Chapter One

This was it.

Her year of independence.

Her fresh start.

Well, her second fresh start technically.

Maisie gulped down a breath of air, free from the taint of the unwelcome blend of heavy perfume and the fetid breath of her travelling companions in the mail coach.

This time, however, this was the fresh start she wanted. Far from glittering chandeliers and polished floors and ferns that always snagged one's dress as one breezed past.

She looked along the road. Green leaves were beginning to gingerly cling to the trees, the only evidence of winter the browns and reds lingering in the ruts left by wagons. The gentle arch of the branches framed the path to her favorite place in the whole world.

A place she should never have left. A place most would not say could compare to the excitement and glamour of living in one of the more genteel boroughs in London.

Tightening her grip on the wooden handle of her travel bag, Maisie hastened along the lane and ignored the slight twinge in her body from too long pressed against the window of the mail coach in a bid to avoid one of the male traveler's widely spread legs. The aches would fade along with the inevitable bruise on her side from being crushed to the coach frame before long, and none of it would matter. Not her uncomfortable journey, nor her time away.

This time she was staying in Oakfield, and no one could take her away. Not her mother, not her brother, not her sisters. No one.

Not even Apollo.

Not that he'd be there, of course.

Her heart gave a flutter at the sight of the inn sign swinging upon a rusted iron pole. It creaked gently, and almost sadly, the paint flecked away and leaving the image of a swan.

Maisie steeled herself against the ache burning in her chest. It had been over two years since Papa had passed and, with it, her dreams of returning and running the coaching inn he had so adored. The Swan had been a bone of contention between her family, and only she fought against the selling of the building. Every time a potential buyer had shown interest, Maisie had prayed and begged that it would amount to nothing.

Well, her prayers had been answered and here she was, with enough money in her pocket to secure the future of the inn thanks to Aunt June, and more determination than ever. Her family might be content in London, hoping and pretending they fit in there, but her heart had never left Oakfield.

Even when it had been shattered in two.

Pulling the heavy key from the reticule she'd kept tucked under her thick pelisse, she slipped it into the door lock and gritted her teeth as rust and neglect battled against her entry. Why her family had been so quick to turn their back on their roots, she did not know. Surely her sisters had the same memories that she did? Of noise and laughter and interesting visitors? But perhaps they were too young to really understand. Only she and James were ever really involved with the business.

She sighed, stretched her aching fingers, and tried the key again.

Well, however her family felt about the inn, she would bring it back to life soon enough, and maybe they'd change their mind. It seemed doubtful, though. Mama never took much joy in being an innkeeper's wife and her brother James escaped Oakfield as soon as he could. He was an excellent lawyer with enviable charm that allowed him to make friends easily—friends who had helped him climb several rungs of society. Maisie's mother and two younger sisters were more than happy to cling to his coattails and be dragged up with him.

Perhaps if they witnessed what she had, perhaps if they too had been sent away at eight and ten, they might have felt differently.

A tingle of sensation prickled through her before settling low in her stomach. Maisie twisted to glance down the quiet road that weaved its way down toward the rest of the village. The shadow she spotted from the corner of her eye made her heart jolt.

No.

It couldn't be.

He'd left years ago. She knew that for certain, or else she might not have been brave enough to come back.

Yet there was no mistaking that walk. Even after just over a decade, she couldn't forget that confident stride.

A tumult of curse words tumbled through her mind. She couldn't make out his features, but his stride never faltered and under that hat, she swore his gaze had to be pinned on her.

This wouldn't do. She couldn't see him now. Not when mussed from a journey and probably smelling about as ripe as the rest of the travelers.

She gripped the stubborn key again and twisted until her hand ached. In the periphery of her vision, he continued his direct path to her as though drawn to her by way of a guide rope.

Her heartbeat increased its pace.

What did he even want with her? He couldn't have known she was returning. No one did. So why was he here?

Both hands to the key, she closed her eyes and uttered up more prayers as she used all her strength on the lock. The slightest grinding sensation rumbled through the key. It twisted.

She opened her eyes.

Risking the briefest look his way, she opened the door, darted into the gap, and slammed it shut.

She pressed her back against the door, her breaths coming in stuttered gasps. Too loud, too unsteady. Footsteps neared, and she held her breath. Shadows surrounded her. The interior of the inn remained still, as though awaiting customers at any moment. Her heartbeat pulsed through her and into the tips of her fingers flattened to the door.

The footsteps stopped.

A large thud made the door rattle. Maisie clapped a hand over her mouth as a startled cry threatened to tear from her. Ignoring the instinct to bolt, she forced herself firmly against the door.

This was a ridiculous situation to get herself into. What sort of strong, independent woman was she if she spent her first day in Oakfield hiding? This was not how she wanted to start her time here.

But she was not ready to face him. Not yet.

Another couple of slightly more gentle knocks at the door wouldn't change her mind. If she was to see him again, she needed time, and at the very least a quick wash. Maybe if she was lucky, he was only passing through and he'd be gone tomorrow.

No more knocks came.

Her pulse slowed and she eased away from the door. He could have simply come in and the man she'd once known rarely waited for an invitation, so she should at least be thankful that had at least changed.

She put her hands on the windowsill and looked out through the dirt-streaked window as he walked away. His back looked wider than it did in her memory, more intriguing.

Not that it mattered how broad his shoulders were or how much she wanted to see what over a decade had done to his handsome face. Maisie might want her old life back but she never, ever wanted to see the lord who broke her heart ever again.

∞∞∞

Apollo couldn't keep the amusement from ticking across his lips as the door slammed shut. It would be too much to expect Maisie Beaufort to welcome him with open arms. Since his return to the village, his warmest greeting had been from old Billy, and that was only because he mistook Apollo for someone else.

No one wanted anything to do with a rogue who firmly established his rather black reputation on these very roads, and he didn't much blame them.

He blamed Maisie even less. He hadn't just broken the rules or caused a little trouble for her.

No. He'd shattered her heart. In the most deliberate of manners.

Apollo never expected to see her again, though. Not in Oakfield and not so close that all he needed to do was inch open the door and be face-to-face with her. He could do just that—barge in there and question why she hid from him. It would have been easy.

But of course, he knew why she ran. He knew why she'd slammed the door in his face. His last words to her over ten years ago hadn't ceased ringing in his mind. He'd only hoped they'd quieted for her once she moved to London to live a luxurious life far from the toil of this inn. From her reaction to seeing him, his hopes had been dashed.

I never loved you. How could I? You're just an innkeeper's daughter. I'm the son of a viscount.

By God, but she was so much more than that.

It didn't matter now, though. And the reason for her return didn't matter either. He expected it would be brief. The future of the inn had been in debate for several years since the death of Mr. Beaufort and, with any luck, she was here to settle the matter so that he could finally put the building to good use. If it had remained abandoned for much longer, he planned to put in an offer himself.

At this end of the village there was no indication of the damage the flood had done almost six months ago, yet one only needed to walk down the main street toward the river to see the ruined buildings and the debris still being hauled away bit by bit. He wasn't certain if Maisie even knew how devastating the flood had been though it was widely reported in the newspapers, so she couldn't be entirely ignorant.

The water from the broken riverbank had not only left people homeless but stripped several of the tenant farmer's land, leaving it mud-filled and crop free. The village would struggle for food over the coming year and as much as he had no desire to leave his house up north, the stories told to him by his land agent couldn't be ignored.

There were many in the village who would tell tales of what a bastard he was, of how he'd made their lives a misery. Many of those tales would be wildly stretched, but enough were true. He couldn't leave the people he'd grown up with homeless and starving, though, no matter how much of a rebellious bastard he was.

Even if they'd rather turn their backs on him than accept his aid.

Apollo knocked on the door. She might not want to face him. He sure as hell wasn't certain he was ready to face her. Yet he needed her.

Well, he needed her inn at the very least. It could provide shelter while homes were being rebuilt.

The door remained shut and he knocked again. After several more minutes, he turned away. Even the briefest glance of Maisie was enough turmoil for one day. He'd take on that battle tomorrow when he was more prepared. There were plenty of other things to be done in Oakfield and none of those included facing down the girl he'd once loved more than life itself.

Hell, he'd rather be at the ugly end of King's shotgun again after getting caught one too many times stealing ale from his barrels at the age of fourteen.

Apollo tightened his collar against the brisk wind carving its way up the road between buildings that ranged in age from fifteenth century to only a few decades old. The older cottages and shops sat at slanted angles near carefully constructed red brick buildings that housed large, angled windows to display wares.

Despite Oakfield never being a village of consequence and one that no one apart from the residents ever seemed to remember visiting, it did a brisk trade thanks to being so close to the Great North Road. It would do even better if the inn was open again. The village needed income and quickly. These early spring months were misery for those sleeping on the floors of the houses that weren't touched by the flood and those curled up on the cold stone floor of the church were lucky to survive one winter, let alone another.

The charity of the other villagers could only stretch so far.

Nothing had changed in Oakfield since his departure, and it shouldn't have surprised him. The ability of the villagers to gather around one another should be practically legendary. Admittedly, a few more grey hairs sprouted from heads and the children who used to nag him to play with them were almost grown yet it had the same atmosphere, the same slow pace that used to make him addled.

No one dashed anywhere. Even when walking past him. They simply looked through him and pretended he didn't exist then stopped to talk with someone else as though they had all the time in the world. The idea of doing anything slowly used to make him itch. It made him want to steal his father's curricle and race it down the street, risking injury to himself and those around him.

And he'd done just that once or twice too, so he couldn't much blame any of the villagers for ignoring him, but he did wish they wouldn't snub his offers of aid too. Every villager in Oakfield was about as stubborn as a mama angling for a duke for her daughter.

He made his way down to the riverbank, the babbling water a reminder of the potential violence it held. He kicked another stone, the sound of it skittering across the water echoing through the stillness of the after-effects of the disaster.

He knew he had to prepare the villagers for the lean winter if he wanted to prevent another event like this one. Without the mud etched up the walls of buildings and the piles of wood and furniture huddled into corners, one would never know the river had once caused so much damage. The village had been lucky no lives had been lost, however, Apollo feared a harsh winter and a lean year could change that.

Turning away from the river, he peered at the source of a grunting sound to spy Mrs. Blair attempting to pull something from the debris piled up at the side of one of the most damaged cottages. A mountain of mud sat high on the walls, blocking the door and almost touching the broken windows. The old woman muttered a curse and tugged again.

Apollo stepped over the chaotic jumble of rubbish and eyed the object on which she had such a determined grip.

"Would you like some help?"

"Oh yes," Mrs. Blair said. "I spied my chair over here and I do think it must be—" She twisted and peered at him from over the rim of her spectacles. Her eyes widened. "Oh goodness no, I do not need your sort of help, Apollo Everly."

Despite having been a viscount for some years, the old woman not using his title didn't surprise him. It seemed no one in Oakfield could see him as anything other than the trouble-making boy he'd once been. She grunted and pulled on the chair leg that refused to come free of the rubble.

"Mrs. Blair..."

"I said no." She kept her back to him. "We don't need help from the likes of a rogue like you, Apollo Everly. Your sort of help never aided anyone."

Apollo rubbed a hand over his face and backed away. Just as he couldn't blame Maisie for her reaction to him, he couldn't blame Mrs. Blair either. She had never forgiven him for stealing her prize pumpkin and turning it into a scarecrow to frighten the local children on All Hallow's Eve.

If he was ever going to assist the villagers, he needed someone they could trust. Someone they adored.

He needed Maisie Beaufort.