Page 64 of A Secret Scottish Escape

From a table close by, two local farmers were gossiping. “I heard that some reclusive weirdo is living up there now.”

“Aye,” agreed Norrie. “I heard that too. Supposed to be some musician or other that’s holed himself up there.” He performed a disinterested shrug. “It’s probably a few of the local teenagers having a laugh, that’s all.”

My back went rigid and my community spirit kicked in. “What, so it’s OK for a group of local idiots to intimidate a newcomer, Norrie? And someone is labelled a weirdo simply because they don’t want to associate with the likes of you, Ewan Tate?”

Ewan smirked over at his ruddy-faced companion. Norrie’s eyes widened at my remark.

“Layla,” warned Dad across the top of the empty beer glasses. But I didn’t reply. Instead, I offered my apologies to Jack and Stan as I jumped to my feet and squeezed past their denim-clad legs.

Dad stared up at me. “Where are you going?”

I fixed him with a determined look. “Up to Coorie Cottage.”

Dad opened his mouth to say something, but I was already waggling my half-empty glass of orange juice. “I haven’t had any alcohol as I brought my car.”

I could feel the Battalion guys gawping up at me while I stood there, still prickling at Ewan Tate’s ignorant remark and Norrie’s bluff comment.

“I am sorry,” I smiled apologetically at the guys. I fumbled around in my shoulder bag for my car keys. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Dad was concerned. “It’s getting dark, love.”

“I’ll be fine, Dad. I know these roads well. I had a good teacher, remember?”

Mikey leaned in close to Dad’s shoulder and hissed theatrically, “Can’t think where she gets her stubborn streak from, Harry.”

I felt my attention wander from my dad to Ed, who was sitting in the corner. His fingers were tapering up and down his half-finished beer glass.

I snapped my gaze back to my father.

“And what are you intending to do when you get there?” argued Dad.

I let my hands rise and fall. “I’m not sure. I just … Look, I’ll see you all in a bit.”

I was clattering out of the double doors, leaving behind the chink of glasses and the strains of a Queen song, when there was a commotion behind me. “Hang on, Layla,” grumbled Dad, downing the dregs of amber liquid swilling about in his pint. “I’m coming with you.”

He gave Ed, Mikey, Jack, and Stan an apologetic grimace. “Keep the jukebox warm, lads. We won’t be long.”

Dad laughed off the jokes about him being a lightweight and followed me out of the cosy glow of the pub.

“You didn’t have to come, Dad.”

He shrugged on his leather jacket. “I know I didn’t have to. To be honest, I’m struggling to keep up with Mikey and Stan. They’re like bloody fish.”

I broke into a smile. “Well, you weren’t doing a bad impression of it from where I was sitting.”

I slid into the driver’s side and waited for Dad to secure his seat belt.

“Right. Come on then,” he urged. “Let’s go and see what’s happening with this musician friend of yours.”

I flicked my indicator right. Describing Mask as a friend was a bit of a stretch, but I didn’t bother to correct him.

Chapter Thirty

My car headlights picked out the silhouettes of the hedgerows and plumes of trees as we made our way to Coorie Cottage.

Dad shot me a curious glance from the passenger seat. “And why exactly are you dashing up here on your white charger, Layla?”

I blinked. “I don’t know what you mean.”