Strange Intimacy. Anne Mather

‘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.’

       CHAPTER FOUR

      His brother was waiting for him when Rafe got back from Strathmoor.

      Colin was seated at the desk in the library, making a fairly inquisitive scrutiny of his brother’s mail, and he looked up rather guiltily when Rafe walked into the room.

      ‘Oh—you’re back!’ he exclaimed, pushing the letters aside and getting hastily to his feet. ‘I was just waiting for coffee. I asked Cummins some time ago, and I thought that’s who it was.’

      ‘Ah.’ Rafe nodded, not embarrassing the other man any more than he was already by saying he knew exactly what Colin had been doing. ‘Well, I’m sure it won’t be long now. I saw Mrs Fielding in the hall when I came in, and she asked if I wanted the same.’

      ‘Oh. Oh, good.’ Colin’s plump features mirrored his relief. He rubbed his hands together, and edged round the desk, well away from the incriminating letters. ‘Damned cold day, isn’t it?’

      ‘Cold? Oh, yes.’ Rafe regarded his younger brother with some impatience. ‘Did you want to see me?’

      Colin shrugged. ‘Not especially,’ he said, running a slightly nervous hand over his thinning hair. ‘Just thought I’d call in on my way to Dalbaig, that’s all. I want to have a word with Stuart.’

      Rafe arched a dark brow. ‘Kenneth?’

      ‘No, Gordon,’ amended Colin quickly. ‘I want to make sure those covers are well stocked for this weekend. With Sir Malcolm coming, I don’t want there to be any cockups.’ He grimaced. ‘If you’ll forgive the pun!’

      ‘Mmm.’

      Rafe