Free Adrienne Basso by Bride of a Scottish Warrior

switched to complaints. ’Twas too cold in winter, too hot in summer, too rainy in spring. She babbled as her food congealed on her trencher and her voice grew hoarse, all the while waiting for Sir Ewan’s eyes to glaze over with boredom or annoyance or both.
    It never happened.
    Finally, when she had to take a sip of wine to ease the dryness in her throat, he clasped his tankard of ale in his right hand and looked her dead in the eye. “Why have ye taken such a dislike to me, lass?”
    The wine hit her empty stomach in a rush. “Why ever would ye say such a thing?”
    “The looks.”
    “What looks?”
    “The ones darting from yer lovely eyes telling me ye’re wishing I’d fall into a deep, dark hole and disappear from the earth.”
    “Not the earth, good sir. Ye need only disappear from McKenna Castle.”
    A small tick of amusement crossed his face. “I willnae overstay my welcome. But when I leave, I plan on taking ye with me.”
    Grace’s shoulders sagged, but she was not yet ready to admit defeat. “I should like to save ye a good deal of time and breath, Sir Ewan, and tell ye—”
    “Ewan.”
    Grace blinked. Had she misheard him?
    “I want ye to call me Ewan. Is that acceptable, Grace?”
    No, ’tis not. Familiarity was the last thing Grace wanted, knowing it could make her more vulnerable to him. But her brother might object if she refused and claim she was not holding to her end of the bargain. And that could spell disaster.
    She could ill afford to risk Brian’s wrath, for if pushed hard enough, her brother might decide to ignore her objections and force her into the marriage. She must therefore give every appearance of being open-minded to Sir Ewan’s— Ewan’s —proposal.
    “This is not the first time the possibility of a second marriage has been raised by my brother, Ewan.” She paused. He smiled when she spoke his name. A lopsided grin that was so boyishly disarming she nearly smiled back, before blinking rapidly and regaining control of her senses. “Ye do me a great honor by asking fer my hand. Yet my answer remains the same to ye as it was to the others. I wish to retreat to the convent and a life of religious reflection. I know ’tis best fer me.”
    She said the last forcefully, then felt a stab of worry that she had gone too far. Men did not like being told they were not in charge, in control, especially of females. Yet Ewan did not appear annoyed; his eyes were still dancing with merriment.
    “They willnae allow ye all yer pretty baubles in the convent,” he said innocently.
    “I shall manage without them,” Grace bit out.
    He looked at her inquiringly, his head tilting slightly. “I’ve been told that silence is a virtue well regarded and sought after among the good sisters. Will that be difficult fer ye to endure day in and day out?”
    Grace squirmed in her seat, though she supposed she deserved this bit of teasing. “I will strive and struggle day and night to hold my tongue.”
    “Or ye could avoid these restrictions completely and marry me.”
    “Nay,” Grace gritted out.
    Sir Ewan’s jaw bulged as he clamped it together. She waited for the explosion of anger, but he was somehow able to conquer it.
    “Women are known for changing their minds. ’Tis one of their many appealing traits.” His voice dipped lower, honeyed and coaxing. “What can I do to influence yer mind, fair Grace?”
    “Accept the truth, good sir. I willnae change my mind nor my answer.”
    She spoke each word crisply and held Ewan’s eyes as she uttered them. It seemed the best way to make him understand the depth of her feelings, the extent of her determination to remain unwed.
    She braced herself, fully expecting him to cast off his flirting smiles. But he surprised her with a gentle look she found even more disarming. “I enjoy a challenge, especially one from a worthy opponent. It makes victory all the more sweet, fer nothing of great worth in this life is ever easy to obtain.”
    “Yer