Royal Bastard (Instantly Royal 1)

“Care to explain?” he asked, wondering if jet lag was making him hear things.

“The high street is just where most of the shops are located.”

So high street was downtown. Christ. Nick needed some aspirin. He must have made the observation out loud because Daisy responded.

“At the chemist,” she said, pointing across the street to what he’d call the drugstore before saying goodbye with a wave and disappearing into the pub.

Nick rubbed his temples. It had been a while since he’d hot-wired a car, but he wasn’t above doing it again to get out of here. For that, though, he needed some privacy and, judging by the number of people looking out at him from inside the store’s windows, he wasn’t going to be able to manage that until nightfall.

Resigned to having to bide his time, he banished his cheerful kidnapper-in-chief from his mind and walked to the Bits and Bobs bookstore next to the pub. Maybe they had some new biographies or an urban fantasy romance—Mace had turned him on to those after he’d been the location scout on a book-turned-movie job. He’d laughed when Mace had sent him a copy signed by the author; then he’d read the first page. He hadn’t put the damn thing down until he’d finished it. Yeah, he could definitely go for an end-of-the-world, chicks-with-special-powers-kicking-demon-ass book right about now.

Nick opened the door and took half a step forward when a small dog or a large rat, he couldn’t quite make it out, launched itself from inside the shop right at him.

“Mr. Darcy,” a woman yelled. “No!”

Nick grabbed the furry avenger in mid-flight and held it—a Jack Russell, it turned out—at arm’s length while the brown-and-white fur ball growled and snapped at him like fifteen pounds of fury on PCP.

“Oh, you naughty boy, you should know better than that.” All eyes for the dog, a woman in glasses and a green V-neck T-shirt that read The Book Was Better rushed forward and scooped up the dog. “I’m so sorry about this. He’s in a snit today.”

Only once the still-snarling creature was firmly tucked under her arm did she look up. Her jaw dropped and her eyes widened a millisecond before she recovered. “It’s you.”

Was there anyone in this asylum of a village who didn’t know who he was? Might as well own up to it.

“It is.” He lifted his hand, palm up, and held it out so the dog could smell that he didn’t have evil intentions. “Nick Vane.”

Mr. Darcy maintained his death stare but stopped growling long enough to give him a sniff.

“Megan Page.” She waved her free hand, gesturing toward the bookshelves. “And this is my shop.”

He looked down at the Jack Russell now sniffing his hand with intense interest. “Is Mr. Darcy yours, too?”

“Yes, the little bugger has escape-artist skills,” she said as she walked behind the counter with the dog squirming to get out of her hold. “Beg your pardon about that. He has a tendency to attack first and ask questions later.”

Interest piqued, he looked around at the bookstore/card store/knickknack emporium. There wasn’t a kennel anywhere in sight. “What did he break out of?”

“The Houdini Three Thousand.”

Now there was a marketing-department-developed name if he’d ever heard one. “Can I see it?”

Keeping the dog under her arm, Megan picked up a crate off the floor that had been hidden behind the counter and handed it to him. The Houdini Three Thousand turned out to be a small wire kennel that was the perfect size for a Jack Russell. It had an automatic treat dispenser near the door and a practically decimated stuffed rabbit in the corner. After she set it down on the counter, he examined the kennel from all angles. The idea must be that the dog would entertain itself with figuring out how to get the dispenser to spit out a small treat instead of how to make a jailbreak. Like the voice-calming dog collar, it was a good idea in theory, but reality was another story.

No doubt Mr. Darcy was insulted by the idea—and rightly so—that he could be contained. Therefore, he’d bypassed the treat option so he could pull a Shawshank Redemption. Nick had to admire the canine’s tenacity. He almost hated fucking with the dog’s prospects like this.

“I can fix it,” he told Megan.

So he did, all while Megan gave him the general rundown on Bowhaven and its residents. The village had been hard hit by the Pepson Factory closing, and a lot of folks were moving away to get jobs—something that didn’t help the businesses still here struggling to keep the doors open.

“And no one has any ideas for what could be done to help the economy?” There had to be a town council, a business development agency, or something like that who could help.

Megan stroked Mr. Darcy’s head as she chewed on her bottom lip as if she was trying to pick her words carefully. “Suggestions have been made, but let’s just say that they were made by someone known for being pushy.”

Considering how deliberately vague her word choice had been

, he didn’t need more information to figure out who she’d been talking about. He could see his grandfather trying to run the joint as if he was still a feudal lord. Before he could comment on it, though, Megan was off on another topic—this time the upcoming market day—and he listened with half an ear as he finished modifying the kennel.

Thirty minutes later, Mr. Darcy stood inside the tweaked Houdini Three Thousand. The dog stuck one paw through the wires and pawed at the lever for the door, but nothing happened because now someone on the outside had to press the door lever on the front at the same time as the one on top of the kennel. After a few more tries, the Jack Russell sat down, made eye contact with Nick, and bared his teeth.

“Sorry, man, but those are the breaks.”