Mills & Boon is proud to present a fabulous

collection of fantastic novels by

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ANNE MATHER

Anne has a stellar record of achievement within the

publishing industry, having written over one hundred

and sixty books, with worldwide sales of more than

forty-eight MILLION copies in multiple languages.

This amazing collection of classic stories offers a chance

for readers to recapture the pleasure Anne’s powerful,

passionate writing has given.

We are sure you will love them all!

I’ve always wanted to write—which is not to say I’ve always wanted to be a professional writer. On the contrary, for years I only wrote for my own pleasure and it wasn’t until my husband suggested sending one of my stories to a publisher that we put several publishers’ names into a hat and pulled one out. The rest, as they say, is history. And now, one hundred and sixty-two books later, I’m literally—excuse the pun—staggered by what’s happened.

I had written all through my infant and junior years and on into my teens, the stories changing from children’s adventures to torrid gypsy passions. My mother used to gather these manuscripts up from time to time, when my bedroom became too untidy, and dispose of them! In those days, I used not to finish any of the stories and Caroline, my first published novel, was the first I’d ever completed. I was newly married then and my daughter was just a baby, and it was quite a job juggling my household chores and scribbling away in exercise books every chance I got. Not very professional, as you can imagine, but that’s the way it was.

These days, I have a bit more time to devote to my work, but that first love of writing has never changed. I can’t imagine not having a current book on the typewriter—yes, it’s my husband who transcribes everything on to the computer. He’s my partner in both life and work and I depend on his good sense more than I care to admit.

We have two grown-up children, a son and a daughter, and two almost grown-up grandchildren, Abi and Ben. My e-mail address is mystic-am@msn.com and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.

Strange Intimacy
Anne Mather

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

ISOBEL wasn’t precisely sure when she decided she had made a mistake.

She had had doubts in the beginning, of course. But she had managed to dismiss them as cold feet. It was quite a step, moving from the familiar surroundings of the flat in Earl’s Court to the Highlands of Scotland. Even if she was going at the invitation of a friend. Even if there was a job waiting for her, and a comfortable house, into the bargain.

Cory thought she was mad. And perhaps, without her daughter’s constant carping, Isobel might have thought so, too. But, contrary to popular opinion, Cory’s attitude had only served to convince her she was doing the right thing. Anything that would remove her thirteen-year-old daughter from the unhealthy influences of the crowd she was running around with at school couldn’t be all bad.

Nevertheless, Isobel had faced the prospect of the move with some trepidation. In fact, since Edward passed away, she had faced most problems that way. For so long, he had insisted on making any decisions for her, and uprooting herself and Cory from the only home her daughter had ever known was quite an undertaking.

But then, no one had expected Edward to die. At forty-five, he had many years ahead of him, she had assumed. He hadn’t been a drinker; he hadn’t smoked; he had been a pillar of the community. And his mother had pronounced—without hesitation, when Isobel had first broached the possibility of their moving to Scotland—that it was a pity she, Isobel, hadn’t been driving, when the jack-knifing wagon had smashed through the barrier on the M25, killing Edward, but leaving Isobel with only minor cuts and bruises. After all, Edward had still had so much to do with his life, whereas she hadn’t even tried to share his faith.

Which was true, Isobel had admitted—though silently, to herself. And it was something she had berated herself for many times since Edward had died. Her unwillingness to accept the Jewish faith had been the source of so many arguments between them. But, although she supported any and every charitable cause they espoused, and she had many Jewish friends, her own feelings were too ambivalent to make such a momentous decision.

Besides, she had never believed that religion, of any persuasion, was more important than human compassion. Her childhood had been spent travelling with her father, from one impoverished part of the world to the other, and he had always maintained that faith in oneself was more important than faith in some mythical god. Isobel didn’t know if she believed him either, but she was sufficiently persuaded to give both beliefs a chance.

Edward, however, had had different views, although at the time of their marriage he had assured her he would never force her to do anything. But fourteen years, and numerous arguments, later, Isobel had been obliged to accept that his promises had been ambivalent, too.

And it was the main reason why she and his mother had never got on. Or was that carrying understanding a little too far? Mrs Jacobson had never wanted her son to marry anyone. She had been quite happy caring for him, and making his life comfortable. An orphaned teenager, without a penny to her name, who had been trying to come to terms with her father’s death at the time, had never figured in her scheme of things.

Looking back, as she had done many times in the months since Edward died, Isobel had had to admit that maybe Mrs Jacobson had had a point. Perhaps he had been too old for her. Perhaps she had been looking for a replacement for her father. Whatever, the years they had spent together had been mostly happy. At least as happy as most of their friends within their cloistered community.

Edward’s sudden demise had been a blow to all of them—even Cory, who had spent the last two years of her father’s life doing everything she could to frustrate him. Ever since she’d left the private school, which Mrs Jacobson had insisted on her attending, and started at the local comprehensive, she’d become a problem. Of course, Edward’s mother had maintained it was because Isobel had deprived her of her identity, by putting her into the state-school system. Isobel—and Edward, when he wasn’t being brainwashed by his mother—had called it something else.

Sheer bloody-mindedness, Isobel had opined, when for the umpteenth time Cory’s headmaster had reported on her daughter’s delinquency. Playing truant, using bad language, indulging in petty shop-lifting—Cory had been found guilty of them all. Far from trying to get good grades, and maybe even get to university, as Isobel had once hoped to do, Cory had done everything she could to upset her parents. And, what was more, she wasn’t ashamed of it. She actually enjoyed the notoriety it gave her.

Occasionally, Edward had worried that perhaps they should have allowed his mother to go on supporting Cory in private education. But Isobel had persuaded him otherwise. Mrs Jacobson’s influence on their daughter’s life had already been untenable, with Cory quoting her grandmother’s words whenever she didn’t get her own way.

Edward’s death, ten months ago, had given Isobel a brief breathing space. In the vacuum of their shared grief, she and Cory had been closer than they’d been for years. Isobel had even begun to hope that some good might come from Edward’s accident. That Cory had begun to realise how short life could be. And it might have happened, if Mrs Jacobson hadn’t chosen to interfere again.

Until Edward’s death, Isobel had had a part-time job, in a local solicitor’s office. Because she had married so young, and become pregnant almost at once, she had been forced to wait until Cory started school to learn the most basic secretarial skills. Edward had never wanted her to work anyway, and only the fact that Cory’s clothes and shoes were so expensive had enabled Isobel to persuade him that she should get a job.

And Isobel had enjoyed it. She didn’t enjoy spending her days attending her mother-in-law’s coffee mornings, or listening to her mother-in-law’s friends gossiping about anyone who didn’t conform to their strict code of conduct. Isobel had no doubt that she herself had suffered the same fate, once she started working for Gordon Isaacs. But her hours were flexible, and she was always there when Cory came home from school.

Edward’s death had changed things, however. In the new, tougher financial circumstances in which she had found herself, Isobel knew a part-time job would not be enough. The insurance Edward had left would barely cover the mortgage on their apartment. And what with food and light and heating, all subject to inflation, she knew she needed full-time employment to cover all their expenses.

That was when Mrs Jacobson had suggested they move in with her. Her house, a rambling Victorian mansion, in St John’s Wood, was far too big for one person, she said. There was no earthly need for Isobel to work, when everything she owned would come to Cory on her death anyway. She’d be glad of the company—and the help about the house—and she was sure it was what Edward would have wanted.

Isobel had panicked then. There was no other word for it. The idea of moving in with her mother-in-law, and becoming an unpaid servant in her house, was something she couldn’t even countenance. Perhaps she was unkind; perhaps she was ungrateful; perhaps she was foolish! But Isobel knew there was no way she could accept such an arrangement. Cory was hard enough to control as it was. With her grandmother’s support, she would become downright impossible.

And that was only part of it. Isobel knew she would never be allowed to live her own life in that house. Without a job, without friends, without independence, she would have no life at all. It just couldn’t happen. She was sure she’d go mad.

And just when she was at the end of her tether—when Mrs Jacobson had started bribing Cory with expensive CDs and other presents, with promises of holidays in the United States, and the chance to decorate her own room when she came to live with her grandmother—Isobel had run into Clare Webster in Oxford Street.

She and Clare had been at school together. By the time she was fourteen, her father had decided that the peripatetic type of education he could give her, as an antiquities professor, was not enough. In consequence, he had enrolled her at a good boarding-school for girls in Sussex, and although Isobel had protested her father’s word was law.

Besides, after a few weeks, she had started to like it, and her father’s promise that if she worked hard and got the necessary qualifications he would allow her to work with him had been a very potent incentive. And she had found a good friend in Clare, the daughter of a London surgeon, at whose home she had always been made welcome.

But time, and circumstance, had not decreed that their friendship should last beyond their schooldays. Clare’s father was a Scot, and when his own father, a country practitioner, had been taken ill Dr Webster had transferred to a hospital in Glasgow, so that he could be nearer his parents.

That had happened just weeks after the two girls had left school, and less than a month after Isobel’s eighteenth birthday. But Isobel had been preparing to go to South America at the time, to join her father for a year’s sabbatical, before continuing her studies at Oxford, and she had been too excited about her own future to worry about missing Clare. It was only when news came that her father had been killed in a rock-fall that she realised how isolated she was. She had no close friends, no relations, and precious little money. In the depths of her grief, she had been forced to get a job in Sainsbury’s to support herself, and all her hopes for the future had been buried in Yucatan.

That was why, when she met Clare in Oxford Street, it had seemed so prophetic. It had been almost fourteen years since they’d seen one another, and although, in the beginning, they had kept in touch by letter, the passage of time had eroded even that connection.

But Clare had recognised Isobel at once, even if Isobel had not been quite so sure. But the expensively clad woman in fine tweeds and pearls bore little resemblance to the plump teenager Isobel remembered, and it was soon obvious from Clare’s attitude that she had married rather well.

Her insistence that they go somewhere and have lunch, so that they could catch up on one another’s news, had initially aroused a polite but fairly uncompromising refusal. She was due back at the office in less than half an hour, Isobel had explained, not altogether regretfully, in no mood to listen to Clare going on about the difficulties of getting a taxi in London these days. Isobel couldn’t remember the last time she had ridden in a taxi, and with the prospect of another round with Mrs Jacobson that evening looming on the horizon she was desperate to think of some way to head off another confrontation.

But Clare wouldn’t take no for an answer, and her sudden reversion to the girl Isobel remembered had her agreeing to ring Gordon and beg an extra hour. It was a rather special occasion, she’d consoled herself, and perhaps Clare might have an idea as to how she could extricate herself from Mrs Jacobson’s clutches.

And she had. Amazingly, Clare had had the perfect answer to her problems. Her father, who had given up his hospital duties when his father died, and taken the senior Dr Webster’s place in Invercaldy, required a competent secretary. Until recently, he had made do with the rather elderly retainer, who had worked with his father for the past forty years. But now Miss McLeay had retired and gone to live with her sister in Dundee, and her job, and the comfortable cottage she had occupied, were both vacant. And Clare had insisted that her father would offer the job to Isobel in an instant if he thought she’d take it.

Isobel had not been so convinced; not then. The very idea of changing not only her job, but her whole way of life, was decidedly daunting. And, despite Clare’s reassurances, she’d doubted it was that easy. In Isobel’s experience, jobs, and houses, were not freely available. Certainly not in London, anyway. People wanted qualifications, and references; and what about other applicants? Not to mention the landlord of the property, who might have other plans for its disposal.

But Clare had cut through her protests. The village—Invercaldy—practically belonged to her husband’s family, she’d declared. Her husband, Colin Lindsay, was brother to the present Earl of Invercaldy, and in consequence she had no hesitation offering the job—and the cottage—to Isobel.

Even so, Isobel had demurred. The idea was attractive, there was no doubt about that. Moving from the grimy streets of London to the clean mountain air of the Highlands of Scotland sounded like heaven. But she was practical enough to know that living in unfamiliar surroundings, far from everything she had known these past fourteen years, was something of a pipedream. Besides, there was Edward’s mother to consider. She might not like her much but she was Cory’s grandmother.

Promising Clare she would think it over, she had gone back to work with a real feeling of regret. It would have done Cory good to get right away from all the unfavourable influences of London. She was already afraid of what the future might hold.

And then, when she’d arrived home that evening, everything had exploded. She’d come into the flat to find Cory hunched sulkily in a chair, and Mrs Jacobson on the phone, talking agitatedly to whoever it was on the other end of the line.

But, although she’d attempted to get her daughter to tell her what was going on, Cory wouldn’t answer her. And pretty soon Isobel had got the picture. It became obvious from Mrs Jacobson’s speech that she was speaking to the headmaster of the school which Cory attended, and before she could ask what was happening she heard Edward’s mother telling the man that she was withdrawing her granddaughter from the school.

She had tried to take the phone then, but the other woman wouldn’t let her, and short of causing the kind of scene she knew would be reported in the staffroom Isobel could only seethe in silence. But when Mrs Jacobson had eventually put down the receiver and announced that Cory would be attending a private girls’ school in St John’s Wood from now on; that, as they would be moving to Momington Close, it would be more convenient anyway, Isobel had blown her top.

She hadn’t intended mentioning the job in Scotland. During the afternoon, and on the way home, she had decided she would have to rough it out as best she could. But when Mrs Jacobson had informed her that, as Isobel had no control over Cory, she was taking charge of her granddaughter, Isobel had known she had no choice.

The row that followed had been messy, and Isobel would have preferred not to have had it in front of her daughter. The news that Mrs Jacobson’s decision had been precipitated by learning that Cory had been caught sniffing glue behind the bike sheds was worrying enough, without having her own character questioned into the bargain. And then, when Isobel had tried to take the heat out of the situation by mentioning the offer of the job in Invercaldy, Edward’s mother had made that damning statement about Edward’s death. That Isobel had always known Mrs Jacobson blamed her for the accident was bad enough; to be told she’d be better dead was something else.

And so, in spite of Cory’s tears, and Mrs Jacobson’s recriminations, Isobel had phoned Clare at Claridge’s and accepted her offer. Hearing that Mr Webster was more than happy at the prospect of meeting her again was some consolation, and when they boarded the Glasgow train at King’s Cross some three weeks later Isobel had felt confident she had made the right decision. Besides, it wasn’t an irretrievable one, she’d told herself. If things didn’t work out, they could still come back to London. The apartment might be in the hands of an estate agent, but once it was sold their money would be invested, and they could always start again.

And, initially, as the train sped north through rural England, basking in the sunshine of an unseasonably warm September day, Isobel was able to ignore Cory’s sullen face, and enjoy the journey. After all, until her father died, she had spent her life living in different places. Just because she seemed to have put down roots these past fourteen years didn’t mean she couldn’t pull them up again.

And it would be good for Cory, once she stopped feeling sorry for herself. Apart from a couple of holidays in France, she had hardly travelled at all. She knew virtually nothing about England, let alone Scotland, and it was time she stopped thinking that London was the centre of the universe.

It was about the time the train started to run through the Glasgow suburbs that Isobel conceived the fact that, in spite of everything, she wasn’t sure she had done the right thing, and by the time they pulled into Glasgow Central she was convinced she had made a mistake. Cory had scarcely spoken the whole journey, and then only when Isobel had spoken to her first. The tears and tantrums she had indulged in, in an effort to make her mother change her mind, had given way to an aggrieved silence, and with every succeeding minute she had made it plain that she would never accept the moral limitations of living in a small village. She would be a misfit, a rebel, far more conspicuous here than she had ever been in London.

The train was slowing as it pulled into the station, running alongside another high-speed train that was presently moving in the opposite direction. Isobel had a crazy urge to open the offside door, and transfer herself, Cory and their luggage on to the southbound train. Oh, to be back in London, she thought. Why had she ever imagined she could go through with this?

The train stopped, coming to a halt with a grinding screech of brakes. All around them, passengers were gathering their belongings together, ready to depart, and, realising she couldn’t sit there indefinitely—even if Cory seemed indifferent to their arrival—Isobel got to her feet.

‘Are these your cases?’

A middle-aged man, who had been sitting across the aisle from them since the train stopped in Edinburgh, spoke in a soft Lowland accent. Observing Isobel’s efforts to herd herself, two holdalls, a duffel bag and her recalcitrant daughter off the train, he was offering his assistance with the suitcases she had still to deal with.

‘Just these two,’ she agreed, nodding gratefully, as she tried to haul an unwilling Cory out of her seat, without being too obvious about it. ‘Thanks very much. They are rather heavy.’

‘No problem,’ said the man, allowing them to precede him out of the compartment. Isobel did so, pulling Cory along after her, and stepped down on to the platform with a feeling approaching despair.

It was much colder here, she noticed at once. In London, her thin cords and Edward’s old flannel shirt, worn with a thigh-length cardigan, had been enough. Here, the cool breeze invaded the open neckline of her shirt, and whipped strands of streaky brown-blonde hair about her face. She was glad she had confined her hair in one chunky plait for the journey. She had the feeling that anything else would have come adrift.

‘Is someone meeting you?’ the man enquired, as he set her suitcases down beside her, and Isobel turned towards him with a nervous smile.

‘I—no,’ she said, glancing a little bewilderedly about her, alarmed to find that Glasgow was so much busier than she’d imagined. ‘No, I have to change trains,’ she explained, relating Clare’s instructions. ‘We’re going to Fort William, you see. Would you happen to know what platform the train goes from?’

‘Well, I know the train you want, lassie, but I think you’ll find it leaves from Queen Street,’ the man replied with a rueful grimace. ‘That’s about a fifteen-minute walk from here. I think you’ll have to take a cab.’

‘Oh, great!’

Cory uttered the first unsolicited sounds she had made since leaving King’s Cross, and Isobel gave her a warning glare before turning back to their informant. She wasn’t exactly thrilled with the news herself, but she had no intention of showing it.

‘A cab,’ she echoed, nodding, and the man pointed helpfully towards the exit she should take.

‘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.

‘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.’

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