Page 85 of A Secret Scottish Escape

“Oh, of course not,” I agreed with a fierce nod. “All I wondered was if this lady had been asking you about Coorie Cottage at all … or about who lives there?”

Wendy debated my question for a few moments, then glanced around before leaning closer. Her voice dropped to a hush. “Yes, she has.” Her gold earrings jiggled against the side of her neck. “She seemed really preoccupied with this … Mask, is it?”

“Did she say why?”

“Not at all. All she said was that he’s not the innocent, tortured soul he pretends to be.”

My optimism started to flourish. “I know you can’t give me her name—”

“I’m sorry, I can’t.”

“All I’m trying to do is help someone, Wendy. I assure you it’s not for anything sinister.”

She bit her lip.

“I don’t know what’s going on or what happened up there on that Friday night, but I’ve got a feeling your new guest might have some idea.”

Sensing that Wendy was weakening, I hit her with the Loch Harris mantra. “After all, what are we always saying we are proud of round here? Our sense of community.”

Wendy gave a defeated sigh. “Honestly, young lady, you’re just like your dad. You could charm the birds out of the trees.”

I grinned. “Is that a yes?”

She didn’t answer, but marched over and slid behind the reception desk. She flipped open a leather guest book and flicked over a couple of pages. “My guest book happens to have fallen open and I’m just about to take a brief sojourn in the dining room. I’ll give you thirty seconds to look at the name at the bottom of the left-hand page.”

I thanked her but she was already disappearing into the dining room, her white leather loafers flashing.

I dived behind the desk and ran one finger down the page to locate the woman’s name.

There it was. Beside it, she had scribbled her country of residence. Australia.

I took a Post-it from Wendy’s desk and jotted it down. Then I thrust the note into my pocket.

Chapter Forty

My window wipers dashed the pearls of rain from my car windscreen.

The shower had cleared the summer air and sunlight was sweeping across the landscape, changing the hillsides with a kaleidoscope of colours.

Mask’s voice warmed me on the drive to Coorie Cottage, swimming out of the CD player like honey.

I drove past the campsite where the Battalion guys would be staying this coming weekend, past the spiky green woodland and on towards the silvery rush of Galen Waterfall.

As if on cue, Mask finished singing.

I’d texted Dad before I set off, telling him I had to pick up a few bits of shopping and that I would be back shortly.

If I told him I’d ventured up to Coorie Cottage again to see Mask, he would have done his utmost to talk me out of it.

I eased to a halt in front of the cottage and steeled myself.

My fingers reached into my back jeans pocket and brushed the top of the Post-it note. I felt an obligation to tell Mask that someone was going around Loch Harris verbally attacking his character.

No doubt he would accuse me of interfering – all things considered, perhaps I was – but I needed to know why this woman was saying awful things about him.

I reached his front door and knocked twice. My hand hovered as I prepared to knock for a third time; I could hear Mask singing from somewhere close by. His dusky vocals sent a bold shiver down my back.

I was startled by the sudden physical effect he had on me. I took a deep breath.