Royally Yours

by Liz Johnson

“Could be? You’re technically trespassing at the moment. I could call the police.”

  “Then count me grateful for diplomatic immunity.”

  There went the book, down another inch. That was some impressive arm strength, considering how long she’d been holding the thing over her head. “You’re a politician?”

  “Close.” Footsteps—he was definitely hearing more footsteps. Heavy, lumbering ones.

  He moved forward, but her arms jutted up once more and despite the dark, he was able to glimpse the book’s cover. “An Encyclopedia? They still make those?”

  “Of course they do.”

  “But . . . the Internet.” The steps paused.

  “This is Tinsel. There’s like three spots in town where you can get a good wi-fi signal. Cell phones are so spotty that most of us still have landlines. Thus, we’re not quite as dependent on the web as the rest of the world.”

  Jonah glanced over the woman’s shoulder, looking for whoever it was starting and stopping his or her way through the library. “Well, I’m sure the people at World Book are grateful Tinsel’s keeping them in business. But you really could put that thing down. I’m not going to hurt—” There. A Hulk-like shadow skulking in the doorway, rigid and ready to pounce and—

  The shadow’s palm slapped against the wall and light flooded the room. But Jonah would’ve recognized the giant form even without the burst of brightness.

  “Hamish?”

  Before the name had left Jonah’s mouth, the woman in front of him whirled at the exact moment that Hamish stepped forward.

  Jonah cringed at the sharp, stinging sound of a smack. Then a grunt followed by a thump followed by a thud as the book landed on the floor, its pages fluttering right next to Hamish’s head.

  Jonah dashed past the woman and dropped beside Hamish, who’d apparently trailed him across the Atlantic. Guess that accounted for the feeling of being followed at the airport. The man lay in a clump, but his breathing was steady. Poor chap would have a goose egg the size of his fist come tomorrow, though.

  “You knocked out Hamish. With an Encyclopedia of all things.” He glanced up.

  She just stood there—the woman who’d walloped Hamish—gaping, arms hanging limp at her sides.

  Golden hair. She has golden hair. Rich and gleaming, like the color of honey or the sun-kissed fields of flax back home. And her eyes—they were a light, stunning blue. Stop-a-man-in-his-tracks blue. Why did she look familiar? Was he staring?

  Get it together, man.

  She rubbed one palm over her arm. “Is he okay?”

  “Will be. Might need some ice.”

  “I can’t believe I did that.”

  And he just couldn’t help it. Maybe it was the jetlag. Or all the memories sparked in this place. Or the charming blush in the woman’s cheeks. Whatever it was, for the third time tonight, his laughter filled the room. “I can’t believe it either. Hamish used to be a boxer. Went undefeated for five years straight. And you just took him out with a reference book.”

  “I didn’t mean . . . I didn’t know . . . I hope he’s not . . .”

  Endearing, really, the way she stammered. “He’ll be fine. A little humiliated, but fine.” And an incorrigible side of Jonah insisted Hamish deserved the blow for tracking Jonah all the way here. Not a very compassionate thought, perhaps, but blast it, Hamish had known how much Jonah relished the idea of traveling unaccompanied for the first time in . . . ever.

  “You know him,” the woman said. “His name’s Hamish. You’re from a country in Europe.” She recited the facts in a robotic voice, reaching behind her head to free the rest of her hair from its knot. It tumbled down her shoulders in a mess of curls.

  And all annoyance at Hamish fled in an instant. He was beginning to feel as if someone had knocked him over the head.

  Or maybe this is just what freedom felt like. No decisions with vast implications weighing on his shoulders. No advisors watching his every move. No harsh reminders of all he’d lost and all he’d never be assailing him around every corner. He’d left the crown and all that came with it behind.

  Well, except for Hamish. Who was stirring now, groaning, blinking. “Your …Your Maj—”

  “Hamish, don’t try to talk.”

  The man struggled to sit up. “What happened?”

  “You got whacked by Volume A-D.”

  “What?”

  Jonah stood and reached his hand to Hamish. “Come on, old chap. Stand up. We’ll get you to the hotel and you’ll feel better in no time.”

  The woman—why hadn’t he asked her name yet?—hurried forward. “Here, let me help. You shouldn’t go anywhere just yet. He could have a concussion. I’ll get you some ice.”

  “Your Ma—” Hamish started as he finally steadied.

  But Jonah cut him off again. “I’m sure we can get some ice at the hotel. It’s not far.” Why he was suddenly in a hurry to leave, he couldn’t exactly say. Other than, well, tonight had turned out rather fine. Indeed, rather fun. But any minute now Hamish would begin acting the part of a loyal servant and everything would shift.

  So why not simply call it a night? Get Hamish to the hotel before he started Your Majesty-ing Jonah to death.

  With one arm around Hamish’s back, he started toward the entrance.

  “But wait . . . are you sure there’s nothing . . . shouldn’t you . . .” The woman’s voice sounded breathless behind him. “How am I going to report you to the police for trespassing if I don’t even know your name?”

  He paused, glanced over his shoulder. Felt something in his heart tilt at the barest tease in her voice and the unabashed curiosity in those startlingly blue eyes.

  He nodded to the book on the floor. “Is that Encyclopedia at all current?”

  Her brow furrowed. “I think so.”

  “Look up Concordia.” And then . . . then he winked.

  For the first time in his life, Jonah Harrison Archer Davies VI winked.

  And with that, he helped Hamish hobble through the library, out the front door, down the porch steps. He gulped in the crisp, winter air, its chill somehow reinvigorating. Yes, he’d been right to sign that abdication letter. He believed it more than ever. He’d been right to come here.

  Even if he couldn’t say the same for Hamish. “You’ve got some explaining to do, my friend.”

  “So do you. Who’s the woman, Your Majesty?”

  Moonbeams glazed the sidewalk in light and he grinned. “I really don’t know.”

  But next time he encountered her, she’d know who he was.

  Chapter 3

  Jonah knelt on the hotel carpet to tie his shoes. He had one goal for this, his first morning in the States. Find the little bakery with those chocolate-covered pastry things he remembered loving as a kid.

  Well, make that two goals. He fancied a lone stroll through Tinsel. Which meant somehow, some way, he had to dodge Hamish.

  Shouldn’t be too difficult, right?

  But when he rose, Hamish’s mulish glare stared back at him in the hotel room mirror. Why hadn’t he thought to lock the door adjoining their rooms? “Blast.”

  “Thought you’d sneak out before I woke up?”

  “That was the hope.” Jonah’s focus shifted from Hamish’s crossed arms and swollen face to his own reflection. Denim trousers and a plaid button-up shirt. Untucked. He hadn’t even shaved. No shine on his shoes, no stiff blazer with the royal insignia embroidered onto the front pocket.

  Good grief, he almost looked . . . normal.

  “Feeling pretty good about yourself this morning, are you, Your Majesty?”

  His attention snapped back to Hamish, who’d dropped the scowl for a smirk instead. “You can drop the ‘Your Majesty.’ I’m not the king anymore, remember?”

  “Theoretically.”

  Jonah turned, reaching for the cup of complimentary coffee he’d nabbed from the lobby earlier. He should’ve made his escape when he’d had his chance. “Nothing theoretical about it. I signed th
e letter, Hamish. I gave the speech. Until Christmas Day, I’m just Jonah. A commoner. A regular guy.”

  “You’ll never be a regular guy, Your Maj—”

  “Don’t even say it.” Jonah took a swig of the coffee. Lukewarm and weak. Yeah, he definitely had to find that bakery. And after that, he’d amble through the downtown. See if there was still that ice skating rink in the middle of the town square. The giant Christmas tree. And four different stores devoted entirely to selling holiday ornaments.

  And then . . . then he’d head back to the library. Check out a whole slew of books and choose which one to start and maybe for the first time since his coronation, polish off an entire novel from beginning to end in one sitting.

  If, while he was at it, he happened to run into the pretty librarian with the wild, golden hair and the impressive arm strength, all the better.

  He just had to ditch Hamish first. “You should stay in, Ham. Get some extra sleep. Order room service. You’ll scare children if you go out with that huge bruise.” He abandoned his coffee, plucked a hooded sweatshirt from his suitcase and made for the door. Maybe he’d get lucky and Hamish wouldn’t follow.

  No such luck. Hamish’s heavy steps plodded behind him. “And where are you going?”

  “To find better coffee.”

  “I’ll grab my shoes.”

  Jonah spun. “Look, no offense, but I didn’t ask for company. Not now. Not when I left Concordia. You’re a good man and I’ve always appreciated your dedication to your responsibilities. But I’m not your responsibility anymore.”

  Jonah didn’t wait for Hamish’s response. Just turned and yanked open the hotel room door. With a brisk stride, he trooped down the carpeted corridor, turned a corner, nodded at the young woman behind the check-in desk, and hurried to the rotating glass door.

  A breeze—brittle and tinged with mountain pine—enveloped him the moment he stepped outside. The winter sun, nearly white, dangled in the eastern horizon between twin peaks. Jonah breathed in deep, head tipped toward a sky of soft, feathery blue.

  He closed his eyes and saw the librarian’s vibrant gaze.

  Opened them and grimaced. “You’re relentless, Ham.”

  Hamish wore his usual, unreadable expression. “Or maybe I just need a proper cup of coffee as badly as you do.”

  Jonah started down the sidewalk, resignation seeping all the hurry from his pace. The hotel parking lot stretched alongside them and up ahead, a playground spanned the next block. The town square wasn’t far from here. “So what was the plan, anyway? Just tail me silently the whole time? Or were you eventually going to let me know you were here?”

  Hamish tilted a pair of sunglasses over his eyes. Black, just like the rest of his ensemble. Made him look like the bodyguard he basically was.

  “Hadn’t decided. But when I saw that lady about to whack you with a book, I figured it was time to show myself.”

  “She wasn’t going to whack me with a book.”

  “She whacked me with a book. Hard. I’m fortunate I don’t have a broken nose.”

  “Well, my friend, maybe that’s what you get for following a king across the ocean when he’s made it perfectly clear it was meant to be a solo trip.”

  “Not a king. Just a regular guy. Isn’t that what you said?”

  Jonah stopped. “Is that what this is? Are you upset with me for abdicating?”

  “No, Your Maj—Jonah.”

  “Good. Because it was the hardest decision I’ve ever made and if you think it’s something I did lightly—”

  Hamish whipped off the sunglasses. “Of course you didn’t do it lightly. I know you, Jonah.” He didn’t struggle with the first name now. “I know there’s very little you do lightly. I’ve watched you agonize over big decisions before. I was there the night before your wedding, if you’ll recall.” The man’s voice had softened, his stance loosened.

  Jonah looked away. Felt the cold sting his skin. He should probably stop at a store and buy a winter coat since he’d accidentally left his behind. Find the bakery. Escape to the library.

  Anything other than stand here and listen to the far-and-away sound of his own voice. “I don’t know if this is right, Hamish. She’s my best friend and of course I love her. But not the way you’re supposed to love a wife.”

  He’d thought—he’d really thought—the guilt wouldn’t follow him all the way here. The grief.

  Standing at the corner of the playground, his gaze hooked on a brass streetlamp. A silver and blue holiday banner whipped in the wind, its cursive words curling—Welcome to Tinsel, a winter wonderland. Matching banners adorned every lamppost down the street. But Tinsel didn’t look like a winter wonderland this morning. Not without snow.

  He lowered his gaze to the pavement. “You’ve never asked me why I went through with the wedding.”

  “It wasn’t my place.” Hamish put his hand on Jonah’s shoulder. “But I know you had your reasons for what you did then. Just like I know you have your reasons for what you’re doing now. I didn’t follow you because I was upset or disappointed. I followed you because Geordie insisted.”

  Jonah’s head jerked up. “What?”

  Hamish dropped his palm and started walking again. “While you were standing on that balcony giving your speech, Geordie asked me to stick by you. I asked him if it was an order. He said it was simply a request . . . by my king.”

  “That doesn’t sound like Geordie.”

  “I understand why you needed to take advantage of the 18th Decree, Your Majesty. I just wish you could’ve done it without leaving your brother in charge.”

  He didn’t bother correcting Hamish’s “Your Majesty” this time, mind racing even as the town square came into view up ahead. This early in the morning, it was already a swirl of color—a handful of skaters making circles in the ice rink, a choir of carolers practicing in the gazebo despite the cold. Silver ribbons circled the gazebo railing and garland traced every entrance of every storefront surrounding the square. A bell jingled as a woman stepped out of the hardware store, waving at a car that crawled down Main Avenue.

  And there, in the center of it all, the great Christmas tree bedecked by gold ornaments. It wasn’t lit up yet, but surely by tonight, it’d be a dazzling display of lights.

  Exactly as he remembered. As he’d hoped. And at least a little closer to a winter wonderland, at that. A little snow and it would be as if he’d stepped back in time.

  Except Mum wasn’t here, nor Father. And Geordie . . .

  “It’s only four weeks, Ham. Less than that now.” It’d taken him a few days to make preparations, leave Concordia. Today was already December 1. “Geordie will do just fine. He’s got Brickston and the rest of the Advisory Council around him. Hardly any state business happens in December, anyway. I’m just sorry on your behalf—you should be at home with your wife and kids. I don’t know why Geordie made you come. I don’t need a babysitter.”

  Hamish shrugged. “Maybe it wasn’t about you. Maybe he wanted me out of the way.”

  “For what purpose? Unless he was serious about throwing a party in the palace. But in that case, it’s Brick he should be worried about, not you.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “Would you look at that?” Jonah interrupted, attention captured by the gaggle of people emerging from a building and bustling down a sidewalk. “They look like they mean business.” They moved in a cluster away from the town square.

  Hamish cocked his head. “Seems like they might be heading toward—”

  “—the library,” Jonah finished for him.

  Well, this didn’t look good. It didn’t look good at all.

  Rowan scrambled away from the window at the front of her half-story second-floor apartment, kicking off her slippers and running her fingers through the tangles in her hair. Great, she was still wearing her pajamas and—

  Maybe she’d only been seeing things. Maybe after such a crazy-late night, her mind had gone a little haywire. Maybe if she
looked outside, she wouldn’t see a flock of townspeople led by Mayor Hayden marching toward the library.

  She returned to the glass, a frosty cold radiating from the pane, and groaned. Still there. They were waving their arms about, shaking their heads, and even from here, she could hear their raised voices. What in the world had them all riled up this early in the morning? The library didn’t even open for another hour and a half.

  Had they heard about last night’s trespasser? The man with the dark hair and the dark eyes and the accent she could’ve sworn was British if he hadn’t set her straight. The man . . . who was a king.

  A king!

  Rowan had stared at his picture in the Encyclopedia for a full five minutes after he’d gone. It wasn’t the first time she’d encountered royalty. This was Tinsel, after all. The place where celebrities and politicians and all kinds of famous people came with the sole purpose of hiding from the paparazzi.

  It’s what their town was known for—to those who knew of it, anyway. It all stemmed back to Mayor Hayden’s own days in the spotlight decades ago when he’d been a young Hollywood star. As he loved to share, he used to come home to Tinsel often just to get away from the bright lights of cameras. He’d begun bringing famous friends with him over the years. And when he’d finally retired from acting, moved home for good, he’d run for office and immediately enacted a law declaring the town a media-free haven.

  Which meant Rowan had grown up accustomed to meeting all manner of illustrious individuals, royalty included. William and Harry had spent a few days here once. Rowan and Liza, thirteen at the time, had spent the next four months straight arguing over which was cuter.

  But this was the first time she’d met an actual king.

  I nearly clobbered the king of Concordia.

  Had clobbered the man with him.

  But she didn’t have time to stew over that now.

  Rowan whirled, tripping over her discarded slippers and shivering in the cold. Had the furnace gone out overnight? Again? Oh, she could just imagine Mayor Hayden’s face if she told him that.

  She shucked off her pajamas, slid into jeans and a dark tee, then reached for the gray cardigan draped over one end of the daybed that served double-duty as a couch. She rushed across the room, ducking like always to avoid the slanted ceiling, and flung open the old wooden door.