Royally Pregnant (Crown & Glory Book 9)

by Barbara Mccauley

  “Thank you.” The queen moved closer to the bed. “How are you feeling this evening?”

  “I’m much better, thank you.” Emily resisted the temptation to duck under the covers. If Mavis were to take her pulse now, Emily thought, the nurse would probably insist her patient be admitted to ICU. “You’ve been so kind to allow me to stay here.”

  “We would hardly have left you in the road, Emily. Especially after running you down with the palace limousine. That would be most unseemly.”

  “Thank you, Your Majesty, but I am the only one to blame for the accident. I was careless.”

  Marissa lifted a finely arched brow. “It’s not polite to argue with the queen.”

  “I—I’m sorry,” Emily stumbled.

  “She’s teasing you, Emily,” Dylan said gently, then gave his mother a half grin. “The queen does have a sense of humor on occasion.”

  “With three daughters, two sons and a husband like King Morgan, it’s been essential.” Queen Marissa smiled at Dylan. “The prince, on occasion, has one himself. Ask him about the time he strapped a tiny gold crown on a bullfrog and let it loose in his father’s office.”

  The love between mother and son was obvious, Emily thought as she glanced from Dylan to Marissa, and couldn’t help but think of her grandmother and how much she loved her. Though she knew that Olivia was being treated well, the thought of those horrible men harming her grandmother once again strengthened Emily’s resolve.

  She might not like what she’d been forced to do, but until she could think of a way out of this, she simply had no choice.

  “I’m sorry to hear about the king,” Emily said hesitantly. “I do hope he’s feeling better.”

  “He’s out of danger now, thank you. He bellowed quite loudly when the doctor drew his blood this morning, a good sign that he’s on the mend.” Marissa turned her attention to her son. “Will you be joining the family for dinner this evening?”

  Dylan shook his head. “We’ll be finalizing the details of the alliance with Drogheda and Marjorco tonight. Owen has a conference scheduled with both ambassadors on Drogheda tomorrow.”

  “You’ll not go with him?” Marissa asked.

  “There’s no need. Owen and I agreed that one of us should stay on Penwyck at all times.”

  “Perhaps.”

  It was odd, Emily thought, the fleeting glimpse of anxiety in the queen’s expression, the hesitation in her voice. But it was gone just as quickly, then she stepped forward and placed a kiss on her son’s cheek. “I’ll have Chef Boudreau save a pastry for you. Goodnight, dear.”

  Emily’s pulse jumped when the queen turned back to her. “Do take care, Emily. Do not hesitate to ask if you need anything at all.”

  Praying that her eyes did not reflect the guilt slicing through her heart, Emily dropped her gaze in a gesture of respect. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

  “Perhaps if you’re well enough tomorrow, you’d like a tour of the palace,” Marissa said. “Princess Megan and Princess Meredith are both excellent guides.”

  Stop! Emily wanted say. Stop being so nice! “I—I couldn’t impose.”

  “Nonsense.” Marissa’s voice brooked no argument. “Sally will take care of your needs for an outing.”

  Like a true queen, Marissa turned and swept from the room.

  Emily stared after her for a long moment, blinking back the moisture burning her eyes. I can do this, she told herself and touched the ring on her finger, the ring her grandmother had given her. I can.

  “Is everything all right?” Dylan asked.

  She heard the concern in his voice, knew that his kindness, everyone’s kindness, would be her undoing. She lay back against the pillows and lowered her gaze, afraid if he looked into her eyes she would be lost. Her grandmother would be lost.

  “It’s been a long day,” she said quietly.

  “I’ll leave you then.” He moved closer and her pulse raced, pounded in her skull.

  When he leaned closer still, she felt the heat of his body. He’d kissed her earlier, a simple, light brush of lips, yet not so simple at all. His mouth on hers had been electric and she’d felt her body respond with a will of its own.

  The next time I tell you I’m taking you to bed he had said when he’d held her in his arms, it will mean something entirely different.

  She hadn’t the energy to resist him if he kissed her again. Her need for comfort, for reassurance, was too strong right now. She should be pleased that he was interested in her, wasn’t that why she’d been sent here? To seduce him, to deceive him?

  But there was no pleasure in knowing that he wanted her. How could there be, when she was such a fraud?

  She felt him tug the comforter up to cover her shoulders, then squeezed her eyes tightly shut.

  “Rest well, Emily,” he said close to her ear. She shivered at the warm brush of his breath on her skin. “I’m anxious for you to heal quickly.”

  When she heard the door close softly a moment later, Emily let the tears slide down her face. Tears of anger, tears of frustration, tears of guilt.

  She’d do what these vile men had insisted of her, and then she’d see each and every one of them rot in hell.

  Fifteen men from King Morgan’s Royal Intelligence Institute and the Royal Elite Team, plus Owen and Dylan, sat in black leather armchairs around the polished twenty-foot-long mahogany conference table. Oil paintings of previous Penwyck rulers and several famous dukes and prime ministers hung on ivory-colored walls. Crystal glasses, one before each chair, were filled with ice water, but coffee had been the drink of choice at the meeting and the silver carafes in the middle of the table were nearly empty. Servants had been allowed in the board room only to replenish coffee and water and a tray of assorted sandwiches.

  With so many security breaches in the past few months, including Owen’s kidnapping and his sister Anastasia’s near-fatal plane crash, precautions were being taken beyond the ordinary. Though the palace was still celebrating Penwyck’s most recent alliance with the United States, there were two principalities, Drogheda and Marjorco, that were still haggling over details.

  Dylan pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger and listened while Admiral Monteque, the head of the Penwyck Royal Navy, offered his suggestion on the disagreement over international waters, an important issue which Owen would be negotiating with the ambassadors to Drogheda and Marjorco at their conference over the next few days. If all went well, the alliances with both countries would be complete within the month.

  Owen, who’d been sitting beside Dylan, stood at the conclusion of Admiral Monteque’s discussion. “I believe we’ve covered everything on our agenda for the evening, gentlemen. Thank you all for being here. My father is recovering quickly and sends his regards to everyone.”

  Applause broke out at Owen’s announcement. The king and his counsel had been greatly missed these past few months. There had been chaos since Morgan’s twin brother, Broderick, had been brought in temporarily to run the kingdom, but since he’d been forced to step down two weeks earlier, order had slowly returned.

  And Uncle Broderick, strangely enough, was nowhere to be found.

  There’d been accusations that Dylan’s uncle was connected to the Black Knights, some even suggested he was their leader. But there’d been no conclusive proof so far. It was hard to believe that Broderick could be aligned with a fanatical group of activists whose sole purpose was to disrupt the government of Penwyck, but Dylan knew it was certainly possible. Broderick had been bitter that Morgan had been chosen to rule Penwyck for the past thirty years. His bitterness might very well have aligned him with the terrorist group.

  But if Broderick was associated with the Black Knights, Dylan was certain that he would be found out. And the fact that he was King Morgan’s brother would only increase the man’s punishment, not diminish it.

  There would be no sympathy, no mercy for anyone affiliated with the Black Knights.

  “Excuse me, Your Royal
Highness.” Pierceson Prescott approached Dylan while a few others milled about the conference room. “May I speak with you?”

  “Of course.”

  “You asked me to check on the woman your car struck on the road,” Pierceson said when he and Dylan stepped to a quiet corner.

  Dylan nodded. “Emily.”

  “It appears that is her name,” Pierceson said. “Her bicycle was rented down in the village from a vendor named Joseph Wellman. She signed a form that the vendor requires for rentals, a waiver of responsibility for accidents and a promise to return the bike in the same condition it was rented.”

  Dylan’s pulse jumped, though he kept his gaze on the other man steady. “And?”

  “That’s the problem.” Pierceson shook his head. “There is no and. She simply signed her name Emily. She was alone when she rented the bike, and she paid cash. Told the man that she was off to sightsee and she’d return in a few hours.”

  Dylan frowned. “That’s it?”

  “The vendor admitted that he’d been interested in Emily, had asked her if her husband would be joining her. She’d told the man no, that she wasn’t married. I’m checking the local areas for abandoned cars, and also the inns and hotels for guests who might match the woman’s description.”

  So she’s not married.

  Relief, then pleasure surged through his veins, though Dylan kept his face blank while he listened to Prescott mention additional investigative procedures he’d put in place.

  But even with this new information, Dylan realized, the lovely Emily was as big a mystery now as she had been before.

  Five

  It was one thing to read about the wealthy and privileged, Emily thought while she listened to Sally’s tuneless humming from the dressing room. The money, the servants, private chefs and fancy clothes. But it was quite another thing to be a part of it, to actually be living the life most people only dreamed about. To be certain, it was wonderful, yet terrifying at the same time. Emily glanced down at the simple white cotton blouse and beige wool slacks she wore, knew that both articles of clothing bore the label of an internationally renowned designer.

  And if that weren’t enough, the chocolate-colored cashmere cardigan Dee Dee had insisted that Emily wear—heavens! Emily doubted that a week’s paycheck teaching at the Clarton Elementary School would pay for the luxurious sweater. The entire outfit, complete with the kid-leather brown flats, would probably have cost Emily an entire month’s salary.

  With a sigh, she sat on the edge of the bed. She missed her children, all eighteen of them: little Darrin Donaldson, with his unruly red hair and endless questions; Edwina Barron, with her perfect ponytail and big blue eyes; Molly Gibson, whose infectious giggling disrupted the class constantly. Emily was sure they’d all be fine with a substitute teacher for a couple of weeks, and with the holiday break coming the week after next, Emily knew she wouldn’t miss too much of the school year.

  Unless something went wrong.

  The knot already in her stomach tightened. Even if she did everything those awful men asked of her, even if she gave them the information they wanted, how did she know they still wouldn’t kill her and her grandmother?

  She couldn’t know, of course. And it certainly wasn’t as if she trusted them to honor their word. She’d tried to convince herself that they had no reason to harm anyone if she did what they said. After all, she was committing a crime. She could never tell anyone what she’d done. If she did, she would be put in jail herself. Then who would take care of her grandmother? Emily worried. Olivia’s eyesight wasn’t as good as it had been even last year, and sometimes she forgot to take her blood-pressure medication.

  But there had been one thing, one precaution Emily had taken to protect her grandmother and herself. If anything went wrong, she prayed that what had been a chance mistake would save their lives.

  The night she’d received that first phone call, her answering machine had picked up at the same time she’d lifted the receiver. The entire conversation had been recorded. Everything that had been said was now on a microcassette, tucked away in a safe place. She knew it wouldn’t keep her out of jail, but at the very least it might somehow prevent those men from deciding that they no longer wanted anyone living who could testify against them. That tape was her ace-in-the-hole. No one knew about it. She would tell no one until she’d completed what she’d come here to do. The tape was her bargaining chip to make certain she got her grandmother safely back and that no future “accidents” might happen.

  For now, she needed to concentrate on why she was here and what she needed to do. Not an easy task, considering she couldn’t stop thinking about Dylan.

  She’d tossed and turned most of the night, kept awake not only by her guilt, but by remembering the touch of his lips against her own, the feel of his muscled body as he’d held her in his arms. The hard glint of passion in his eyes as he’d looked at her. Even when she’d finally drifted to sleep, her dreams had been filled with images of him kissing her, sweeping her up into his arms and taking her to his bed, images of his bare skin against her own, his hands touching her, arousing. He’d gazed down at her, his body poised over her own, his expression filled with raw desire as he spread her legs with his knee. She’d reached for him, wanting him closer, wanting him inside her.

  Then suddenly anger had replaced the need in his gaze, and he was standing by the window, his eyes dark with fury as he pointed outside to where a man in a black shroud stood by a gallows.

  She’d awakened then, gasping, her heart pounding wildly. Was it an omen? she’d wondered. Was she destined for failure?

  There’d been no sleep for her after that, and still the awful dread, the fear, of her dream lingered.

  A knock at the door made her jump, but before she could even get off the bed, Sally darted out of the dressing room and headed across the room.

  Princess Megan had sent word the previous evening that she would be delighted to take Emily on a tour of the palace, and that she would arrive at Emily’s room at ten o’clock. Emily had been a nervous wreck all morning, and though she’d wanted to feign a headache, she’d decided against it. Not only had Dr. Waltham approved of an outing, Emily had told enough lies already. Besides, she was clearly aware that if she was going to do as these men had demanded, then it would be important to be personally familiar with the layout of the palace.

  Breath held, Emily stood and tried to ignore the flutters in her stomach. She’d already asked Sally the proper manner in which to greet a princess, and Emily prayed she didn’t trip over her own feet when she curtsied.

  But when Sally opened the door, it wasn’t Princess Megan standing there. It was Dylan.

  Sally curtsied and stepped aside. “Your Royal Highness.”

  Dylan nodded. “Sally.”

  Pulse racing, Emily hesitated, then curtsied as well. She felt terribly awkward with the whole business, but was pleased that at least she had managed to hold an upright position.

  Dylan glanced at Sally. “I saw Ryan O’Connor in the garden this morning, pruning my mother’s rosebushes. He inquired about you.”

  Sally burst into a smile, then quickly composed herself and folded her hands primly. “Ry—Mr. O’Connor inquired about me?”

  “He mentioned he hadn’t seen you in a few days, and he hoped that you weren’t ill.”

  “He thought I was ill?” The maid’s eyes took on a doe-like quality, then she remembered where she was. Color rose on her cheeks. “I—I’ve been busy with Miss Emily.”

  “He seemed terribly concerned,” Dylan said evenly. “Perhaps you should go set his mind at ease.”

  “Now?” Sally looked confused that the prince would suggest such a thing, yet hopeful just the same. “But I really shouldn’t. My duties are here, in the palace, with Miss Emily and I couldn’t—”

  “If anyone asks—” Dylan shrugged “—tell them to see me.”

  Even if she’d wanted to argue with Dylan—which she didn’t—Sally knew bet
ter than to deny a royal command. Excitement lit her eyes as she curtsied quickly. “Yes, Your Royal Highness.”

  “Was Your Highness matchmaking?” Emily asked in amazement after the maid darted out of the room.

  “Certainly not.” Dylan sniffed at such a ridiculous idea. “If Ryan can’t concentrate on his work, my mother’s rosebushes will be ruined and then there will be hell to pay.” He closed the door behind him, let his gaze roam slowly down her body. “And we are alone now, Emily. I’m simply Dylan, remember?”

  The intensity in his eyes, the suggestive tone of his voice, sent a shiver of electricity up Emily’s spine. There was nothing simple at all about this man, she thought, and she certainly didn’t need him to tell her that they were without a chaperon.

  He’d dressed in casual clothes today, she noted. A navy tweed sports jacket over a pale-blue crew-neck sweater and tan slacks. With his dark hair and rugged looks, he radiated masculinity. And sex, she thought. How could a woman look at Dylan and not think about rumpled sheets, long hot kisses and urgent mid night whispers?

  With every moment that passed, the tension stretched tighter, the air grew heavier, the room grew smaller.

  “I—I was expecting Princess Megan,” Emily said at last. “She sent word last night she’d be here at ten o’clock.”

  “She sends her apologies and regards.” Dylan closed the distance between them. “She’s seven months pregnant and it seems that her unborn baby kept her awake all night playing a one-man game of rugby.”

  Emily winced at the thought of it, yet wondered what it would feel like to have a child growing inside her. I might never know, she realized with an ache in her chest. If she were found out, she might go to prison for the rest of her life.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, struggled to keep her mind on Dylan instead of the possible consequences of her deceit. “Will she be all right?”

  “Just a little sore in the ribs. The doctor examined her and assured her that she and the baby are fine.”