Royally Yours Read online

  She was halfway to the first floor when her bare feet tangled. With a squeal, she crashed into the railing, then dropped, rolled, shrieked again . . .

  Before landing in a heap in front of the door.

  The door Mayer Hayden had already unlocked and opened. He stood over her now, eyes wide underneath bushy brows.

  “Uh, morning, everyone.”

  Thunk. Lovely. The banister cap—the one that was always, always loose no matter how many times she tightened it—landed on the floor beside her.

  Cold air billowed past her stunned audience on the front steps and through the door, along with sloping sunlight and a lone whisper from someone near the back. “Shouldn’t someone help her up?”

  “Oh my, of course.” It was the mayor who spoke and his arm that extended toward her. “I might be put out with you, Rowan Bell. So put out I skipped my sweet Lavinia’s coffee cake to come down here and scold you. But I’m still a gentleman.”

  He pulled her to her feet, waited until she was steady to cross his arms and fix her with a reproachful stare. One she might’ve found a little more intimidating if he weren’t wearing a Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer sweater Lavinia had probably knit for him, complete with a circle of red sequins as Rudolph’s nose.

  His salt-and-pepper mustache twitched. “Are you okay? Nothing broken?”

  “Uh, no. Unless you count this.” She held up the banister cap, squelching a groan at her smarting backside, her banged-up right arm and shoulder. She’d be black and blue by lunchtime. Maybe she deserved it, considering the thwack she’d given that man with the king last night.

  But what she’d done to deserve the current collection of disapproving looks in front of her now, she had no idea. Unless . . .

  “So, um, is there a reason you’re all here? So . . . early?” Before the question even left her mouth, her focus zeroed in on the item in the mayor’s hand. A rolled newspaper.

  Oh no. No, no, no. There was no way . . . not so soon . . .

  “I think you know exactly why we’re here.” Mayor Hayden’s fingers tightened around the newspaper as his eyebrows dipped into a V.

  Her letter to the editor. The one the committee members had cajoled her into writing. The one she’d stayed up late last night composing. Partially because she simply wanted to get it over with. Mostly because she’d known there was no way she was going to fall asleep quickly—not after that incident with His Majesty Jonah Harrison Archer Davies VI.

  Jonah. A nice name. It fit the man in a way “His Majesty” didn’t. Then again, she’d been in the same room with him for all of ten minutes. What did she know about him?

  Other than he was a whole lot younger than any picture of a king she’d ever had in her head. A whole lot handsomer, too.

  Mayor Hayden slapped the newspaper against his thigh. Focus, Row.

  “I-I don’t understand. I just emailed it to the paper last night. It was almost midnight. The Gazette can’t possibly have printed it so quickly.”

  “Oh, they printed it all right.” Millie Tompkins, the town treasurer, stepped up beside the mayor. “Right on page 2. Above the fold and everything.”

  Two more people climbed the front steps. Great, the crowd was growing. Should she invite them all in, even though the library wasn’t open yet? She was pretty sure she’d heard Ashley’s movements back in the kitchen earlier. Maybe she’d started the coffee brewing. And Hattie had left her remaining scones behind last night. Perhaps if Rowan took everyone back to the kitchen, she could console them with breakfast. “Why don’t you all come in?”

  “I don’t understand it, Rowan Bell,” Mayor Hayden said as he moved aside so others could enter. “I’ve known you since you were a little girl in pigtails winning The Gazette’s annual writing contest. Three years in a row, I might add. To think, you’ve gone from writing about talking veggies to this.”

  “Fruit.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Talking fruit, not vegetables.”

  His forehead wrinkled and his mustache twitched again. “You made us out to sound like the villain in one of those silly romance movies. You know the kind I mean. The kind where there’s a quaint little corner shop in danger of closing because of the big box store that’s come to town. The kind of movie with that curly-haired man and oh, what’s her name?”

  “Meg Ryan?” Millie offered. “Which would make you Tom Hanks, I guess, aka Joe Fox, except the two of you aren’t—” She waved her hand back and forth between them.

  Mayor Hayden rolled his eyes. “What are you going on about, Millie?”

  “You’ve Got Mail, of course. You’d think you’d know seeing as how you used to be in movies.”

  Rowan tugged her cardigan closed. “Mayor, Millie, everyone, listen, I didn’t mean to cause a stir with that letter to the editor. But it’s important that you know there’s a portion of Tinsel’s population that doesn’t want to see the library moved out of this historic location.”

  “A very small portion.” Mayor Hayden smoothed his mustache with two fingers, the newspaper tucked under one arm. “Most of the town realizes how much sense it makes to move. This house simply isn’t suitable anymore and there aren’t funds in the budget to make it suitable.”

  “The Christmas book sale is coming up. We always bring in a little money—”

  “Not the kind of money it would take to make this house habitable for years to come.”

  The smell of something bitter wafted in from outside. Was someone burning leaves? Or, wait, it almost seemed to be coming from the opposite direction—not outside, but inside. Probably Ashley charring her toast again. “So there’s no other option? You’re going to move the library without giving anyone else a say and then . . . what? Tear the house down?”

  The mayor let out a rumbled sigh. “Of course we’re not going to tear it down. We’ll sell it. I wish you’d stop acting like we’re bad guys. I’m not a bad guy. I’m not Joe Fox!”

  Millie leaned forward. “Actually, by the end of the movie, Joe Fox turns out to be a pretty good guy.”

  “Millie, would you please—”

  The mayor’s exasperation was cut off by the sudden blare of the smoke alarm. Oh, perfect. Because Rowan’s letter to the editor and her fall down the stairs, the broken bannister and the draft in the house—none of it was enough. Ashley had to go and set off the smoke detector too.

  Except . . . except why were the townspeople gaping past Rowan, pointing, beginning to panic?

  She whirled.

  Smoke. It curled underneath the door at the back of the Mystery Room, the one that led into the kitchen. Oh, this was much more than a toaster mishap. An instant later, the wailing of the alarm was joined by a sputtering from overhead.

  The sprinklers! Spraying water rained down in the Mystery Room, its drops shooting into the entryway, where the crowd of people now shoved into one another in their hurry to escape the smoke, the alarm, the sprinklers . . .

  The library had surely just sealed its own fate.

  Jonah sprang forward, pushing his way past panicking townspeople all elbowing their way outside.

  “Your Majesty!”

  He ignored Hamish and edged through the crowd, straining to catch sight of the librarian—Rowan, that man in the Christmas sweater had called her. While everyone else had streamed toward the front door, she’d whirled the opposite direction, disappearing into the smoke. Had she gone into the kitchen?

  No, there she was. In the Mystery Room, getting doused by the sprinkler system while struggling to open a glass case mounted to the wall. Good, a fire extinguisher. Behind Rowan, smoke swelled under and around the door leading into the kitchen.

  He surged forward, water pricking his skin—

  Until a harsh jerk on his arm jolted him backward. “You have to get out of here.” Hamish’s grip was tight. “I’m not letting you walk into a fire.”

  “Everyone is abandoning her.” Already, the entryway had emptied almost entirely. He tried to yank his arm f
ree, but Hamish’s fingers only dug deeper into his bicep.

  “I don’t care if I have to throw you over my shoulder, Your Maj—”

  Enough. Instead of pulling away, he thrust his shoulder into Hamish, pitching every ounce of his weight into the shove. With a grunt, Hamish fell backward.

  Jonah rushed forward once more, smoke beginning to sting his eyes and water coursing down his cheeks in rivulets. He reached Rowan in less than a second. Her flaxen hair was already matted to her face and the sleeves of her cardigan flopped from her arms as she fought with the case holding the fire extinguisher.

  “It’s locked?” he called over the pulsing of the alarm.

  She tossed her gaze his direction, shock showing through strands of wet hair hanging over her eyes. “There’s supposed to be a key attached to it. There’s this one kid—Shiloh Hayes—who always messes with it when he comes in. I get after him all the time. He must’ve taken it. He—”

  Any other time he’d grin at her rambling. Instead, he whipped off his sweatshirt, wrapped its hood around his fist, gave Rowan a gentle push.

  “What are you—?”

  The crashing of the glass collided with Rowan’s gasp. Daggers of instant pain shot from the hand he’d used to punch a hole through the glass case all the way up his arm. He dropped the sweatshirt and seized the extinguisher.

  Heat slithered from the kitchen, scraping over his wet skin.

  “Are you okay?” Rowan rasped the words, coughed, stared at him through wide eyes.

  “You should go outside.” Over her shoulder, he caught a glimpse of Hamish barreling their direction. Before the man could stop him, Jonah rushed for the kitchen door, cringing at the handle’s hot metal against his injured hand.

  “Your Majesty, stop.”

  He flung open the door, coughing as a wall of smoke pummeled him, stinging his eyes, filling his lungs—

  “The oven.” Rowan called behind him.

  Why wasn’t he surprised she hadn’t listened to him? Too late to do anything about it now. Flames coiled around the oven, inside and out. He pulled the pin from the extinguisher, aimed toward the appliance, and squeezed. The pressure bucked against him, but he held fast, sweeping the nozzle from side to side. His ears rang from the alarm’s shrieking and his hand throbbed.

  Even over the whoosh of the extinguisher, he could hear Rowan coughing. Just as he was about to order her from the room again, the last of the flames faded into nothing. Water rained down from overhead.

  Acrid air clouded around him and someone took the extinguisher from his hands. Hamish. “Your Maj—”

  “Rowan, where’s the water supply valve?” The sooner the sprinklers stopped, the more chance they had at salvaging as many books as possible. Had the sprinklers only gone off in the kitchen and surrounding rooms? Or had they gone off upstairs too?

  “Basement,” she said, her voice scratchy. “There’s a door off the Nonfiction Room.”

  He turned to Hamish, raised his eyebrows. The older man looked to the oven, as if confirming the danger of fire had truly passed, then nodded.

  As Hamish retreated, the alarm went quiet, leaving only the sputtering purr of the sprinklers and a far-off siren. A fire engine perhaps? Though it didn’t sound the same as the up-and-down keening of the fire engines back home.

  “Y-your hand.” Rowan spoke through shivers, her dripping hair hanging in straggles around her face and her sweater dangling limp off one shoulder.

  He held up his hand to observe its bloodied state. Possibly not the smartest thing he’d ever done, jabbing his fist through that glass. But then he met Rowan’s blue eyes. Though red-rimmed and bloodshot from the smoke, they shone with something that looked an awful lot like admiration. Maybe even a little awe.

  He lowered his hand. So what if Hamish might have to dig specks of glass from his knuckles later? Might be rather worth it.

  Chapter 4

  Jonah wavered outside the closed door at the top of the stairs leading to the library’s second level. One might consider this a slight invasion of Rowan’s privacy.

  But he’d been concerned enough when she’d practically fled from sight an hour ago. The fact that she hadn’t returned only heightened his apprehension. What if she’d inhaled too much smoke earlier today? What if she were up here coughing and choking?

  What if you’re being a silly worrywart?

  The poor woman probably only wanted some time alone. In the eight hours since the fire, it seemed half the town had tromped through the library. The fire department had shown up shortly after Jonah had extinguished the flames. Then the mayor had rushed back inside, along with several of the people who’d been with him earlier. Then a swarm of folks who called themselves the Committee for something-or-other.

  All the while, Jonah had helped out around the place as best he could. After letting Hamish wrap his hand in gauze, he’d gone searching for a broom and returned to the kitchen to sweep up the mess of broken glass, ash, and debris. Then, while Rowan dealt with the fire chief and the mayor and a newspaper reporter and who knew whom else, he’d dragged Hamish with him while he went door-to-door down the neighborhood block, gathering up borrowed fans.

  He’d spent the rest of the afternoon combing through dampened books, spreading the worst of the lot in front of the whirring fans. Thankfully, only a few had been damaged beyond repair.

  Eventually, the library’s company had dwindled until it was only Jonah and Hamish still wiping down shelves in the Mystery Room. And Rowan, who had emerged from the kitchen an hour ago.

  She’d stopped short at the sight of them. Or perhaps more so at the sight of all the fans and open books. Cinder smudged her jeans and her cheeks. Her hair had dried into a mess of tangles.

  She’d opened her mouth, but immediately closed it.

  And then . . . she’d fled. Out to the entryway and up the stairs until he heard her steps creaking above.

  He’d shared a confused look with Hamish, but thankfully the man had given up trying to get Jonah to go back to the hotel and clean up hours ago. They’d simply gone back to work.

  Until Jonah’s concern finally got the better of him. And now here he was, stalling outside her door. Just knock already. Surely she’d heard him coming up the stairs, considering how loudly the old floorboards groaned.

  He knocked.

  No answer.

  Another knock. “Rowan? It’s me. Jonah. I just wanted to make sure . . . to see if . . . could I maybe come in?”

  A pause. And then, her muffled reply. “Sure.”

  He grasped the knob and inched the door open, expecting to see her on the other side. But when she didn’t appear, he pushed the door further and glanced inside.

  His gaze found her on the far end of the open space, sitting on the edge of a day bed. She wore a towel like a turban over her hair. He glimpsed a door leading into what looked like a bathroom. She must’ve showered—that would explain the strawberry scent hovering in the room and the steam on the antique full-length mirror near her bed.

  Gone were her mussed clothes from before. Now she wore a loose green top and a pair of leggings and . . .

  His focus scooted down. Fuzzy slippers shaped like reindeer.

  He bit back a grin she probably wouldn’t welcome. Not that she would’ve noticed. Her gaze was pinned squarely on an opposite wall.

  Not until he cleared his throat did she finally say something. “It’s all the fault of the broken furnace.”

  He blinked. “What?”

  She still stared at the wall. “Ashley got to the library early this morning and the furnace had gone out again overnight and she was freezing, so she turned on the oven for warmth. But it started sparking. Apparently the wiring is bad and . . . and it’s all the stupid broken furnace’s fault.”

  Jonah moved further into the half-story room, stopping over a faded lavender rug with tasseled edges. It matched the quilt on her bed—cream colored with a pattern of tiny violet and green sprigs. Similar dashes of light co
lor decorated the rest of the room—throw pillows, curtains, a blanket draped over a rocking chair.

  Altogether, it added a feminine touch to a space otherwise dominated by a rustic feel—from the pitched cedar ceiling and open rafters to the wooden wardrobe in one corner. Not the most spacious of living arrangements, to be sure.

  Had Rowan Bell inherited these living quarters from the librarian he remembered? It’d finally dawned on him earlier this afternoon—hours after he’d heard Mayor Hayden use her full name—that she shared a last name with the librarian who’d doted on him all those years ago. Suddenly that flicker of familiarity from last night had made sense. Rowan must be related to Mrs. Bell. Too young to be a daughter, surely. A granddaughter?

  “Well, I’m . . . I’m sorry about the fire. And the furnace. Though I heard it kick in a time or two today.” Especially midday when he’d opened all the first floor windows to air out the place.

  No response from Rowan.

  Should he leave? He’d made sure she was okay, after all. No coughing. But she seemed so forlorn sitting there on the bed like that, all the color gone from her face. That is, except for a sprinkling of freckles. He hadn’t noticed those last night. Or her pierced ears. Or the slight ridge of her nose that only added to the character of her face.

  A rather captivating face. A face he should probably stop staring at. What could he say to comfort her?

  Adelaide would know what to say.

  Along with the thought came the image of his wife’s face. Auburn hair, green eyes, straight nose. Ever-present smile, always so calm with acceptance. Of him, of his busy schedule.

  Of their unconventional marriage. Friendship in the place of romance.

  He’d wondered if ever they might have both. Even hoped . . .

  But she’d been taken too quickly. Her life—their life together—snuffed away without warning.