Читать книгу: «Royally Pregnant»
“Your Skin Is Warm, Emily. And Soft.”
So were her insides, she thought.
His thumb traced the line of her jaw. “Shall we?” he murmured.
Her heart skipped a beat, than began to race. Wasn’t this why she’d come here? To be close to Dylan, to gain his confidence by whatever means necessary?
Shall we?
His voice, his touch, seduced her. Made her want when she had no right to want. Made her tremble with need when she needed desperately to keep her composure.
“Here?”
He lifted his head, stared at her with a mixture of amusement and desire. “Well, normally we begin the palace tours in the reception hall and ballroom, but if you’d like to start here…”
Royally Pregnant
Barbara McCauley
BARBARA MCCAULEY,
who has written more than twenty novels for Silhouette Books, lives in Southern California with her own handsome hero husband, Frank, who makes it easy to believe in and write about the magic of romance. Barbara’s stories have won and been nominated for numerous awards, including the prestigious RITA® Award from the Romance Writers of America, Best Desire of the Year from Romantic Times and Best Short Contemporary from the National Reader’s Choice Awards.
To Debbi Rawlins—
Thanks, Deb—this one’s for you!
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
One
“It has to look like an accident.”
Emily Bridgewater did not turn around at the man’s words. With her back straight and head high, she stood at the edge of the bluff and stared out at the choppy, deep-blue waters, watched the thick, black clouds rise up from the east like a demon’s ascent from hell. The scent of wild devil’s mint choked the late-afternoon air. Dozens of fishing boats, commercial and pleasure alike, headed for the marina—only a fool would challenge the potential wrath of Mother Nature at sea when the skies turned dark as coal.
Emily shivered, not from the icy breeze that whipped at the hem of her long denim skirt, but from despair. What good could possibly come from deceit? she’d asked herself a hundred times in the past three days. Every time her answer had been the same: none.
And every time she’d seen no other way.
“Did you hear me, Emily?” the man snarled. “You must make certain he believes it was an accident.”
Emily turned and faced the man. Sutton was the only name she knew him by, though she doubted it was his real name. She’d guessed him to be at least twenty years older than herself, probably in his early forties. He was tall and lean, wore a tight black T-shirt, black pants, black soldier’s boots. He’d shaved his head, and his face was as rough and jagged as the bluffs of Penwyck Island, his expression flat and empty. On his left bicep, he wore a tattoo of a small black dagger.
Who he took his orders from, Emily didn’t know, but she was certain that Sutton wasn’t in charge. He made no decisions and offered no negotiations. He simply did what he was told, without question.
They expected the same of her.
“I’ll do what I can.”
He smiled at her defiance, closed the distance between them with three long strides. She nearly flinched when he reached out a hand toward her, then roughly grabbed her chin. With his other hand he touched a loose strand of her thick, dark hair and twirled it around his finger. Emily bit the inside of her mouth, refused to back away.
“You’ll do better than that.” His gray eyes skimmed her face, then lingered on the top button of her short-sleeved white blouse. “You know what will happen if you don’t get us what we want, don’t you, sweet Emily? You know what we’ll do?”
Emily’s heart slammed against her ribs, pounded in her head with the same intensity as the crash of waves on the beach below. “Yes.”
He pulled a small photograph from his T-shirt pocket and held it in front of her face. “One more look, so you’ll make no mistakes.”
Though she’d already seen the picture of the man this morning, Emily glanced at the snapshot again. Short dark-brown hair, deep-blue eyes, a touch of regal mixed with rugged. The photograph was posed, and he did not smile for the camera. His eyes, those striking eyes, held a great deal of intelligence and just a touch of annoyance.
Dear Lord, how will I ever do this?
Setting her teeth, Emily jerked away from Sutton’s touch. “I won’t make a mistake.”
The cell phone strapped to Sutton’s belt rang. He turned to answer the call, listened for a moment, then slipped the phone back into its holder. “It’s time.”
She glanced at the paved road beside the stand of trees where they stood, knew that the car would be coming around the steep mountain bend in a few minutes. Her pulse raced.
I can’t do this. She felt the panic rise. I can’t. When she hesitated, Sutton grabbed her by the arm and dragged her toward the rented bike resting against a nearby tree.
“What if something goes wrong?” she gasped, ignoring the painful grip of the man’s large hand.
“You’d better make sure nothing goes wrong,” he said tightly. “Now get on the bike.”
“But if I’m not hurt, if—”
He swung his fist so quickly, she hadn’t time to avoid the blow. His knuckles slammed against her cheekbone, made her head snap back. White-hot stars shot across her vision, and she thought for one horrible moment that she might lose what little food she’d eaten that day. She would have fallen to her knees if he hadn’t still been holding her up.
“No more ifs, Emily. Get on the bike!”
She brushed away the tears of pain from her eyes, then, with her ears still ringing from Sutton’s fist, Emily climbed on the bike he held out for her. She gripped the handlebars, placed her feet on the pedals.
She heard the faint whine of a car’s engine, the crunch of tires on pebbles.
Breath held, she waited.
“She’s going to be a wicked one, Your Highness. A ‘triple ale, double female’ night, as my da used ta say.” From the back seat of the limousine, Dylan Penwyck glanced up and briefly met Liam McNeil’s gaze in the rearview mirror. Liam, born in Ireland but raised on Penwyck Island from the time he was eight, had been driving for Dylan’s family more than twenty years. In his early forties, with a leprechaun’s smile and a lumberjack’s build, Liam was full of Irish wit and aphorisms, not to mention a healthy dose of blarney.
Dylan lifted one dark brow. “Not in front of your mother, I’m sure.”
Liam laughed, a dry, cracking laugh that came from too many years of cigarettes and rotgut whiskey. “Only if he was looking for a frying pan ta blast open the back of his skull.”
Dylan tried to imagine his own mother flattening the back of his father’s head with a frying pan, but the image of Queen Marissa wielding a frying pan while she chased King Morgan around the royal pantry simply wouldn’t come.
His parents’ marriage, though an arranged one, had been happy enough. He’d never once heard his mother raise her voice to his father—or to anyone else, for that matter. One look from the queen inspired a person to move mountains. Though no one would ever dare say the words out loud, Dylan more than suspected who held the true power not only in the marriage, but in the palace household, as well.
But now Dylan’s father was ill. King Morgan had finally wakened from the coma he’d slipped into five months ago, but there would be many months, if not years, of rehabilitation and therapy. Since Dylan’s Uncle Broderick had assumed control of the palace, there’d been overwhelming chaos. And even though Broderick had been “relieved” of his duties on the throne, there was much to do to restore order to the palace.
Dylan had cursed himself a thousand times that he hadn’t been here these past months, that he’d made himself so inaccessible that even his own family hadn’t been able to reach him.
I’m back now, he thought, narrowing his eyes.
And this time he’d stay.
This morning, he’d passed on his sister Meredith’s offer to attend a breakfast honoring the head school-mistress for Penwyck’s public education system, and had enjoyed the morning skeet-shooting with Baron and Lady Chaston on their neighboring estate instead. Their daughter, Blair, home from a break at university, had done her best to entice him to stay for lunch, had even batted her baby-blue eyes and pouted when he’d explained he had an urgent meeting at the palace. A complete lie, of course, but Dylan knew that Blair was determined to marry into royalty, and since his fraternal twin Owen had married Jordan Ashbury, Blair had turned her sights on the other royal son—which happened to be yours truly.
She was pretty enough—beautiful even, he supposed, plus she had all the credentials and background for a royal wife. But the woman was out for herself, and the thought of waking up every morning to the shallow bubblehead made Dylan wince.
Dylan had spent the past two years denying the duties and responsibilities he’d been born into. It would have given his parents fits to learn that he’d joined a special forces group in Borovkia, a covert organization called Graystroke that rescued kidnapped dignitaries and businessmen in central Europe. The work had been dangerous and exciting, and with each assignment had loomed the possibility he might not make it back alive, or worse, be kidnapped himself.
Which was why Dylan had falsified identification papers, grown a beard and never told anyone who he really was, neither the men he’d worked with nor his superiors. If they’d known he was Prince Dylan Penwyck, heir to the throne of Penwyck, they never would have sent him out on any assignments. If anything, they probably would have sent him packing. The ransom for a kidnapped prince would be more than the entire economy of many third-world countries.
Dylan turned his attention to the passing countryside, watched the blur of pine trees as they drove up the steep road toward the palace. Past the bluffs, thick, dark clouds rose up over the ocean. Winter had crept in quietly since he’d returned to Penwyck a few weeks ago. Frost in the early morning and a few typical rainstorms, but agreeable temperatures overall.
Today had been especially pleasant. The air had been crisp, but not cold, the skies clear and blue. But anyone who lived on Penwyck Island for more than one winter knew how fickle the weather could be here. Though he’d been gone for the past two years, he’d lived on this island his entire life.
He’d needed to leave Penwyck Island to find out he belonged here. He would never be king, Dylan knew, but he would serve his country and his family, lay down his life, if necessary, to protect and keep them safe.
“The boys and me got a game of five-card draw tonight,” Liam said. “You in?”
“I could manage a game or two,” Dylan said with a shrug. “Maybe win back some of the pot you snookered me out of the other night.”
“With all respect, Your Royal Highness,” Liam said with a good-natured grin, “me mum’s nanny plays a better game than you did. You’ve no one to blame for your losses but your own self.”
Liam was right, Dylan knew. He’d played very poorly. His mind had been everywhere but the game. He’d been concerned about his father’s health and his Uncle Broderick’s abuse of power once he was on the throne, as well as his brother Owen’s kidnapping, his sister’s pregnancy and the fact that Owen had a child no one had known about until a few weeks ago.
And that was just for starters. Without a doubt, the palace and the country had been in a major royal upheaval.
“You call me ‘Your Royal Highness’ like that one more time,” Dylan leaned forward in the seat and stared at the winding road ahead, “and I might not let you win even one hand.”
“Let me win?” Liam choked with laughter as he maneuvered the limo around a sharp turn. “You couldn’t—”
“Watch out!”
Later, Dylan might be able to piece together what happened, but at that moment, there was no time to think or to respond. The woman on the bike was suddenly there, in the middle of the road. Liam swore as he slammed on the brakes, and even though the car hadn’t been going fast, it still swerved. Tires screeched, then skidded those last few feet.
Dylan saw the brunette’s startled face, then came the sickening thud as the front of the limo kissed the rear end of the bike. The woman flew in the air, then landed on the other side of the road closest to the bluff.
Dylan was out of the back seat before Liam could jam the car into Park. The woman lay crumpled on her side, her arms and legs limp. Her long, thick, dark hair covered her face like a shroud.
Pulse pounding, Dylan knelt beside her. Dear God, let her be all right, he thought. Gently, he eased the woman to her back, then brushed her hair from her face and placed his hand at the base of her throat.
When he felt the warm, vibrant pulse, Dylan released the breath he’d been holding.
“God have mercy!” An Irish curse on his lips, Liam came running. “Please tell me I haven’t killed her.”
“You haven’t killed her.” Dylan kept his voice even and controlled, though his heart was pounding fiercely against his ribs. He quickly swept his gaze over the woman. Her right arm and hand were scraped and bleeding, and an angry red welt bloomed above her left cheekbone. Her blouse was torn and smudged with dirt, her skirt stained with grass.
He glanced back up at her face. Beautiful, was his first impression.
When she moaned and her eyes fluttered open, the word stunning grabbed hold of him like a hand around his throat.
Flecks of gray swirled like smoke in her soft-green eyes. Her skin was porcelain-smooth, pale against the mark on her cheekbone. The unseen hand around Dylan’s throat tightened further as he looked at her mouth. Lips wide, lush and inviting. A mouth meant for a man’s kisses, he thought, then quickly looked back up at her eyes. Confusion swam there, and pain.
“What—” She lifted a hand to her forehead. “What happened?”
“You were crossing the road on your bicycle. Our car struck you.” Dylan’s stomach twisted as blood trickled down her forehead. He followed the trail of blood to a cut just above her hairline. “Are you in pain?”
“My head,” she murmured.
Her eyes slid closed, and for a moment Dylan thought she’d passed out. When she opened them again, relief poured through him.
“Here, take this.” Liam pressed a handkerchief into Dylan’s hand, then reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a cell phone. “I’ll call for an ambulance.”
“No.” The woman shook her head, then winced from the movement. “There’s no need for an ambulance. I just need a minute.”
“Be still. Let’s at least check for missing limbs, shall we?” Dylan gently dabbed at the blood above her eye, made a stab at levity to help calm the woman. “Hard to ride a bike with only one leg, you know, though I suppose a wooden one works nicely enough. Do you feel this?”
He touched her ankles, noticed that she’d lost one white tennis shoe, though her short sock still hugged her narrow foot.
“Yes.” She wiggled her feet. “Your hands are warm.”
“I’m going to check if anything’s broken,” he said, then slid his hands under her long denim skirt. She had the legs of a dancer, he thought, or maybe a runner. Long and curved and well-toned. Her skin was like cool silk. He inched the fabric up to her knees, saw that her right knee was scraped, but there was little blood. “If you like, you can slap me later for being so brazen.”
He noted the small ruby-and-diamond ring on her left hand as he slowly raised her arm. When she sucked in a breath at the movement, he gently eased her arm down again.
“I don’t suppose I’ll be slapping you with that hand,” she said through clenched teeth.
When an icy gust of wind from the east struck them, Dylan felt the goosebumps rise on her skin. Fat raindrops splattered on the grass around them, and thunder shook the ground.
“She’s going to open up on us any minute.” Liam glanced up as a jagged bolt of lightning streaked down and exploded inside a stand of trees less than a quarter mile down the road. They heard the crack of a tree’s branch, saw the sparks rise upward on a cloud of smoke. The air, charged with electricity, turned thick and heavy and made the hair on Dylan’s arms rise.
“We can’t stay here,” Dylan yelled over the rising wind and the rumbling of thunder. “I’m going to pick you up and put you in the car.”
Another bolt of lightning struck, closer this time, and Liam’s prediction proved correct. The sky opened and a torrent of cold rain pounded them. As gently as possible, Dylan scooped the woman up in his arms. She shivered against him, and he held her close, did his best to protect her from the rain as he dashed to the car. Liam held the door open while Dylan laid the woman on the soft, gray leather back seat of the black limo. He climbed in beside her and closed the door.
Bullet-proof glass windows blocked out the raging storm outside. The interior of the car was quiet and warm. Liam jumped into the driver’s seat and started the engine.
“Shall I go back for her bike?” Liam asked.
“Later, after the storm subsides.” Dylan knelt on the wide floor of the car. “We don’t want you to end up like one of those poor moths caught in old Pierre’s garden bug zapper.”
In just the short run to the car, the woman’s dark hair had been drenched and several strands around her pale face had started to curl. When she started to shiver violently, Dylan lifted the lid of a compartment between the seats and pulled out a blanket, then draped it over her shoulders.
“Call ahead for Dr. Waltham,” Dylan said over his shoulder. “Tell him what happened and have him waiting by the infirmary entrance.”
Liam drove while he made the call. Dylan closed the heavy glass partition between the front seat and the back of the car so the woman wouldn’t hear. He saw the pain in her clouded eyes, felt his own frustration knot in his stomach. But there was nothing he could do for her until they got to the palace.
Dammit! He forced himself to concentrate on the woman instead of the car’s slow process up the road.
“We’ll be there in a few minutes,” Dylan said quietly. “Are you comfortable?”
“I’m sorry,” she whispered so quietly he barely heard her. “So very sorry.”
The intensity in her gaze and the quiet desperation in her voice confused him. He pulled the blanket up and tucked it under her chin. “You have nothing to be sorry for. We hit you, remember?”
She turned away from him. The welt on her face had darkened, and the wound on her head oozed blood.
“What’s your name?” He pressed the handkerchief still in his hand to her scalp. “Is there someone we can call?”
Slowly she turned her head back toward him. Dylan saw fear in her gray-green eyes, and confusion, as well.
“I—I don’t know.”
“You don’t know if there’s anyone we can call?”
“No.” As if in pain, she closed her eyes. “I mean I don’t know my name.”
Two
What should have been a five-minute ride to the palace had already been fifteen. Dylan silently cursed every bump in the road, every clash of thunder, every kick of wind that sent the limo sliding sideways. Rain fell in heavy sheets, battering the car’s roof and windshield. He knew that it was impossible for Liam to safely drive any faster, but that knowledge did little to curb his frustration at the limo’s snail’s pace up the mountain.
At least the inside of the car was warm and comfortable, Dylan thought as he studied the woman lying on the soft leather seat beside him. He pressed the linen handkerchief to the wound on her head, then frowned at the stark contrast of bright red blood on the white cloth. Lord knew he’d seen more than his share of blood in the past two years—some had even been his own—but this was different. The woman seemed so fragile, so delicate.
And he was responsible.
He’d examined the gash on her head more closely and felt certain that it wasn’t too deep. She’d stopped shivering after he’d covered her with the blanket, had even attempted to sit up twice, claiming that she was fine. Both times he’d gently eased her back down onto the seat. She wasn’t fine, for God’s sake. She’d been hit by a car—his car.
Where had she come from? And the bigger question still, who was she?
The fact that she hadn’t an answer to that question disturbed him, but she’d taken a nasty fall and blow to the head. It was understandable she was confused and disoriented at the moment.
There was something vaguely familiar about her, though nothing he could put a finger on. Like a tune from his childhood, or an old saying that he hadn’t heard in years. It lingered at the edges of his mind, but refused to come closer.
He shook the odd feeling off. Most probably he’d never met her at all. Though it was late in the year, it was possible that she was a tourist, or maybe a guest at one of the neighboring estates. The countryside along the coast of Penwyck was breathtaking. Travellers came from all over the world to view and photograph the scenic cliffs and forests.
But he hadn’t noticed a camera, Dylan thought. She hadn’t even carried a purse with her.
A blinding bolt of lightning lit the inside of the car, then thunder crashed. The woman squeezed her eyes shut and huddled beneath the blanket.
“You’re all right now,” Dylan reassured her, though he wasn’t so certain. Her skin had paled and her breathing was shallow. “We’ll be at the palace in a few minutes.”
“Palace?” Her eyes opened, then narrowed in confusion as she glanced at him.
“Penwyck Palace. That’s where my driver and I were headed when you appeared in the road. Do you remember where you were going?”
“I—” She hesitated, then shook her head. “No.”
She started to shiver again. Dylan took both her hands in his to comfort as much as warm her cold skin. Her fingers were long and slender, her nails short and neat. Other than the ruby ring on her right hand that he’d noticed before, she wore no jewelry. No wedding ring or evidence that she’d worn one recently, either.
Another bolt of lightning flashed close by. The woman closed her eyes and whimpered.
“Sshh.” He squeezed her hands, hoped like hell that she wasn’t going into shock.
“Your hands,” she said quietly and opened her eyes. “They’re so warm.”
He smiled at her. “Only because yours are so cold.”
A smile flashed at the corners of her mouth, then quickly faded. “You’ve been so kind, and I don’t even know your name.”
“Dylan.” He checked the wound on her head again, was relieved that the bleeding had eased. “Dylan Penwyck.”
Her brow furrowed. “Your last name is the same as the palace you mentioned? Are you a member of the royal family?”
Even though Dylan had done his best to stay out of the public eye his entire life, everyone who lived on this island knew that Dylan Penwyck was King Morgan Penwyck’s son. Not everyone knew exactly what he looked like, especially since he’d been gone the past two years, but still, the name Dylan Penwyck was well known to his country’s general population.
Unless this woman wasn’t from Penwyck, he thought. Or, possibly, the blow to her head had wiped out more of her memory than her own name.
But as Liam pulled up in front of the infirmary, Dylan hadn’t time to answer her question, or ask any more of his own. Wearing a gray rain slicker and carrying an umbrella, the doctor hurried down the steps, then quickly opened the car door.
Questions and answers would have to wait for a while, Dylan knew. He scooped the woman into his arms and carried her up the infirmary steps while the doctor shielded her from the rain with his umbrella. Whatever the beautiful woman’s name might be, and what she’d been doing up on the mountain road, would have to remain a mystery for a little while longer.
Thirty minutes later, Dylan stared at the waiting-room clock and frowned. What the hell was taking so long? He swore under his breath, then spun on his heels and continued his pacing. Liam had gone to report the accident to Queen Marissa and Dr. Waltham was still in the examination room.
Dylan’s frown deepened, and he stared at the clock again. Surely the doctor had something to report by now.
For the hundredth time, Dylan recalled the sound of the car striking the woman’s bicycle, the expression of shock on her face just before she flew through the air, then the way her body had crumpled when she’d landed beside the road.
All the cuts and bruises, the blood.
His hands clenched into fists at the memory, then he turned and headed for the examination room at the end of the hall. Enough was enough. He refused to wait any longer. Someone was going to tell him something.
Now.
He lifted his fist to knock on the door, but it opened before he made contact. Mavis Weidermeyer, Dr. Waltham’s head nurse, stood on the other side. The woman quite literally filled the doorway.
Damn. Not Mavis, Dylan thought. He’d learned at a young age how to get around most of the staff in the palace, sometimes with charm, sometimes by pulling rank. But nothing worked with Mavis Weidermeyer. There’d been talk that Dr. Waltham’s nurse wasn’t human, but rather a mechanical military experiment gone awry.
“Your Royal Highness.” Nurse Mavis stepped out of the room and closed the door behind her. At six foot, the woman didn’t have to look up to meet Dylan’s eye. “Is there something I can help you with?”
If I ever need a piano moved, Dylan thought.
He straightened his shoulders. “I’d like to speak with Dr. Waltham.”
“I’ve already told you that Dr. Waltham will speak to you when he’s finished his examination,” Mavis said firmly. “Please have a seat in the waiting room. I’ll call you when the doctor is ready for you.”
She turned before he could respond and walked behind the waiting-room counter.
He stared at the woman’s broad back. Dammit. He was the one who was supposed to give the commands around here. Nevertheless, he turned and headed back to the waiting room, then sat stiffly on one of the leather-and-chrome armchairs.
Mavis sat at her computer and began typing. He was considering rushing the exam-room door when Liam came into the office, a cup of steaming coffee in his hand and a worried expression on his face. Mavis glanced up at the driver, gave him a stiff nod, then turned back to her computer.
Good, Dylan thought. Reinforcements.
“How is the lass?” Liam held out the coffee to Dylan, but he shook his head.
“I can’t get past Attila to find out,” Dylan muttered under his breath. “I could use a little diversion.”
Liam grinned. “My specialty.”
“Mavis, me darlin’.” Liam sauntered over to the woman and leaned across the counter. “The wife’s been asking why you haven’t been to quilting circle.”
Mavis eyed him suspiciously. “I’ve never been to quilting circle, Liam McNeil. Clair knows that.”
Liam scratched his neck and frowned. “Maybe it was the gardening club, then, or was it—”
The cup of coffee in Liam’s hand tumbled over the edge of the counter and exploded across Mavis’s desk. With something between a shriek and a roar, Mavis jumped up, grabbed a box of tissues on her desk and blotted at the mess. When Liam came around to help, Dylan ducked past them both and headed down the hall.
He knocked lightly, heard “Come in,” then opened the door and stepped inside.
Wearing a light-blue gown, she sat on the edge of an examination table. Her legs and feet were bare and the sight of the scrapes and bruises on her knee and down her left leg made Dylan’s chest tighten. She glanced up when he closed the door behind him and her eyes widened in surprise.
“I thought you were the nurse,” she said, wrapping her arms protectively around her waist.
“She’s been detained and asked me to come check on you.” Dylan moved closer, winced at the blossoming bruise on the woman’s cheek.
“Nurse Mavis asked you to check on me?”
“Well, not exactly,” Dylan fessed up. “I ordered three of the palace guards to tie her up so I could slip past her.”
A smile lurked at the corners of her mouth, then she glanced down and shook her head. “I’m so sorry for all the trouble I’ve caused you. You’ve every right to be angry with me for being so careless.”
“If I were angry, believe me, you would know. For that matter, the entire palace would know.” He glanced at the top of her head, saw a small white butterfly strip covering the gash above her hairline. “Stitches?”
“No. Dr. Waltham said it should heal all right without any.”
Gently, he took her chin in his hand, then tilted her face up. He saw the pain in her smoky-green eyes and had to bite back the swear word threatening to erupt. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine.”
“Liar.”
Her gaze dropped from his, her thick, dark lashes like a fan against her pale cheek. “I—I do feel as if I missed the top step of a tall staircase. The doctor gave me something for the pain a few minutes ago.”
He knew he should remove his hand from her chin, but he lingered there a moment longer. Her skin was soft and smooth in his callused palm, ivory-white against his tanned fingers. But when his gaze strayed to her lips, when his pulse jumped, he released her and stepped back. “Where is the doctor?”
“He’s looking at the X rays. He should be back any minute.” She glanced up again. “Prince Dylan, I mean, Your Royal Highness—”
“Just call me Dylan.” He hated the damn titles, hated that people treated him with such formality once they knew who he was. That was the one thing he’d enjoyed most these past two years. He’d been accepted by others for himself, not for his royal blood. “I still don’t know what to call you, though. Have you remembered your name?”
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