Bridget said flatly. Ewen raised an eyebrow. “It’s hidden away, but it’s not little,” she insisted nervously as she stared at the house the coach had arrived at. She stood on the circular pebbled drive, frowning at his “little hideaway.” When they’d turned off the road she’d thought they were driving into a forest, because the trees were so tall and old. She’d expected to see a charming cottage. But the road became a private drive that led to a long meadow with grazing cattle. Then she saw the house—a huge brick and timbered structure with a wide entrance. It was at least two stories tall, and sprawling. It was not only bigger than ten cottages cobbled together, but even grander than his townhouse in London. “It’s only a hideaway now,” Ewen said. “It used to be an inn, a coaching stop, actually, in the fourteenth century. But the main road went elsewhere as the centuries went on. An ancestor snapped it up and closed in the courtyard, making it part of the house.
