‘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
