She rushed on at once, as though the silence itself pressed her harder than an interruption might have. “I am nae suitable. I am nae what ye want. I should think there are a dozen women outside who would suit ye far better.”
“Is that what ye think?”
“’Tis what I ken.”
“What ye ken?” he repeated, folding his arms.
“Aye. Believe me, Laird Nairn, I am nae the woman ye are looking for.”
He narrowed his eyes at her. “And how do ye ken the woman I am looking for?”
Ava swallowed. “Trust me, I am nae.”
“And why, pray tell, do ye think so?”
“Well, for one, I am too blunt, and I daenae always hold me tongue when I ought to.”
“And what makes ye think I am?—”
“And!” she interrupted, raising her hand as if to get all her chances in before he could speak. “And I am nae particularlymeek, and I daresay there are many domestic virtues in which I fail entirely.”
Ciaran kept his arms crossed and his eyes narrowed. She looked at him, found no comfort there, and continued with increasing speed.
“I am nae especially orderly. I daenae rise cheerfully in the mornings. I dislike being told what to do if I daenae first agree it ought to be done. I have opinions on most things, and I am told they show on me face before I speak them. I am nae the sort of woman men choose when they wish peace in a household.”
One of his eyebrows rose.
That seemed to vex her further.
“And,” she added, almost desperately, “there are other more beautiful women.”
That nearly amused him.
She had reached so plainly for whatever weapon came nearest to hand and thrown it without aim. She was arguing against being romantically desired, against being courted, admired, softened toward. None of it touched the matter as he understood it.
He had not come seeking softness.
“Have ye finished?” he asked.
Her lips parted. “Nay.”
“Something tells me ye have covered everything. Unless, of course, ye tell me ye’re secretly a witch.”
She stared at him as if he had failed in some expected duty of alarm.
“Look, me Laird, the others would suit ye better,” she said. “Surely ye can see that. They came for this. They stood there wishing to be chosen. I didnae.”
That, more than the rest, struck nearer the center, though not in the way she intended. He had seen it already. Her resistance had been part of what recommended her.
“I am nae what ye want,” she said again, quieter this time, as if repetition might do the work that logic had failed to accomplish.
Ciaran studied her.
Her fear was real; that much was plain. Yet even now, she fought him with reasons, not tears. Pride, argument, desperation, all braided together. There was spirit in her, and a lack of grasping eagerness that made the other women dim further by comparison.
She was not trying to make herself desirable. She was trying to be rid of him.
It still made her suitable.
