Royally Pregnant. Barbara McCauley

      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 favorite 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.”

      “Ah.” She arched a brow. “So you were in the jungle, then?”

      He shrugged. “Jungle, ocean, villa. Las Vegas wedding chapel.” He smiled at the curious lift of her brow. “What difference does it make? I’m home now, that’s all that matters. My family and serving my country are all that are important to me now.”

      Emily glanced away, but not before he saw the tears suddenly form in her eyes. He tucked a finger under her chin, then turned her face back toward him.

      “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “It must be hard for you, not knowing if your own family is out there somewhere, looking for you, wondering if you’re all right.”

      “I—” She paused, swallowed hard. “I couldn’t bear it if I thought any harm had come to someone I loved.”

      A tear dropped on his hand. He stared at that single drop of moisture, then frowned at the unexpected hitch in his chest. A woman’s tears had never affected him so. Had never inspired him to comfort or soothe.

      Pulling his hand away from her, he stood quickly, then forced himself to slip into the stance he reserved for formal public occasions. “You should rest now. Nurse Mavis will have me drawn and quartered if I overtax her patient. If you need anything at all, dial zero and you’ll be connected with the proper department.”

      “Thank you.” She lifted her gaze to his. “You’ve been more than kind.”

      He turned, was nearly