‘Do you think you’re going to like it here?’ he asked, as she was making a business out of warming the pot, and spooning in the tea.

She was forced to turn and face him. ‘I hope so,’ she said, avoiding any direct eye-contact, as she gathered another cup and saucer from the dresser. ‘It’s a lot different from what we’re used to. London is so busy. You can’t hear yourself think.’

‘You won’t miss the noise and bustle?’

‘I don’t think so.’ She could feel his eyes upon her, and she gestured rather awkwardly towards a chair. ‘Please,’ she said. ‘Won’t you sit down?’

He hesitated for a moment, and she guessed he was used to waiting until his hostess was seated before sitting down himself. But, when she made no move to do so, he pulled out a chair from the table and straddled it. Then, resting his arms along the back, he reached for the cup and saucer she had set beside him.

Isobel took a breath. ‘Can I get you anything else?’

He looked at her over the rim of the cup. ‘What would you suggest?’ he enquired, and although she was almost sure he was teasing her she didn’t know how to answer him. All she could think was that Cory had been right about his eyelashes. They were long, and thick, yet decidedly masculine just the same. And his eyes weren’t black, as she had thought, but a very dark and subtle shade of grey; deep, and intense—and dangerous to her peace of mind.

‘Um—toast,’ she muttered, in an effort to distract herself, but he only shook his head.

‘The tea’s fine,’ he assured her smoothly. ‘As soon as I’ve finished, I’ll go, and let you get organised. I believe John’s expecting to see you later. It’s not far, and there’s a plate on the gate. You can’t miss it.’

Isobel blinked. ‘John?’ Her confusion wasn’t helped by his evident amusement. Then her brain began to function again. ‘Oh—you mean—John—that is, Dr Webster.’

‘Clare’s father, yes.’ Rafe’s gaze was sympathetic. ‘I guess she didn’t tell you his name either, did she? Never mind. You can rest assured he doesn’t stand on ceremony.’

‘I do know Dr Webster,’ retorted Isobel, not without some dignity. It was bad enough that he found her a figure of fun. She didn’t want him to feel sorry for her as well.

‘Good.’ Rafe swallowed the remainder of the tea in his cup, and set it back on its saucer. ‘Then that’s three people you know in Invercaldy, isn’t it?’ he mocked. ‘And I mustn’t forget your daughter.’

‘Oh—yes.’ Isobel remembered why he had come. ‘I—thank you for bringing her bag back. She’s rather—forgetful, at times.’

‘Is she?’

Rafe didn’t sound as if he believed her, but he made no comment. Instead, he got to his feet and reached for his jacket. Then, slinging it over his shoulder, he raked back his hair with a careless hand, before taking a final look at the Aga. It sounded as if it was burning merrily, already heating the tiny kitchen, and creating an atmosphere of warm familiarity.

‘I assume you know you can use this to cook with,’ he remarked, tipping up a metal hood to expose four solid rings. Isobel hadn’t known, and she suspected he knew that, but she managed to appear as if she had, and he dropped the hood again. ‘You’ll soon get used to it,’ he added. ‘And if you do have any problems, I hope you won’t be too proud to ask for help.’

‘No.’ Isobel’s fingers fastened on to the cord at her waist, and she twisted it tightly. ‘I—thank you again, Mr—er——’ She took a breath and lifted her eyes to his with some reluctance. ‘I’m sorry. What do I call you?’

His eyes darkened. ‘Rafe will do,’ he replied after a moment, when she had been half afraid he was going to touch her. But his lips only curled into a tight smile, and without another word he stepped to the door and pulled it open. ‘By the way,’ he appended, pausing on the threshold to slide his arms into the sleeves of his jacket, ‘don’t let my sister-in-law grind you down, will you? Clare’s got some decidedly middle-class notions, which we don’t agree on.’