Strange Intimacy. Anne Mather
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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,