November 1815

“No room at the inn?” Damien Sutter asked in amusement, gazing around at the nearly empty, half-timbered lobby. A gray wolfhound sprawled in front of a coal grate, undisturbed by childish voices emanating from an area that ought to be a pub. Other than those limited signs of life, the deteriorating medieval inn echoed hollow—evidently inhabited by no more than ghosts.

The tall, carrot-haired man behind the battered counter shrugged his powerful shoulders. Behind him, Damien’s valet whistled softly in admiration. Jacques would be exceedingly displeased if they didn’t obtain rooms.

“Like everything around here, this place has been abandoned for half a century,” the innkeeper said apologetically. “We’re working on rebuilding and furnishing, but it probably won’t be usable until spring.”

“I see. What is considered usable?” Damien kicked himself for listening to Evans. After losing everything with the war’s end, the former factory owner was desperate.

Damien had an alternative place to lay his head. He simply wasn’t prepared to face real ghosts without a good night’s sleep.

Before the innkeeper could explain, a dark-haired, raw-boned man of about thirty, wiping greasy hands on a rag, emerged from the corridor behind the desk. Soldiers, Damien began to understand, just back from the Continent.

At Damien’s request to define usable, the newcomer smirked. “As in, we have no one to carry your water and slops or make your food. This is a luxury campground for us.”

“Army?” Damien guessed. “I lost my brother at Waterloo, cavalry. I’m Damien Sutter. I grew up around here. I’ve come to look at the shoemaker’s shop he left.” He turned to Jacques. His valet was a slight man but reasonably strong. “Can you manage the water and slops?”

“And prepare light meals,” Jacques said fervently, eyeing both muscled soldiers. “If you do not need me to clean and mend three sets of attire a day.”

The red-haired innkeeper sketched a vague bow. “I am Rafe Russell. This is former Sergeant Major Fletcher Ferguson, but we call him Fletch. The manor will be happy to hear some of the original landowners are returning. Any other time, we’d have found a room for you up there.”

The dark-haired Fletch didn’t offer his grimy paw but gestured in the direction of the hill behind the inn. “The manor is full to overflowing. The curate is getting leg-shackled and all his bride’s friends and family have descended for the occasion.”

“And their retinues,” Rafe added dryly. “Dukes travel with a blamed lot of people. But he’s paying to stable their mounts and keeping Fletch busy, so we can’t complain.”

At hint of a need for cash, Damien removed his purse and set a sovereign on the counter. “We’ll pay to stable ours as well. I have a friend arriving this evening, Edward Evans, so if you have three empty beds, we’ll take whatever is available. I had no idea duke’s daughters resided in the area these days. Which duke?”

He already knew which one, and that His Grace had no daughter, but he had reason to remain unremarked for as long as he could.

“Castlefield. It’s not his daughter,” Fletch explained. “Daughter of Colonel Peniston, the duke’s steward. His Grace simply wants an excuse to raid the manor’s library. The captain can hardly refuse him. The duke’s book buying is paying to restore the old keep.”

Rafe chuckled. “Our curate nearly refused His Grace when he offered to purchase a special license so the wedding could be held at the manor. He said he could feed the village for a year or build an addition to the chapel with the cost of the license.”

“But dukes can’t attend services in tiny public chapels,” Damien surmised. “I remember Gravesyde’s being as drafty as sitting outside this time of year.”

“Once the inn is open, we hope to expand and improve the chapel next. Upton understands that the manor’s great hall is more suitable for a duke. Our good parson simply dislikes the waste of all the fol-de-rol. He gave in when he realized a duke was the only way to entice his wealthy vicar into a day-long carriage ride to tie the knot, since he can’t do it himself. But it took some fancy negotiation,” Rafe said in amusement. “The duke’s paying dearly to plunder the library. The bride is curating what she’ll allow him to buy and demands high prices.”

Educated soldiers, Damien concluded. But they hadn’t reacted to his name, so they probably hadn’t known the brother Damien hadn’t seen since adolescence. He’d always thought there’d be more time. He should have learned that lesson by now.

Rafe spun the gold coin in his fingers, considering. “You’d be our first paying guests. I hope to set this up as a fancy establishment for business travelers. I don’t want to develop a bad reputation before we even open.”

“I can assure you, I will have nothing but praise for your hospitality. I am interested in setting up a business here, also, so it’s in my interest to encourage visitors.” Which was only half a lie. Evans wanted to set up a shoe manufactory. Damien never wished to live in this hellhole again.

Before they could accept his offer, a squeal followed by a howl rose over the piping voices in the room off the lobby. A marmalade kitten dashed out and attempted to scamper up the innkeeper’s leather breeches. He scooped up the creature, placed it on his shoulder, and waited in expectation rather than rush to the rescue.

The shrill voices hushed as some miscreant shouted, “I didn’t do nuttin!”

“We’ve told you to leave the girls alone.”

Damien couldn’t resist the urge to peer into the next chamber. As he’d expected, it appeared to be a pub, with huge mullioned windows—only the blackened bar was loaded with books and the trestle tables were filled with children.

“I just pulled her ribbon!” a lad of about ten protested, while dangling by his collar.

The woman hauling him from his feet stood a head above the bemused teacher at the front of the room. All athletic muscle and grace, the Amazon swung her victim off the floor and lugged him to the door. Ignoring their stares, she deposited the boy in the lobby. “Go home and tell your mother why you’re not in class or I will.”

She watched the boy scamper out the door. Then, unfazed by male stares, she brushed off her hands and marched back to the schoolroom.

In that brief moment when she had practically looked him straight in the eye, Damien’s breath caught in his throat. Surely not. . . But the wild bush of auburn hair, the proud chin and haughty cheekbones. . .

As if his shock had hit her, she swung back around, wide-eyed. “Damien?”

“Brydie?” He hadn’t seen her in fifteen years, but how could anyone forget a Celtic warrior goddess? She’d been all skinny awkwardness back then, but she’d filled out nicely. He’d thought her married and well gone from here by now.

“You bloody bastard.” She reached him in a single step and smacked his jaw hard enough to spin his head.