Royally Yours

by Liz Johnson

  She’d found her voice. And the council—and her mother—were hearing her, loud and clear. That was a little surprising.

  But it wasn’t surprising at all how Liam fit so well into his role at the castle, bringing wit and good humor to the staff, and helping her navigate her tricky relationship with her mom, despite not maintaining much camaraderie with his own family. He had, however, roughly six months ago, started a global security company for private detail for celebrities and royals, and was quickly becoming a household name in the industry.

  She was a proud wife.

  They followed Jackson through the castle, lavishly decorated for the holidays in shimmering touches of silver, gold, and blue, to the parlor where the queen—no, where Mom—waited. Jackson pulled open the door for them, then stepped back.

  Tristan rose from a hardback chair next to Mom and grinned. “Merry Christmas, bro!”

  Liam’s eyes widened in shock. He froze, then rushed to his sister and pulled her into a tight hug, her long dark hair spilling over them both.

  Eleanor hung back, soaking in the scene with joy. Despite the siblings’ frequent Skype calls, Liam hadn’t seen Tristan in person since their wedding a year ago.

  Liam let his sister go, then hugged her again. “You little sneak! How did you do this?”

  “The dude in the suit helped.” She pointed where Jackson lurked in the doorway. “I had a Christmas gift for you, and it couldn’t wait.” She popped her gum with a loud crack.

  Mom shot Eleanor a pained smile. “How noble of you to join us at last.” But the light in her hazel eyes shone brighter than Eleanor ever remembered seeing. She was finally burden-free of grief and basking in the joy of her coming grandson. Even Tristan’s coarseness couldn’t truly get to her. “Let’s sit, shall we?”

  She eased gracefully onto the settee, while Tristan plopped back onto the chair she’d just vacated. Eleanor joined Liam on the love seat closest to Tristan, adjusting the elastic band of her dress over her stomach.

  He turned toward his sister. “I’m sorry, I mailed your present a week ago.”

  “No worries. I’ll get it later.” Tristan waved her hand dismissively in the air. “I couldn’t wrap yours, though.”

  “What is it?” He grinned, rubbing his hands over his knees in anticipation. Eleanor thought about the industrial-sized case of Cheez-its she’d had shipped from America last week for his gift, and smirked. It was going to be a merry Christmas, indeed.

  Tristan took a deep breath, then perched on the edge of the chair and held up six fingers.

  “Six?” Liam frowned, shaking his head. “I don’t get it. Six what?”

  “Six months sober.”

  The room erupted into applause. Liam grabbed Tristan into another hug, and even Jackson clapped enthusiastically from the hallway. No one in the castle was immune to Tristan’s struggle in and out of the headlines the past several years, and the fact that she’d accomplished this—and kept it a secret—was note-worthy.

  “I’m so proud of you.” Eleanor reached over to squeeze her sister-in-law’s hand, just as a wave of pain arched across her belly. She sat up straight and gasped. She touched her stomach. “Um, I truly am sorry to interrupt this moment, but I believe Corban is going to be one of those royals who makes his own schedule.”

  Liam tilted his head at her, confusion momentarily covering the delight in his eyes from Tristan’s announcement. “What?” Then it registered. “Oh man. The baby’s coming!”

  The room erupted again, this time into organized chaos.

  “I’ll grab the hospital bag.” Jackson bolted from the entryway, no doubt intentionally seizing the most distant task on the list.

  “Tristan, go have the driver pull around front.” Liam rattled off instructions to his sister and she nodded and rushed off.

  Mom stood and wrung her hands. “Should I boil water?”

  Liam wrapped his arm briefly around the queen’s shoulder and squeezed. “I don’t think that’s helped anyone since about 1940.”

  “Right. Of course.” She shook her head, flustered. “I’ve just never helped my baby have a baby.” She gripped Eleanor’s hand and offered a shaky smile.

  “It’s going to be fine, Mom.” Eleanor winced as another contraction took over, then winked at Liam. “Although, this might mean presents will have to wait.”

  “Nonsense.” The queen flicked her hand much like Tristan had done. “We can open them just as easily in your hospital room.” All business, she strode from the room, barking orders to the hovering staff.

  “There she is.” Liam laughed. Then he pulled Eleanor to him—as close as her stomach would allow. “You know, this might be our last moment alone, just the two of us.”

  He was right. “Then there’ll be three.” Nervous excitement coursed through her veins. Their gazes locked and held, and despite the unknown of the upcoming few hours, she’d never felt more solid and certain. Eleanor brushed a lingering kiss against his lips. “Merry Christmas, husband.”

  “Merry Christmas, Princess.”

  THE END

  About the Author

  Betsy St. Amant Haddox is the author of more than fifteen romance novels and novellas. She resides in north Louisiana with her newly-wed-ish hubby, two total-opposite young daughters, an impressive stash of Pickle chips, and one furry Schnauzer-baby. Betsy has a B.A. in Communications and a deep-rooted passion for seeing women restored to truth. When she’s not composing her next book or trying to prove unicorns are real, Betsy can be found somewhere in the vicinity of a white-chocolate mocha. She writes frequently for www.ibelieve.com, a devotional site for women. Look for her upcoming novel with Revell, a division of Baker Publishing Group, in October 2020.

  Books by Betsy St. Amant

  All’s Fair in Love and Cupcakes

  Love Arrives in Pieces

  To Have and To Hold – Three Autumn Love Stories

  Winter Brides: A Year of Weddings Novella Collection

  Addison Blakely: Confessions of a PK

  A Royal Wonderland

  Liz Johnson

  Chapter 1

  Charlotte Hudson could spot a fake from a hundred yards. She could identify fake antiques, fake smiles, and fake currency. Not that there was much—or really any—of the latter circulating in Tinsel, Vermont, population 3,574.

  Still, her dad had taught her that every shop owner should know how to tell the real from the counterfeit.

  And she knew with the same certainty that the man standing in the wrench aisle of Hudson’s Hardware was a counterfeit. Not a counterfeit man. No, all the evidence pointed to him being very real. Broad shoulders stretched the seams of his green flannel shirt. Sleek black hair had been pushed off his forehead. And vivid green eyes, which she had noticed when he jingled the bell above the door, currently squinted at the monkey wrench in his left hand and the plumber’s wrench in his right.

  He was entirely real, but there was no way he belonged in her store. Not with those fingernails. It was a little-known fact that fingernails were the window to a man’s soul. Okay, that might not have been how the saying went, but it was something else her dad had taught her. A man who did manual labor for a living had hands that showed it. Dirt and oil in his nailbeds, calluses on his palms.

  This man looked like he got regular manicures, his nails buffed until he could see his own reflection, which was really rather fantastic.

  Not that she’d noticed. Between the store and Gram, Charlie didn’t have time to appreciate handsome men. Besides, her most handsome customer was Theodore Wallace, aged eighty-three. He swore he’d won the high school’s man of the year award back in 1950-something.

  But Theodore Wallace didn’t have anything on the man weighing the wrenches in his hands.

  She slipped up behind him. “Can I help you?”

  He jumped, the tools clattering to the ground as he swung around.

  “Oh, hello. I’m terribly sorry.” He scooped to pick up the wrenches, his gaze jumping from
his hands back up to her. His eyes pierced into her, stealing her breath.

  She’d certainly known he was handsome from a distance, but this close, he was stunning. And vaguely familiar. Maybe it was the perfect slope of his nose or the dimple in his chin or the perfect bow of his pale lips. Perhaps it was his olive skin or the jet-black eyebrows so perfectly shaped he’d have made the girls in the fashion magazines cry.

  Not that Charlie kept up with the latest trends in beauty and facial hair. But down at Bernadette’s Beauty Salon, there were only three magazines—all of them of the beauty variety. And with a pixie cut like hers, Charlie required regular appointments.

  And then she realized she’d been staring at this man for ten seconds. Ten very, very silent seconds. Tugging on the tails of her faded flannel shirt, which were tied in a knot at her waist, she tried for a smile. “Are you looking for something specific?”

  His eyebrows crept toward each other, a series of tiny lines between them a minor slight to the rest of his face. “Warner asked me to pick up a wrench, but I seem to be . . .” His voice carried a subtle accent, but she couldn’t quite pinpoint it. Maybe he was with a party that had come from across the pond.

  “Warner . . .” She paused waiting for him to fill in a last name. Although as far as she knew, there was still only one Warner in town.

  “Warner Hillstone. Do you know him?”

  “Yes.” They’d met. In the second grade. They’d started dating in the ninth. All the way up until the night he pulled a ring out of his pocket, got down on one knee, and asked her to go to England with him.

  She let out a slow breath, trying not to let the memories slam back into her. She’d made the right decision, and she was sure of it. She just wasn’t sure why her ex-boyfriend had asked someone who clearly didn’t know a nut from a bolt to pick up a wrench. Clearing her throat, she tapped on the tool in his left hand. “Is Warner doing some plumbing? That’s all that one does.”

  “Oh.” He held it up to inspect it in the bright noon sun through the storefront windows. The blue painted letters there spelled out Hudson’s Hardware as they had for nearly thirty years. The store housed just over a dozen aisles, six on each side of center. Just enough tools and supplies for the everyday handyman. Not enough for a complete renovation. Which was just fine with her.

  The stranger’s jaw worked back and forth a few times. “He didn’t say anything about plumbing.”

  “Did he say what he is working on?”

  The guy shook his head. “But he said the wrench looked like an F.”

  She swept her hand past the middle section of wrenches on the pegboard wall. All shiny and new and shaped like the letter in question.

  He frowned, and his face turned somehow more beautiful. No. That wasn’t quite right. He wasn’t beautiful, per se. He was striking, arresting. Breathtaking.

  She gasped for air after a long moment without it, closing her eyes against his visual charms. But she could still sense his presence.

  She’d seen handsome men before. Tinsel had seen its share of stage and screen actors hiding out from the paparazzi over the years. Ever since Mayor Hayden had decided to ban all tabloid reporters, Tinsel had welcomed anyone needing a safe place. Not that the paparazzi hadn’t tried to sneak in. A handful of locals had found reporters pretending to be tourists, and Mayor Hayden had never looked so happy as he’d kicked them out. He was committed to keeping Tinsel safe from the gossip rags, safe for celebrities.

  Charlie had even heard that The Melody Inn was hosting a young Hollywood starlet recovering from a skiing accident. And once upon a time Charlie had run in circles with those people, lived that life. But no longer.

  Opening her eyes, she stared at him hard. Maybe he was a celebrity she should know. He did look vaguely familiar. But she couldn’t place him in the latest super-hero, action, or comedy flicks. Not that she had time to watch many of those.

  Besides, she had a sneaking suspicion that even without the looks, he’d command attention. It was something in the way he held his shoulders back, his posture rigid. There was an angle to his chin that most men didn’t have, especially the ones that found their way to Tinsel. It was neither arrogant nor driven by ego.

  Whatever it was that pushed his chin up, she didn’t trust it.

  “So how do you know Warner?”

  He waved off her question with the hand still holding the wrench, and she ducked to keep it from connecting with her temple. He cringed and slid the wrench back onto its peg. “My apologies.”

  She nodded but didn’t let him get away without answering her question. Crossing her arms over her chest, she tapped her toe. His eyebrows wrinkled together again, and he mirrored her movements, the seams on his shirt pulling nearly to the breaking point.

  “Warner?”

  He nodded. “How do you know him?”

  “He asked me to marry him.” She blurted it out without thinking, but the look on his face said she’d caught him off guard. Good. She didn’t want to be the only one thrown off her game.

  “Of course. You must be Charlie!” His gaze dragged from the top of her head to her boots, the light in his eyes slowly fading, like she was not what he’d pictured.

  Yeah, well, Warner’s memories of her—his descriptions of her—clearly came from a lifetime before. So what if she didn’t measure up to this stranger’s assessment? Whatever his measuring tape might be.

  She scowled. She was the local. She knew the name of every person who shopped in her store—and the ones who visited the Candy Annex next door. From little Camden Sullivan—age three months and seven days—to Mr. Druthers—age somewhere north of infinity. She knew them all.

  But she didn’t know this man. And she didn’t trust him.

  “Why don’t you call Warner to find out what wrench he needs?” She kept her words even but didn’t try to hide the insinuation. If he knew Warner’s number.

  “He’s in the middle of something. I’ll come back later.” With an easy, self-deprecating smile, he said, “I’ll write it down next time.”

  He sauntered to the door, swung it open, and jangled the jingle bells on the handle. “See you later, Charlie.” He closed the door with a solid thump, setting off a fresh peal of the bells as he strode down the sidewalk in front of her windows and crossed the street to the town square. When he disappeared on the other side of the white latticed gazebo, she finally released the tight fists at her hips and let out a long breath.

  Whoever that man was, he was not in Tinsel to help Warner fix up his parents’ house.

  But he clearly knew Warner—after all, he’d known her name. Known that she’d turned down his proposal. That was something a friend would know.

  Then again, it was something a good reporter could uncover too. Deleted social media posts were never truly gone.

  She knew that the hard way.

  But would Warner be foolish enough to bring a reporter into their haven? She prayed not. But she’d rather know for sure.

  Pulling her jacket from the coat rack by the front door, she slid one arm into its sleeve and flipped the sign on the front door to Will Return. After setting the hands on the plastic clock to opening time the next morning, she stepped outside. Sucking in a quick breath against the chill and zipping her coat up to her chin, she didn’t bother checking for traffic as she darted toward the square.

  Andrew Tennesley did not enjoy hunting.

  He liked it even less when he was the prey. And the boots crunching the frozen snow behind him promised that he’d found his way into someone’s crosshairs. Or at least he’d caught their interest.

  Keeping his head low and chin hidden in the curve of his shoulder, he let out a harsh breath. The white plume disappeared immediately as a full-body shiver tore through him. He crossed his arms and hunched against the cold, picking up his pace as he stepped around a large tree in the corner of the town square.

  The wind’s icy fingers reached under the collar of his shirt, and he cursed himself for forg
etting the coat that Warner had loaned him. He’d forgotten to pack one of his own. Of course, he’d been forgetting a lot of things lately. Especially since he’d seen his picture splashed across every tabloid from London to Luxembourg. Even the Swiss Alps hadn’t been far enough to dodge that awful picture—the one of Alexandra hurtling her ring at his very stunned face.

  The tabloids insisted on reminding him of the one thing he’d rather forget.

  Icicles filled his chest—whether from the memory or the dropping temperature, he didn’t know.

  The footsteps behind him picked up speed, and he glanced over his shoulder, squinting and praying that no camera would be able to recognize him from this angle. But there was no flash, no snap of a shutter. Or even a camera phone. Only a scurrying figure wrapped in a puffy parka.

  Most likely a woman. He couldn’t see her face beneath a line of fur around her hood, but she was short and graceful, her booted feet easily picking their way across the icy sidewalk.

  Turning back around, he hit just such a slick spot, one foot flying out from beneath him. He managed to stay upright, but only just. By the time he was moving forward again, she’d gained on him.

  Maybe she was going to the library. The two-story converted Victorian home loomed ahead, its glowing windows promising a warm reception, or at the very least, a reprieve from the wind and cold.

  Maybe he should go to the library.

  No. He had to get back to Warner’s place—if for no other reason than to find his coat. It was more than a few blocks off Main Street, the two-story home taking up most of its lot with a pair of evergreen trees in the front yard. They still sported a white dusting from the last snowfall.