And please don’t let me wake up.
But the distant rumble of thunder and the steady drip of rain off the eaves outside the bedroom window reminded her that it was not a dream at all. She truly was inside Penwyck Palace, snuggled under a thick down comforter that covered a four-poster canopied bed which was in and of itself fit for a king.
She barely remembered being brought here yesterday. The pain medication had not only eased her aches and pains, but had made her fall into a deep sleep for the night. Obviously the medication had worn off, she thought when she rolled to her back and her shoulder twanged in protest. Wincing, she lifted a hand to her forehead and pressed her fingers to the insistent, dull ache in her skull.
When the pain eased, she drew in a slow breath, then rose on one elbow and glanced around the spacious room. Elegant was her first thought, Victorian romantic was her second as she took in the canopied bed, lace curtains, floral wallpaper and a French country armoire.
And flowers. Beautiful long-stemmed pink roses, white carnations, purple delphiniums, all in a huge, cut-crystal vase on a round corner table. Beside the bed, pale-yellow Old English roses spilled from the sides of a clear glass bowl. Next to the roses, in a shallow porcelain dish, were two pure-white gardenias.
Tears burned Emily’s eyes as she stared at the fragrant flowers. Everyone had been so nice to her since yesterday. Liam, Dr. Waltham, even Nurse Weidermeyer, though Emily had to admit the woman did frighten her a bit.
And Dylan. In the back of the limo he’d been so incredibly gentle, then at the infirmary those piercing blue eyes of his had shown such concern. When he’d touched her chin so tenderly, her heart had skipped a beat. The texture of his callused hands on her skin had been electric. She’d almost forgotten she was sit ting before him practically naked under the infirmary gown, had nearly forgotten where she was and why.
She hated that he’d blamed himself, even though she’d been the one to cause the accident. If only there was some way to undo what had been done, she thought as she stared at the sheer white canopy over her head, some way to turn back the clock and make things right.
But there wasn’t, of course. She couldn’t change a thing now. It was too late. She couldn’t look back, knew she had no choice but to move forward.
At the sound of a soft knock at the door, Emily attempted to sit, but the effort sent a jolt of pain through her shoulder. With a gasp, she lay back against the pillows and struggled to find her voice.
“Come in.”
The door opened slowly, and a rail-thin brunette wearing a gray-and-white maid’s uniform wheeled a food cart into the room. The smell of peppermint tea and bacon reminded Emily that she hadn’t eaten since the day before.
“Mornin’ Miss Emily,” the maid said cheerfully and pushed the cart beside the bed. “My name is Sally. I hope I didn’t wake you.”
“No.” Emily bit her lip and slowly, carefully, attempted to sit. “I was already awake.”
“Let me help you.” Sally quickly moved beside the bed and reached for another pillow, then slipped it behind Emily’s back. “Your nurse went off to get your medication, and the doctor will be here in a little while to see how you’re doing. Do you need to use the bathroom?”
“Not just yet.” Emily let the worst of the pain pass, then forced a smile. “Please don’t fuss over me. It’s really not necessary.”
“Oh, but it is, Miss Emily.” Sally drew her brows together in a serious frown, then she turned and lifted the silver dome on a plate. Steam rose from a fluffy mound of scrambled eggs and several slices of bacon. “Not that I wouldn’t want to fuss over you anyway, of course, but Prince Dylan was quite firm in his instructions.”
Sally lifted a blue linen napkin covering a silver basket. Emily’s mouth watered at the pile of pastries inside. “Instructions?”
“He said that you were to have anything you wanted, anything at all.” Sally poured tea from a silver pot into a white china cup. “He also said if there was any problem, no matter how small, he was to be personally and immediately informed. Would you like cream in your tea?”
“Ah, no, thank you.” Emily shifted until she found a comfortable spot, then accepted the tea Sally offered. “But surely Dyl—Prince Dylan—has more important matters to deal with than me.”
Pulling out a wooden bed tray from underneath the cart, Sally placed it over Emily’s legs, then reached for a set of silverware and a linen napkin. “Well, the palace has been in a bit of a bumble since King Morgan fell ill.”
“The king is ill?”
“Heavens, yes. Very ill, with encephalitis, we were told. We’re all so happy he’s out of danger now and recovering. It’s been a huge relief for the queen and Prince Owen that Prince Dylan has finally come home.”
Emily sipped the tea Sally handed her; the warmth of the liquid relaxed her. “Prince Dylan has been gone?”
“You don’t know?” Sally stared at Emily in bewilderment, then, with a small gasp, pressed her hand to her mouth. “I was told that you’ve lost your memory, but I wasn’t thinking. So it’s true, then? You really don’t remember anything? Who you are or where you’re from?”
The ache in Emily’s temple became a throb at Sally’s question. Closing her eyes, she simply shook her head.
“Oh dear, I’m so sorry I’ve upset you.” Distressed, the maid wrung her hands. “Here I am, supposed to take care of you and I’m only making things worse.”
“No.” Emily drew in a long breath, then opened her eyes again and forced a smile. “No. You’ve done nothing. Tell me about Prince Dylan.”
Sally’s face took on a dreamy look. “Prince Dylan is…amazing.”
Emily tried not to smile. It appeared that the young maid had a crush on Dylan. Not that Emily was surprised. What woman under eighty wouldn’t be swooning over the handsome prince? Hadn’t she found her own stomach fluttering when he’d touched her?
“You said he’d been gone,” Emily prompted.
“For nearly two years.” Sally set the plate of bacon and eggs on the tray. “No one knows exactly where he’s been or what he’s been doing. Some say he was in Africa, hunting dangerous animals in the thickest, darkest jungles. Some say he was at sea, sailing the vast, endless oceans, visiting the most exotic ports and women. There’s even talk of an Italian contessa and a secluded villa.” Sally paused with a sigh. “He’s quite the ladies’ man, you know. So rugged and handsome and a smile that would make any woman melt on the spot.”
“I’m sure there are puddles all around the world,” Emily said dryly, more than a little unnerved that she’d had exactly the same reaction to the man.
“There are other rumors, too.” Sally leaned closer and whispered, “But so outrageous I really don’t think I should repeat them.”
“No,” Dylan said stiffly from the doorway as he stepped into the room. Annoyance narrowed his eyes. “You really shouldn’t.”
Three
“Prince Dylan!” Her face bright red, Sally spun around and curtsied awkwardly. “I—I thought you were in a meeting with Admiral Monteque this morning.”
Dylan resisted the urge to tug at the charcoal silk tie around his neck, wished to God he didn’t have to wear these damn suits to informal meetings. “Not for another hour.”
Completely flustered that she’d been caught talking about a member of the royal family, an offense that she knew she could be fired for, the young maid began to babble. “I—I’m sorry, Your Royal Highness. I didn’t mean to, that is, I wouldn’t have—”
“Never mind, Sally.” Frowning, Dylan waved a dismissive hand. “I’d like to speak to Emily, if you don’t mind.”
Sally folded her hands in front of her and smiled. “Well, of course I don’t mind.”
Dylan lifted a brow. “Alone.”
“Oh, yes, of course, of course. I’m so sorry.” The maid pushed the food cart aside, then glanced at Emily. “I’ll be back in a little while to help you with a bath and wash your hair, but if you need anyth
ing at all, just dial two-four on the phone. Or I can wait outside, if you like, or I can—”
“Sally.”
The maid jumped at Dylan’s sharp reprimand, then backed toward the door, her eyes cast downward as she bowed out of the room.
Brow furrowed, Dylan stared at the closed door for a long moment. He’d never quite gotten used to the bows and curtsies he’d been subjected to his entire life. He’d accepted all the formality as part of his inherited duty, but still, that didn’t mean he had to like it.
There were times he was thankful that his brother would be named the next king. From the time they’d been young children, Owen had been more suited to rule Penwyck. He’d always had more patience, more interest in the politics of the country, while Dylan had found it difficult to stay in one place for any length of time or to follow the endless rules that the royal family was subject to. And his temper had gotten him in trouble on more than one occasion, a fact that his mother had lamented over his entire life.
And still, there were times that Dylan wondered if he could make a difference if he were to rule the country, if he could curb his temper and rule with his intellect instead of his emotions.
But what did it matter? Owen would be the next king of Penwyck, and Dylan bore his twin no ill will over that fact. Owen would make a fine king. He had a wife, Jordan, who would be a lovely queen, and their four-year-old daughter, Whitney, was already a beautiful princess. Owen would make their parents and family and all the people of Penwyck proud.
Dylan turned his attention to Emily. Pillows plumped behind her back, she sat upright in the large bed, a breakfast tray perched across her legs. She watched him with a cautious, uncertain expression in her eyes, eyes still glazed and heavy from sleep.
His blood stirred at the sight of her. With her thick, dark hair tumbling around her pale face and slender shoulders, and the soft rise of her bare breasts at the V of her green silk pajama top, she seemed more fantasy than reality.
Then his gaze dropped to the mark on her cheek and reality returned. A swear word hovered on the tip of his tongue, but he checked himself before it escaped. Though the swelling appeared less noticeable than the day before, the bruise itself had darkened to an angry, deep blue.
“Good morning, Your Royal Highness.” She lifted her gaze to his when he moved beside the bed. “I hope you’ll forgive me if I don’t curtsy. You’ve caught me at a disadvantage, I’m afraid.”
“From where I’m standing, Emily, you are hardly what I, or any other man, would consider disadvantaged.” Her blush spread across her cheeks and down the long, smooth column of her neck. Once again his gaze was drawn to her breasts, and he saw the outline of her nipples under the thin silk pajama top. The blood she’d stirred only a moment ago now began to heat quickly.
Forcing his mind off ravaging the woman, Dylan cleared his throat. “How are you feeling?”
“As if my head were a forest,” she replied. “And a little man with a chain saw is busy cutting down the trees.”
He reached for the phone. “I’ll have your nurse paged right away.”
“It’s just a headache.” She touched his arm to stop him, then quickly pulled away. “I’m sorry, Your Royal Highness. That was presumptuous of me and I—”
“Stop that.” He frowned at her, then pulled the chair from beside the nightstand next to the bed and sat down. With a sigh, he took her hand in his. “Emily, I told you yesterday, when we’re alone, I’d rather you call me Dylan.”
“I—” She dropped her gaze. “If you like.”
“I like.”
He liked a lot of things when it came to Emily, Dylan realized. The lovely flush of pink on her cheeks, the soft lilt of her voice, her calm courage. Most of the women he’d known would have been in hysterics over all that had happened and would probably have the entire palace staff running in ten different directions.
But Emily had asked for nothing, had even seemed embarrassed over all the attention. Though that told him a lot about her character, he still knew nothing of who she actually was, or her background.
He closed his hand around hers. Her fingers were warm today, and he wondered if she was as smooth and soft all over. When he lightly brushed her wrist with his thumb, he felt her pulse jump under his touch. “Have you remembered anything?”
He saw the anguish in her eyes before she closed them and turned her head away. Dammit! Dylan cursed himself for pressing her. Dr. Waltham had warned him yesterday how stressful amnesia—even partial amnesia—was to a person. She was already in enough pain, and the last thing she needed right now was a lot of questions she couldn’t answer.
He’d know soon enough, anyway. He’d already asked Pierceson Prescott to look into the matter for him. Dylan was certain it wouldn’t be long before the respected member of King Morgan’s Royal Elite Team discovered this woman’s identity. It wasn’t as if she’d dropped out of the sky, after all.
Oddly, Dylan hoped that it wouldn’t be too soon. He knew that when she found out who she was, who her family was, she would be gone. It was hard to admit, but he wasn’t ready to let go of the lovely Emily just yet.
“Eat.” He released her hand and gestured to the food on the tray. “Chef Boudreau is one of the few luxuries I missed while I was away. The man is a genius.”
She picked up the cup and sipped at it. “Maybe just the tea.”
“Food.” Dylan reached for a fork and stabbed a bite of egg, then held it to her lips. “No argument, and that’s an order.”
“An order, is it?” She lifted a brow. “I thought you were just Dylan when we were alone.”
“That depends on how cooperative you are.” He felt his heart jump when her mouth closed over the fork. When he scooped up another bite of egg, the smile in her eyes faded.
“Dylan,” she said softly and took the fork from him. “I can feed myself, thank you. Maybe if you ate something, too, I wouldn’t feel so self-conscious.”
To make her more comfortable, he plucked a scone from her tray and sat back in his chair. The rain had eased up, and the steady drip drip drip off the eaves was the only sound in the room.
She ate delicately, tiny little bites, and each time she lifted the fork to her lips, Dylan felt a tightening in his groin. He knew he should look away. Lusting after a woman who lay injured and in pain was hardly a gentlemanly thing to do, especially when he’d been the one to inflict the injuries.
But then, he hadn’t always claimed to be a gentleman.
“Sally told me you’ve been away from the palace for two years,” Emily said after a few moments. “That’s a long time to be away from your family. You must have missed them very much.”
“Yes.” He hadn’t realized how much until he’d returned. “Though my sisters have been horrible nags about how long I’d been gone and the fact I’d been hard to reach.”
“So was it the jungle, the ocean or the Italian villa?”
“What?”
“I’m sorry.” Reaching for her napkin, she dabbed at the corners of her mouth. “I shouldn’t have asked that.”
“Ah. The rumors.” He lifted his chin. “I’ve heard the jungle and ocean ones, but the Italian villa?”
She cast a sideways glance at him. “Where you’ve been hiding out while you were gone, with your lover, the contessa.”
Dylan couldn’t remember that he’d ever been with the same woman for two weeks, let alone two years. “Oh, that villa,” he said, taking another bite of scone. “I’d forgotten. There have been so many.”
Emily raised a brow. “Villas or women?”
“Rumors.”
Too many, Dylan thought in annoyance. From the time he was seventeen, the paparazzi and media had lurked in shadows and hidden around corners everywhere he’d gone. If he had so much as glanced at a woman, suddenly they were a couple, deeply in love, with eyes only for each other. According to the tabloids, Dylan Penwyck had been secretly engaged or actually married more times than he could count. His personal favor
ite was the eyewitness who’d sworn to have seen him in a Las Vegas chapel, slipping a ring on a famous model’s hand while an Elvis minister presided over the ceremony.
Still, he hadn’t much cared what the newspapers reported one way or the other, even when the headlines had been less than admirable. The only one that had ever bothered him in the slightest had been the accusation he’d fathered a baby and left his lover in poverty and rags while he dined in the finest restaurant with three buxom blondes then got into a drunken brawl with a waiter.
He still saw red every time he thought of that article and the accompanying photograph that barely resembled him. No Penwyck man would ever turn his back on his own child, let alone leave them in poverty.
It was the only time Dylan had personally stepped in and insisted on an apology, written and public, then made a “suggestion” to the newspaper that they make a rather large contribution to a local social services agency that assisted single pregnant women and mothers.
“I’m sorry,” Dylan heard Emily say quietly. “I’ve upset you.”
Dylan turned his attention back to the woman in the bed. She watched him with a worried look in her green eyes, and the sight of her lying there, so fragile and delicate, made him forget about the irritation he’d felt over that damn tabloid article.
Smiling, he shook his head. “Rumors go with the territory, I’m afraid. But it’s certainly taught me that you can’t believe everything you read, or even what you hear and see. Things,” he said evenly, “are not always what they seem.”
Her expression was blank as she held his gaze. “Prince Dylan is a cynic?”
“I question,” he said, then leaned close. “Especially when it comes to beautiful young women with amnesia.”
He caught the slight intake of her breath before she replied, “Are you complimenting me, Your Highness, or cross-examining?”
“Dylan,” he reminded her. “And if I have to tell you it’s a compliment, then I have been in the jungle for too long.”
Royally Pregnant (Crown & Glory Book 9) Page 3
