She did love him, even though she knew he could never love her back. Not after what she’d done. She would have to learn to accept that the man she loved, would always love, despised her.
Pain, fierce and swift, staggered her, tightened the knot in her stomach. She pressed a hand there, closed her eyes and waited for the nausea to roll through her.
She needed to keep busy, keep her hands and mind occupied. Sucking in a deep breath, she headed for the kitchen.
Damn the rain.
It fell in sheets of black ice, weighted his windshield wipers and battered the roof of the car. A bad night to be out on a narrow, winding mountain road, Dylan thought, his hands tight on the steering wheel, his eyes focused intently on the asphalt in front of him. A bad night to be out, period.
So what the hell was he doing here then?
He’d told himself before he’d driven up here that it was his responsibility to oversee every aspect of this…situation. He’d been working closely with the Royal Elite Team this past week. Every lead, no matter how small or unimportant it might have appeared, had been investigated, turned inside-out, then examined ten different ways.
Emily’s deposition, plus the answering-machine tape that had been recovered from her safety deposit box, had supported everything she’d confessed to a week ago. Though she’d admittedly lied about not knowing who she was or anything about her past, it appeared everything she’d told them these past few days had been true. Westbrook and Gibbons had done an extremely thorough job of questioning her. The men had been impartial and demanding, relentless in their quest to obtain every detail not only of Emily’s encounter with the Black Knights and the men named Sutton and Frederick, but every detail of her life in general.
The first time he’d watched the tapes, the feelings he’d thought he’d controlled resurfaced. Anger, like a vicious beast, clawed inside his chest. Hurt, sharp and fierce, stabbed at his gut. Disbelief swelled in his throat.
He’d watched the tapes again and again, and strangely, every time he did, his anger at Emily had slowly subsided. Like water dripping on a stone, bit by bit, drop by drop, his hurt eased. Disbelief turned to amazement.
He’d seen the love Emily felt for her grandmother every time she spoke her name. He’d heard it in her voice, seen it in her eyes and the tender way she’d touch the ring on her finger, a ring given to her by Olivia. And although he could not forgive Emily’s betrayal, perhaps he could understand why she’d done what she had. Several months ago, Owen had been kidnapped, and though Dylan had been in Europe at the time and unaware of his brother’s abduction, he knew that he would have done anything to see Owen safely returned.
Even the ridiculous accusation from his Uncle Broderick that Owen and he were not truly twins, that they’d been switched at birth with the real heirs to the throne who now lived in the States, none of that mattered to Dylan. No matter what the DNA tests ordered by his mother revealed, blood or not, Dylan knew that without hesitation he would sacrifice his own life for Owen’s, or any other member of his family.
Wind rocked the car, and Dylan forced his attention back to the road. The ride was bumpy across the rain-gutted dirt drive to the cottage, and he swore more than once as he slowly maneuvered the Jaguar between the trees. Through the rain and darkness, he saw the lights, like a welcoming beacon, shining from within the small house. His pulse quickened at the sight, and he clamped his teeth, determined that he would remain indifferent.
He would question her, he told himself, then he would leave. The quicker the better.
The guard at the front door, Lieutenant Stevens, straightened when he caught sight of Dylan stepping out of his car. The man stood under the dripping eaves, holding a plate of food.
“Your Royal Highness,” the guard snapped out.
“At ease, Stevens.” Dylan sniffed at the food. It smelled delicious, certainly not the usual type of meal prepared by the men. “Why aren’t you eating in the trailer if it’s your meal time?”
“Well, sir, I—it’s not exactly, I mean—”
“An answer sometime tonight would be appreciated, Stevens.”
The guard swallowed. “Miss Bridgewater offered me a plate, sir. I accepted.”
Dylan frowned. “I see. Does Miss Bridgewater always offer you meals?”
“No, sir.” Stevens squirmed. “Just tonight, sir.”
“Has Miss Bridgewater offered you anything else?”
The lieutenant thought hard. “A glass of milk and a cookie.”
Milk and cookies. Dylan’s mood darkened. What would she be offering next? To tuck them in at night?
“I’m sorry, Your Royal Highness,” the guard said crisply. “If I broke policy—”
“Never mind, Stevens.” Annoyed, Dylan simply shook his head. “Take your meal to the trailer. I’ll call you to pick your shift back up when I leave.”
Stevens hesitated, then nodded. “Yes, Your Highness.”
Irritation tightened his jaw as Dylan watched the man hurry toward the trailer. He turned back to the front door and rapped sharply, waited several seconds.
No answer.
He knocked again, louder.
Surely she hadn’t gone to bed yet. It was barely eight o’clock.
He felt a prickle of alarm. The reason he’d kept her out here and assigned guards was in case the Black Knights discovered their plan to use Emily had failed and attempted to take her out before she could testify against them.
He opened the front door, his senses alert, but all appeared fine inside. A cheerful fire warmed the room, and the most incredible smells drifted from the kitchen. Music, an Irish instrumental Megan had given him for his CD collection, flowed softly from the stereo.
He closed the door behind him, shrugged out of his jacket and hung it on a wall hook. It was like stepping into the pages of a novel…a husband coming home from a day’s work, a hunger in his belly and a thirst in his throat.
He shook off the thought and moved toward the kitchen, froze at the sound of water running from the bath, felt his heart stop, then race.
She was taking a shower.
His throat went dry. She was naked. No more than twenty feet away. He could picture her standing there, under the steamy water, soaping her hands, then rubbing the foamy white bubbles over her arms, her breasts, then down her flat belly and lower still—
He jerked his mind away from that image and ground his teeth. Dammit, the woman had bewitched him! It was all he could do not to storm into the bathroom and take her right there in the shower, to push her wet, soapy body back against the cool tile and thrust himself inside her. He didn’t even give a damn if he got his clothes off or not.
Sweat broke out on his brow. With something between a growl and a groan, he went into the kitchen, determined to satisfy at least one of his baser appetites.
Emily shut off the shower and quickly dried herself with a thick green towel. She lathered on a tuberose-scented lotion, dragged a comb through her tangled hair, then attacked the wet strands with several hot blasts from a blowdryer. She pulled on a pale-pink cotton nightie that Sally had packed for her, then the matching short robe.
The shower had eased some of the tension in her shoulders, at least, but she had a dull pounding in her brain. Several nights without sleep and worry over her grandmother were more than taking their toll.
And then there was Dylan.
It didn’t matter how many times she told herself she would forget him, put everything that had happened between them behind her and face whatever punishment she was given, she still couldn’t let go. Not yet.
At least she’d kept herself busy this afternoon. If there was one thing her grandmother had taught her, it was how to cook. After digging through the groceries she’d received that day and during the week, she’d settled on an endive salad with pecans and gorgonzola, a pastry-wrapped, wine-marinated roast, roasted rosemary potatoes, and three dozen frosted cake cookies—a recipe sworn to secrecy by all Bridgewater women.
&
nbsp; When she’d offered a plate of food to the guard at the front door, he’d refused at first. But she’d been insistent she’d have to throw it away if he didn’t eat it, so he’d relented. A few minutes later, she’d made two more plates and insisted he take them to the trailer or she’d have to dump them, as well.
Her grandmother had told her once that a woman who knew how to prepare that roast and her special cookies would have her choice of husbands.
Based on the requested seconds from the men, perhaps her grandmother was right.
But there was only one man she wanted—the one man she could never have. And the chances of him ever eating any food she prepared were somewhere between slim and none.
Shaking her head to loosen the curls already forming, she reached for a brush and walked into the living room to stand by the fire. She stared into the flames for a long moment, then bent at the waist and brushed her hair from the neck forward, tugging at the last few knots in the damp strands.
If only it were possible to untangle the mess she’d made of her life as easily, she thought with a sigh.
The sight Emily offered to Dylan hit him like a fist in his gut. Blood pounded in his ears as he stared at her backside; his heart slammed in his chest. He might have thought that she’d intentionally set out to arouse him, but she’d been deep in thought when she’d entered the room, her mind obviously miles away, and he was certain she hadn’t noticed him sitting on the sofa.
He fisted the throw pillow under his hands and clamped his teeth tightly together. Through the thin robe she wore, the firelight outlined her slender body. Her legs, those endless legs, were spread slightly as she brushed at the wild mass of damp, dark curls. Her hips moved back and forth with every stroke of the brush.
He was hard instantly.
“Emily.”
She straightened and whirled, her eyes round and her mouth open in a small O. A horrified expression crossed her face, then she moved quickly, belted her robe and pulled it tightly around her.
“Dylan.” Her voice was breathless, tight. Her gaze dropped and she made a weak attempt to curtsy. “Your Royal Highness. I—I didn’t know you were here.”
“Obviously.” He would have stood, but knew he wasn’t ready yet. He didn’t want her to know she could still affect him so strongly—and so quickly.
“What—what are you doing here?” She held the brush to her chest as if it were a weapon that might protect her against him.
“Sit down, Emily.”
He needed her to sit. If she kept standing in front of that fire, her hair and body backlit by the flames, he wasn’t certain he could hold himself together.
He’d thought of her too often this past week, remembered the feel of her soft skin, the sound of her sighs, the smell of flowers that surrounded her. She haunted his days, invaded his dreams at night.
He needed her out of his head, dammit. Needed her out of his system. He’d thought that coming here tonight would exorcise her from his mind, from his never-ending need to hold her again.
He’d been wrong. Terribly wrong.
She sat on the edge of a chair opposite him, back straight, body stiff, still clutching that damn brush. His gaze dropped to her long legs. Once again he had to force himself not to think about how desperately he wanted to slide his hands over her knees, part her soft thighs, then move between her legs and bury himself deeply inside her.
His gaze snapped back up to hers. He saw her fear, her confusion…and something else….
Desire.
He’d recognized the need, had seen it in her eyes before, when he’d kissed her, touched her. Made love to her.
He pressed his lips into a hard line. She may have used her womanly charm to snare him before, but it would not happen again. If she offered herself to him, perhaps he would indulge himself, he thought, though merely to relieve the tension tightly coiling in his body.
She looked down at the brush in her hand. “May I ask if you’ve learned anything regarding where my grandmother is being held?”
Thankful to have his mind back on palace business rather than his own raging libido, Dylan shook his head. “We’ve isolated an area, but until we have an exact location, we can’t move. If we make a mistake, the Black Knights will know and immediately move out.”
Emily closed her eyes, but not before he saw the anguish there. They both knew what would happen to her grandmother if the Black Knights found out that their plot and location had been discovered.
He could offer words of comfort, reassure Emily that Olivia would be fine, but he didn’t. Not only because he didn’t know if they could find her grandmother in time, but because he had no desire to console. Not with the taste of betrayal still lingering in his mouth.
Emily opened her eyes again, drew in a slow breath. “Why have you come here?”
Because I couldn’t stay away, was his first thought, but he couldn’t say that, wouldn’t say it. The fact he now realized it was true only heightened his anger.
“I have some questions for you.” He stood, walked to the fire, then turned to face her. “Regarding the man who was with you up on the mountain. The one you called Sutton.”
His question seemed to surprise her. “But I’ve already told Westbrook and Gibbons everything I know.”
“You said that he took you up there, waited until he received a phone call.”
“Yes. I couldn’t hear what he said, nor do I know who he spoke to. After he hung up, he told me to get on the bicycle and ride in front of your car.”
“Is that when he hit you?”
She lifted a hand to her cheek, then glanced away and whispered, “Yes.”
Bastard. He clasped his hands tightly behind his back, felt the knot in his stomach twist tighter. “Why didn’t you tell that to Westbrook and Gibbons?”
“I—I don’t know. Is it relevant?”
To me it is, he thought. He looked forward to meeting this man. Soon. “Everything is relevant, Emily,” he said sternly. “Is there anything else you’ve forgotten? Anything at all?”
“I—” She struggled to think. “I don’t think so.”
“Think, dammit!” He knew he’d shouted, but was too wound up himself to care. “What else have you forgotten?”
“Nothing.” She shook her head. “I haven’t forgotten anything.”
Her eyes were bright with moisture as she lifted her gaze to his. The air shifted suddenly, grew heavy and taut. He felt it rush hot and wild through his blood. Every cell in his body seemed charged and alert.
“I remember everything,” she said quietly. “How gentle you were when you picked me up and held me in your arms. The strength and warmth of your body when you carried me to your car.”
“Stop this,” he commanded.
“I remember that first thrilling moment when you brushed your lips against mine. You made me shiver. No man had ever done that.”
He heard the rumble of thunder, wasn’t certain if it was inside his head or the storm outside.
Eyes narrowed, he stalked toward her and grabbed her by the shoulders. “You’re playing with fire, Emily. Stop this now, or I promise you that you will be sorry.”
“Don’t you know I’m already sorry?” she said raggedly. “So very sorry for everything I’ve done? Except you, Dylan. I will never be sorry for being with you.”
A muscle jumped in his jaw. He felt the heat of her body, caught the light, fragrant scent of her skin. His insides were twisting, his groin ached.
“I know you hate me,” she whispered, the anguish heavy in her voice. “But you could never hate me more than I hate myself for lying to you and your family.”
I don’t hate you, he almost said, but couldn’t find his voice. He felt as if a drum were beating in his head, in his chest. Heavy and loud, growing and growing, drowning out every thought but one: Emily.
With a growl, he crushed her to him. He caught her mouth with his in a savage, wild kiss that did not ask for submission, but demanded it. The brush she’d
held in her hand clattered to the floor and her arms came around his neck, her need as fierce as his.
He lifted her, cupped her buttocks in his hands and pressed her firmly against his arousal. He felt more than heard the moan from deep in her throat, and the sound drove him over the edge.
With an oath, he swung her up in his arms and carried her to the bedroom, kicked the door shut behind him, then took her to his bed. He dropped her on the mattress, kept his eyes on hers as he yanked his shirt from his trousers, then opened the buttons.
“I want you,” he said raggedly, “but understand, this means nothing to me. It will change nothing.”
He saw the pain flicker in her eyes at his words, told himself he didn’t care. He would take her, then walk away. And he would forget.
Emily watched Dylan strip off his clothes, then stand over her. His dark brows were drawn, his face stern as he stared down at her. Her heart leapt, then hammered in her chest. He was powerfully built, intimidating, his strength evident in the layers of hard, rippling muscles.
And he was fully aroused.
He frightened and excited her at the same time. Perhaps she should have tried to stop this, but she knew this might be the last time she ever saw him, the last time she might ever hold him. The last time she might ever have to love him. She understood for him it might be physical, but for her, it was so much more. Tonight, she gave him not just her body, but her heart.
He moved over her, dropped his mouth to hers and she could no longer think. She simply let herself feel. His hand tore at the knot on her belt, opened her robe, then slipped inside. He caressed the soft swell of her breast, dipped his head to suckle her through the thin cotton of her gown.
When he shoved her gown up and took the hardened tip of her nipple in his mouth, she bit her lip to keep from crying out. Intense pleasure braided in her belly, pulled tighter and tighter. She felt light-headed, dizzy. Moaning, she arched upward, raked her hands through his thick hair.
“I love you,” she whispered hoarsely.
He went still at her words, lifted his head. Passion warred with anger in his dark-blue eyes as he stared at her. “Do not say that to me,” he said fiercely. “I will have no more of your lies.”
Royally Pregnant (Crown & Glory Book 9) Page 11
