Page 59 of A Secret Scottish Escape

I froze with embarrassment as he thrust one arm over his features in an attempt to conceal himself. His spade clanged down onto the path as he roared, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

My cheeks lit up.

“Oh. Er … I’m so sorry.”

He kept his right arm positioned over the right-hand side of his face. “Do you always creep up on people like this?”

“I wasn’t creeping,” I mumbled, trying not to stare. “I tried the front door but there was no answer.”

His spade glinted down by his feet. “What do you want, Ms Devlin?”

Oh. The formality was back. He was annoyed.

I took a few tentative steps forwards, which made Mask do the exact opposite. He eyed me with suspicion.

I stopped and clasped and unclasped my fingers. “I just wanted to say thank you for the CDs. That was very unexpected, but very kind of you.”

Mask twisted his face away from me. He paused. “Excuse me for one minute.”

He strode away from me, vanishing into Coorie Cottage and emerging moments later in his black mask and hoodie.

Mask appraised me. “And you came up all this way just to say thank you in person?”

I gave an unsettled shrug. “It isn’t that far. It only took me fifteen minutes as there isn’t much traffic at this time of the evening…” I could hear myself rattling on and fell silent. There was a trickle of blood weaving down from a cut on his wrist.

“You’re bleeding.”

Mask followed my eyes. “It’s nothing,” he brushed off. “I must have caught my skin on that holly bush when you crept up on me.”

Crept up?

My expression tightened. “I didn’t creep up on you.”

He muttered something incomprehensible.

“Have you got a plaster handy? You really should put something on that cut.”

Now it was Mask’s turn for his mouth to contort. “I don’t require open-heart surgery. It’s fine.”

I watched another drizzle of blood travel down his wrist and moved back towards my car. I rummaged in the glove compartment, finding my tube of antiseptic cream and a couple of plasters.

Aware of Mask watching, I tore off one of the plasters and moved towards him.

“What are you doing?”

I gestured to his wrist. “Here. Put some of this on it and then the plaster.”

Mask’s dark eyes bored into mine. “Not only a businesswoman, but a qualified general practitioner?”

I pulled my lips in at his sarcasm and thrust the plaster and tube of antiseptic cream at him. “I haven’t got anything for rudeness unfortunately, but this should help that cut.”

Mask blinked at me before making an irritated sighing noise and struggling to tug off his other gardening glove.

“Let me help.”

His Australian growl was terse. “I can manage.”