Strange Intimacy

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 (#ua3580b90-c421-5fef-8d0c-523179fd18c2)

‘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.