Royal Bastard

by Avery Flynn

  “Uh-huh,” Nick said, still facing Daisy, but his hot gaze was on Brooke. “And the way he always makes sure you get a seat with the best view of the mirror, so you don’t miss anything?”

  Daisy’s head snapped up. “You’ve only met him once; how could you know if he even did that?”

  Nick’s attention dropped to Daisy, all the heat gone. “But he does, doesn’t he?”

  Instead of answering, Daisy finished off her pint, setting the now empty glass down on the rubber mat near the taps. Brooke hadn’t seen the confused, slightly lost look on her sister’s face since she’d woken up in hospital unable to hear. Sometimes the earth moved under one’s feet like that. Could be a big thing or something that seems small at the time but, in the end, the effect was the same, because all of a sudden nothing was as it had been.

  Taking pity on her sister, Brooke handed over her half-filled pint. “You might as well admit it. Nick’s right.”

  “So what do I do about it?” Daisy asked.

  “Don’t look at me.” Nick shrugged. “I’m just an observant dude, not the Merry Matchmaker.”

  Rolling her eyes at Nick over Daisy’s head, Brooke shook her head and then asked, “What do you want to do about it?”

  Her sister looked up from her ale. “I don’t know.”

  Right, then. Okay. That made things a wee bit more complicated. “Then let it play out; you don’t need to rush into anything.”

  Daisy worried her bottom lip and glanced back over her shoulder at where Riley sat, his big laugh booming in the club as he raised his glass in a toast. “So you think this is just something new for him?”

  “Define new.”

  “The past fortnight?” her sister asked hopefully.

  Nick choked on his cider at Daisy’s question in his obvious attempt not to laugh out loud. Glaring at the big prat over her sister’s head, she sent him a silent plea to shut up already. Then she snagged her pint away from her sister and took a long guzzle.

  “A bit longer than that,” she said, setting the empty glass down.

  “How long?” Daisy asked.

  Now, this took some considering. When had the forest ranger started acting differently around Daisy? It was before she’d gotten sick. He’d visited her several times a week when she was in hospital. Brooke went back further. He’d been none too happy about her leaving Yorkshire for university. Before that? Realization lit up her memory like a torch on the moors on a moonless night.

  “Do you remember when Riley punched out Dale Gover for calling you a slag?”

  Daisy blinked several times in surprise. “In year nine?”

  Brooke nodded. That had been the first time she’d noticed how Riley looked at her sister. That had been years before Daisy had lost her hearing, so that should settle any thoughts her sister might have about Riley just pitying her.

  Daisy stared at her for a few more seconds before turning back toward the mirror and the view of Riley it provided. She and Nick followed suit, all of them in companionable silence to give her sister time to adjust to the shock of what she really should have seen years ago. How people could be so clueless about the world around them she had no idea—especially when it was someone as smart and usually observant as her sister. Together they watched as Riley waved off one of his mates, stood up, and made his way over to where the three of them stood at one end of the bar.

  “Fancy another round?” Riley asked.

  For once, Daisy looked flustered. “Actually, I think this one’s mine.”

  “I couldn’t have you buying me mates’ pints.” He tucked a stray hair behind her ear. “I’ve got you.”

  Daisy’s throat bobbed as she gulped, and instead of saying anything, she just nodded. Riley smiled down at her and went about the business of catching their dad’s eye, not an easy task, since business had picked up since they’d walked in.

  Smiling to herself, Brooke didn’t mean to look over at Nick, but her gaze went there anyway. He held up his half-filled cider glass in toast and nodded her way.

  A happy flutter exploded in her stomach, a dangerous sense of giddiness that she could get used to if she wasn’t careful. It was nice to have someone take her side in a debate for once. Comforting, really. And more than a little thrilling.

  It had been a long time since she’d experienced that. The last time, in fact, had been back in Manchester, and that had ended beyond badly. So while she wanted nothing more than to tell him all that, she bit back the words and instead gave him a curt nod and turned away from Nick…Mr. Vane…the earl’s heir…the one leaving in a few months, if he’d even stay as long as he promised. In other words, Mr. Not For the Likes of Her.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Brooke had ditched him. Again. For the past three days—ever since they’d enlightened Daisy about Riley’s Texas-size crush on her—Brooke had been avoiding him like he was a big, cold glass of sweet tea and she was diabetic. Sure, he probably deserved it for putting his hand on her hip, but he’d given in to temptation when it arose, curious about if his body would react to her in the daylight the way it had the night before. Oh boy had it. He’d spent the last few days with various tour guides from the village showing him around Bowhaven and the moors and nights grinding his molars to powder in an effort to give her the space it seemed she wanted.

  However, when the note came to meet her at her father’s pigeon loft in the family’s backyard—which she’d called a garden—he thought he’d been forgiven. Wrong. He’d shown up at the house a few blocks from the Quick Fox to find Mr. and Mrs. Chapman-Powell but no Brooke.

  He glanced over at Phillip Chapman-Powell standing next to what looked like an upscale shed that had to be around six feet wide and six feet high with screened-in mini sunrooms attached to the windows. A little weird but nothing unusual for a backyard—except for the soft cooing coming from inside it. That would definitely stand out in his neck of the woods.

  “So you fancy pigeons?” Phillip asked.

  Wait. Had Brooke’s dad just asked him if he liked birds? That was just…wrong. He had to be misunderstanding, but the British reality shows he’d been watching late at night while stopping himself from knocking on the door connecting his room to Brooke’s all used the term “fancy” as in wanting to bone someone.

  “I’m not sure I’m translating that question correctly,” he said.

  Phillip took a second to clean his glasses and rephrased, “Are you a pigeon fancier? Do you want to race pigeons? Brooke said you were interested in finding out more about it.”

  Oh. Thank. God. “Uh. Maybe.”

  He must have sounded about as convincing as he felt because Phillip gave him an assessing look that reminded Nick a lot of a certain blond Englishwoman who went by the name Lady Lemons.

  Finally, Phillip shook his head and headed over to the loft, stopping when his hand was on the doorknob. “Is she trying to keep you at the big house or scare you off?”

  Now wasn’t that the big question. “I think keep me, but I’m not sure this week. She’s been avoiding me.”

  “That’s my lass. Keep us on our toes, that one does.” Phillip’s face nearly split in two with the size of his proud smile. “Now, come meet my pigeons.”

  Two hours later, he’d met all twenty-five Racing Homer pigeons who were, just like Brooke had said, all named after Harry Potter characters—except for Cecil (“And really there should have been a Cecil in Harry Potter,” Phillip had told him. “Good name, that one.”)—and was sitting in the family room drinking tea and watching a BBC documentary explaining the ins and outs of pigeon racing, from the tiny rubber rings that go around the pigeon’s legs to the use of electronic timers to track the birds as they make their way from the liberation sites back to their home loft—a distance that can be hundreds of miles. He should have been bored out of his mind, but he wasn’t. Thanks to Phillip’s enthusiasm for the sport
and his own never-ending curiosity, he’d gotten sucked in and found himself asking questions about everything from how they get the birds to the liberation point (a special pigeon semitruck-looking vehicle) to the dangers to the birds (falcons and hawks were pigeon enemy number one) to the keys to loft designing (make sure you have enough room was the main rule). When the documentary switched gears and went from the macro world of pigeon racing to the micro, he was surprised to see a seventies version of Phillip in his prime with a pigeon in his hands and a pretty blonde next to him.

  “My two favorite birds,” Phillip said with a chuckle at his own joke.

  Not that he had any firsthand experience, but it seemed the U.S. hadn’t cornered the market on dad jokes. “So you grew up racing pigeons?”

  “Oh yes.” Phillip muted the TV and sat back in his overstuffed recliner stationed in front of a bookcase filled with miniature porcelain pigeons.

  “Did Brooke or Daisy take it up?” He tried to picture either of the women talking to the pigeons in the soft, calm manner Phillip had out in the loft and the image of the kinetic duo slowing down enough for that wouldn’t come.

  Phillip shook his head. “Not for lack of trying on my part. Although Brooke is determined to make Bowhaven home to a pigeon race. She thinks it will help the local chippy, B&Bs, and the pub, of course.”

  It made sense to him, but this was a new environment, so more information was needed. “What do you think?”

  Phillip took off his perfectly clean glasses and used the hem of his shirt to clean them before putting them back on. “That Brooke has a million great ideas, but only one way to share them with people.”

  “Beating them over the head with them.” The woman would be pushy for a New Yorker, let alone a small village in England.

  The older man nodded. “That’s about the sum of it.”

  “Has she always been so determined?” he asked, his insatiable curiosity too strong to stuff back down.

  Phillip stared at the TV screen, now showing a toddler-size towheaded girl who had to be Brooke running around the twentysomething-year-old version of himself as he stood in front of a pigeon loft. “She was always a lass with a plan, but ever since she came back from Manchester, she’s been more”—he paused as if looking for the right word in the ceiling—”forceful.”

  “What happened in Manchester?” It wasn’t idle wondering. His gut had tightened at the concern in Brooke’s father’s tone.

  Phillip glanced down at him, blinking as if he’d forgotten he was there, before a neutral smile slid into place. “Oh, look at me prattling on when I know it’s the pigeons you’re interested in. Did you have any other questions about my birds?”

  Not even close to sated but knowing he wasn’t going to get any more clues to the riddle of Lady Lemons today, Nick shook his head. “I think I’ve taken up enough of your time already.”

  “Always glad to help the future earl,” he said, standing up.

  Nick followed suit. “Don’t you think that’s weird?”

  “That I’m glad to help or that you’ll be the earl someday?” The teasing glint in the other man’s eyes said he knew exactly what Nick was asking.

  “The last part. I’m not exactly sure what anyone expected for the earl’s heir.”

  Phillip laughed and made his way to the door that led out to the little foyer room at the front of the house. “Where would the fun in that be if life always happened the way one thought it would?”

  But that’s exactly what Nick had spent his entire adult life doing—making sure with each of his inventions that things happened the way they should. Predictability. Ease of use. No surprises. That’s what he liked. That’s why he’d picked the lake house out in the middle of Virginia where life rolled along the country road undisturbed right up until that first letter from Lady Lemons had arrived and changed everything—but only for six months a year. At least that’s what he was telling himself despite the little voice in the back of his head telling him to guess again.

  …

  Cadbury cured everything. Well, almost everything. As Brooke sat on her bed and popped another Dinky Deckers into her mouth, letting the milk chocolate melt on her tongue and leaving the crispy cereal and soft nougat, she searched her brain for a solution the earl would accept to the financial enemy marching its army up to Dallinger Park’s door. The situation was worse than she’d realized.

  At the earl’s behest, she’d spent the past three days creating spreadsheets of assets—from paintings to books to the wine in the cellar—and researching what similar items had sold for at recent auctions. If the old earl was willing to part with family heirlooms as so many other of the landed gentry had been forced to do to pay for the upkeep of their legacies, then things were dire indeed. And blast it all, she had exactly zero ideas for how to help in the quick time frame that was obviously needed.

  Closing her eyes, she allowed her head to fall back against the headboard with a thunk and let out a frustrated and long groan.

  “You okay there, Lemons?” Nick’s voice carried through the closed door.

  Double shit.

  “I’m fine,” she said, pulling up the duvet over her sleeping tank and shorts, as if he could see her through the door, because God knew she was picturing him right now.

  “Then maybe you can explain something for me.”

  Abandoning her chocolate on the bedside table, she scooted down her bed so she sat with her back propped against one of the bedposts, taking the duvet with her. “What’s that?”

  “Why are there naked people on a regular basic cable channel?”

  Of all the things that Nick could have asked about, that was pretty much the last one she’d expected. Scratch that. She never would have thought up that one, full stop. “What are you talking about?”

  “This dating show,” he said, his voice low and rumbly, as he was obviously trying to work out what was happening on his telly. “There are three cocks on my screen and they’re not pixelated out.”

  Brooke giggled and fought against the temptation of sneaking over to her door to see the shocked expression on his puritan American face. “Why would they be?”

  “Did you hear me say they were cocks, as in penises not roosters?” he asked. “And this woman is telling everyone what she thinks about the cocks. She actually said one was too big and another was on the pencil-looking side. Is this what women think about dicks?”

  Oh, the poor man. His mind had been blown by Naked Attraction. “Why so uptight?”

  “Really, Lady Lemons?” he asked with a chuckle. “You’re calling me uptight?”

  Okay, that one hit close to the cottage. “Nudity isn’t such a big deal here.”

  “This country is so flippin’ weird.”

  Wait. What? No. That wasn’t going unchallenged. “Uh-huh, this coming from a man who lives in a country where there are drive-through liquor stores.”

  “Very handy when you’re on your way to tailgate.”

  She’d had to look that up once after a reference in a Buzzfeed article. The whole idea of standing around in a parking lot before a university American football game was odd, to put it lightly. “That’s also bizarre.”

  “Says the woman who lives in a country where there’re un-pixilated cocks on regular TV.”

  She laughed, some of the anxiety seeping out of her knotted muscles at the banter. “There’ll be tits soon, too.”

  Something plastic—the remote?—clunked when it hit the floor. “What?”

  “The person picking their date ends up naked, too.” She was sure there was a better way to describe the reality dating show, but her brain wasn’t coming up with one at the moment.

  “On national TV,” he said, his voice sounding closer to the door.

  She nodded, as if he could see her. “Exactly.”

  “So why don’t you come out here
and watch this with me and tell me what’s driving you nuts and making you so tense that you started banging your head on the wall.” Oh yeah, definitely closer and deeper and hotter than he should be.

  “I’m not tense.” Hello, Fibber McFibberpants.

  “You can’t lie to me,” he said with a snort. “I figure out puzzles for a living.”

  She couldn’t look away from the doorknob, half hoping and half dreading that it would start to turn. God. She was in trouble. “I thought you invented things.”

  “Same thing. I figure out ways to make things easier for people.”

  “What if what’s making me mental is you?” Okay, that was truer than it was false, but it wasn’t her place to tell tales about the state of Dallinger Park’s finances.

  He chuckled. “Not gonna buy it, since you’ve been avoiding me for days.”

  “You noticed that, did you now?” Chicken? Her? Oh yeah. She was the girl who ran from Manchester with her tail tucked between her legs in the dead of night to avoid the reporters and the photographers who’d set up across from her flat.

  Nick rapped softly on the door. “Can I come in?”

  Hello, temptation, it’s me, Brooke. “Letting you in isn’t a good idea.”

  “Probably not.”

  That he agreed didn’t make her want to open the door any less—which was exactly why she stayed on the bed with her back pressed to the post and the duvet clutched to her chest, her body going melty like a Dinky Deckers left out in the sun. The silence stretched, filling the room with expectations that couldn’t be met. Not for a woman like her with a man like him.

  Still, she stared at the door, practically willing it to open on its own. “Good night, Mr. Vane.”

  “Say it.”

  It wasn’t a request. It was a demand that set off a warm, liquid wave of desire through her, and she didn’t have to ask what he meant.