Barbara McCauley – Royally Pregnant (страница 4)

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?”

She hugged her arms tightly to her. “No.”

“Well, then.” Dylan stared thoughtfully at her. “I suppose we’ll have to try a few and see if anything rings a bell. Agnes?”

“I look like an Agnes?”

“Maybe not. Hortense?”

She lifted a brow.

“No, of course not. Gertrude?”

Dylan saw the amusement in her eyes as she shook her head.

“Irma? Sibyl? Chloe? Cornelia—”

“How about Emily?”

Dylan turned at the sound of a voice as Dr. Waltham entered the room. He stood at the open doorway, a file folder in one hand and a stern-looking Mavis Weidermeyer behind him. The white-haired doctor moved toward his patient, then held up something small between his thumb and index finger. The ruby ring she’d been wearing earlier, Dylan realized.

“We took it off when we cleaned up the scrapes on your hand,” Dr. Waltham said. “There’s an inscription inside the band, though we needed a magnifying glass to read it.”

Her breath held, the woman stared at the ring, then looked back up at the doctor and whispered, “An inscription?”

“‘To my dearest Emily.”’ Dr. Waltham pressed the ring into her hand. “Though it doesn’t mean for certain that’s your name, I’m afraid until we find out more about you, Emily it is. Unless you have an objection, of course.”

“No. I—” Her eyes moistened as she stared at the ring, then she slipped it on her finger. “Emily is fine.”

“The bad news is you’ve lost your memory, but amnesia following a trauma and blow of the sort you’ve had isn’t out of the realm of normality. More than likely you’ll slowly regain all the bits and pieces you’ve forgotten over the next few days or weeks.” Dr. Waltham smiled. “The good news is that nothing is broken and I see no signs of serious injuries. You may have a mild concussion, though, and your shoulder has a nasty pull. I’m going to keep you overnight in the infirmary so we can monitor you, then a couple of days’ rest should heal up your body well enough.”

“A few days?” Emily put a hand to her temple. “But I can’t stay here, I don’t even—”

She started to sway and Dylan rushed toward her, held firmly on to her shoulders so she wouldn’t fall off the table. She’d reached out instinctively and held on to his arms. Gently he eased her onto her back. She blinked several times, then her gaze steadied and met his. Her cheeks had paled even more, making the bruise on her face bloom brighter.

“Are you all right?” he asked softly.

“Yes.” Her hands tightened, then slid from his arms. “I’m sorry. I just got dizzy for a moment. I’ll be fine.”

Dr. Waltham stepped beside Dylan. “I’m sure it’s the pain pills, but let me have a look, anyway.”

Reluctantly, Dylan moved away while the doctor examined his patient. Mavis pulled a blanket from a corner cabinet and draped it over the younger woman, then lifted Emily’s wrist and took her pulse.

Dylan stood by, helpless, watching as the doctor shone a tiny flashlight in Emily’s eyes, then asked her to follow his finger without moving her head.

The doctor patted Emily’s hand, then turned back to Dylan. “She just needs to rest now. We’ll move her to a bed and you can—”

“I’ll have the guest chamber next to my suite prepared for her.”

“Your Royal Highness.” Dr. Waltham furrowed his brow. “That’s really not nec—”

In a tone Dylan rarely used with anyone, a tone that brooked no argument and no discussion, he said, “She’ll be more comfortable in a real bed. You can send someone to monitor her there if it’s necessary. Whatever you need, whatever she needs, take care of it.”

Without looking back, he strode toward the door and walked out of the office.

Emily, if that was her name, was his responsibility now. And in spite of what people thought, in spite of what people said, Dylan Penwyck had never turned his back on an obligation or duty.

She woke to the smell of gardenias and the soft haze of early-morning light. Emily buried her face deeper into the marshmallow-soft pillow, not quite ready to give up the comfort of sleep. A dream, she thought, please let all this be a dream.

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.