Page 86 of A Secret Scottish Escape

It sounded as though he was out in the garden again.

This time, the sound of me walking down the side of the house must have travelled, because his singing came to an abrupt halt.

Mask’s tall silhouette was standing over a sprouting bush, knotted with bright red berries that reminded me of Christmas baubles. I could make out his hand reaching to pull his hood up.

There was a cold silence. “And to what do I owe the pleasure this time, Ms Devlin?”

His Antipodean drawl was dripping in sarcasm.

I squared my shoulders. “I need to speak to you.”

He was gruff. “About what?”

I rolled my eyes. Why did he have to be so mistrusting and confrontational? Then I thought about that vivid red scar running down the right side of his face and concluded that I wouldn’t know how I might react to people after suffering a wound like that.

“That’s a lovely plant,” I observed, pointing at the glistening berries dripping from its branches.

Mask glanced over his shoulder. “It’s a viburnum cranberry bush. The songbirds like them.” I think he detected my curiosity, because he sighed and continued. “My father was a very keen gardener. I used to spend hours with him in our postage stamp of a garden in Port Macquarie.”

When I asked him where that was, he explained it was a laid-back coastal town north of Sydney.

Mask cast his dark gaze downwards for a few moments. He reached down to stroke a desert rose. It was similar to a daffodil, but instead of the lemon sorbet colours, it boasted frilly white petals, edged with faint sugar-pink. “I like to bring a splash of Australia to Scotland.” He paused. “When I’m tending to my garden, I feel like I can lose myself and forget things for a little while.”

I admired a cluster of flowers, which Mask explained were Australian Swan River daisies. Their delicate mauve, white, and blue flowers softened the edge of the grey paved path.

“They can escape and find their way through walls and crevices almost anywhere.”

I gazed up at him. There was something melancholy about the way he said it – perhaps even some envy for what these small but persistent buds could achieve when they set their mind to it.

“After my father died, I looked after the garden. My mother loved it, but didn’t have the heart to tend to it.”

“But you did.”

“It was a struggle,” he confessed. “But I promised Dad I would.”

“And when did you realise you had inherited his green fingers?”

Mask’s mouth softened. “I’m nowhere near as talented a gardener as my father was.”

I cast one appreciative hand over the throng of bell-shaped flowers, rosette foliage, and fans of sage-green leaves. “You’re kidding, right? This is a haven.”

I could have sworn Mask was almost bashful for the briefest moment. “Thank you.”

“Is your mum still alive?”

Mask paused. “No, she passed away a year after my dad. I think she gave up after she lost him.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry. It must have been true love.”

Mask’s jaw clenched. “If you say so.” He folded his arms. “I don’t think you came up here to ask about my gardening expertise though.”

What was it about this man? Whenever I thought I was making some progress with him, he would close down. “My father is a landscape gardener,” I said, immediately regretting it. He didn’t appear that impressed.

I cleared my throat. “I came up to see you about a mysterious Australian woman who’s been asking around about you.”

His brown eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about?”

“I have a name,” I blurted. “I know who she is.”