The Prince's Secret Bride. Raye Morgan

Maybe Carla had forgotten about Andrea.

      Andrea. Just thinking her name slashed another jagged tear into his heart. A vision of wild, lustrous auburn curls filled his mind’s eye. Memories of her dancing green eyes, her soft skin, her rolling laughter swept over him in a wave that threatened to choke him. He pulled away from his sister and began to pace the Persian carpet, fighting back the crippling anger that always came when he thought of his loss.

      Marisa was a very different type. Slender and light, her blond hair curling into an impenetrable mass that didn’t quite reach her shoulders, she was nothing like the woman he had loved. But just seeing Marisa lying there on the couch brought back his most painful memories.

      Andrea had been on the cold, hard ground that awful night, over a year ago now. They’d been pinned down by a sniper and his rounds were still biting in around them as he’d worked frantically on her wounds. Ripping apart his shirt to use to bind her torn flesh, he tried desperately to stop the bleeding. He cried out encouragement, prayed aloud, promised things and begged. But the blood kept coming, slowly draining her life away. And finally, there was nothing to do but to cradle her lifeless body in his arms and curse and sob out his anguish and promise revenge.

      But that was then. This was now. And the woman on the couch wasn’t in danger of dying. Still, she was alone and vulnerable and she carried a child, just like Andrea. He couldn’t ignore the parallels.

      “This is hardly a date, Carla,” he rebuked her curtly, just because he had to funnel his anguish into anger in order to keep it under control.

      “Well, brother dear, it’s as close as you’ve come lately,” she said cheerfully, pushing back her thick black hair and bending over Marisa.

      He glanced over, regretting that he’d snapped at her, though not quite enough actually to apologize. He knew it hadn’t been easy for Carla, growing up during a war with three older brothers always taking precedence. He should cut her some slack.

      Carla had lived a strange, schizoid existence, sometimes thrust into the midst of bloody battles as the family fled attack, at other times treated as though she were the proverbial pampered princess to be kept away from ordinary life as long as possible. Their mother had died two years ago and their father, the king, very recently. When she’d been alive their mother had always acted as though Carla’s primary role in life was to wait for the right eligible swain to present his credentials and get permission to sweep her off her feet. So Carla had waited. But the war and other things had cluttered the time up and now, in her early twenties, he knew she was beginning to fear she had waited too long.

      Seeing the look in his eyes, Carla knew he was thinking about her situation. She appreciated his compassion, but a little action on her behalf would be more useful. Princesses were usually betrothed by now. And no one seemed to be doing anything about it.

      When she’d taken her fears to their aunt Kitty, the older woman had reassured her.

      “Don’t worry, dear,” she’d said, patting her hand lovingly. “I’m sure your brothers will always need looking after. If you don’t get married, there will always be a place for you at the palace.”

      It had been a shock to realize her aunt didn’t think much of her chances either. If only she’d been born beautiful, the way her brothers were handsome, things would have been so much easier. She wasn’t bitter, but it did seem unfair.

      “You seem beautiful to me,” her father had always said, but that, obviously, didn’t help at all.

      She’d decided, if it came down to it, she would run away to another country, change her identity and join a dressage team training for the Olympics. Why not? She was good at working with horses. Better that than feeling like a piece of furniture half of the time.

      The woman Nico had settled onto the couch was beautiful. Carla smiled as she looked her over. She was as happy to admire beauty as the next person. But as she looked, she noticed the woman’s rounded stomach.

      “Uh-oh. It looks like she’s got a little traveler along for the ride.” She shook her head, frowning. “Darn. Does that mean she’s already married?”

      The prince moved away restlessly. “I’m not really sure about that.”

      “Oh?” She straightened and gazed at him questioningly.

      He shoved his hands down into the pockets of his slacks. “She’s…well, it’s a bit complicated, but she got mugged tonight and now it seems she’s not sure who she is.”

      “Amnesia?” Carla’s silver-blue eyes, so like Nico’s, glittered with interest.

      “Maybe.”

      Carla turned back to look at her. “No traditional rings.” She tilted her head, considering the silent woman. “I’d say she’s unattached.”

      “Carla…” he said warningly.

      “But then, I’m an optimist.” She allowed herself a quick look of concern before she went back to needling her brother. “Of course, you’ve as good a chance as anyone at turning her head.”

      He groaned.

      “But that doesn’t explain why she fainted.” Turning, she gave him an arch look. “You’ve obviously terrified the poor dear. What on earth did you do to her?”

      “Nothing at all,” he said defensively. “She just…well, when she realized who I was…”

      Carla laughed and threw up her hands. “Of course. That would be enough to scare any girl into a stupor.”

      He turned away with a snort. “Where’s that damn doctor?”

      “He was probably sound asleep when Chauncy called him,” Carla said, getting a confirming nod from the butler. The doctor’s house, where he lived with his wife and the two nieces they’d taken in when they had been orphaned, was at the far edge of the compound. “It is after midnight. Don’t worry, he’ll get here.” She smiled as she watched her brother go back to pacing the floor.

      Marisa was lying very still, her eyes closed, her mind drifting. If she stayed very quiet, maybe she could pretend she was asleep and dreaming and she could put off the reality of her situation. The murmured voices of the others in the room were muted, washing around her. Still, try as she might, she couldn’t help but hear what they were saying.

      It was all a little too much right now. Somehow she had walked out of her own everyday reality and stepped into a fantasy—she’d just been carried into a palace in the arms of a prince, for heaven’s sake! And she couldn’t even remember how or why she got here.

      Carefully, she tried to reconstruct her day, but she couldn’t remember anything that had happened before she found herself on the cold bridge walkway with a lump on her head. She’d tried to shake off the dizziness and she was aware of a man throwing her suitcase and purse over the side of the bridge. What had happened to him? By the time she’d regained her feet, she’d noticed Nico coming toward her and the man who’d attacked her was nowhere to be seen.

      The rest was a muddle of clearing her head and walking along with the man she now knew was Prince Nico. There was a stop for something to eat in a café, but what had happened there was blurry. And then the prince had brought her here.

      He and his sister were talking as though they didn’t think she could hear a thing they were saying. She knew she ought to open her eyes and sit up and join in, but she still needed a moment or two to regroup. Just a moment or two.

      “Be serious for a minute,” the prince was saying, reacting in exasperation to something his sister had said. “And tell me what we’re going to do with her.”

      “Don’t think twice, Nico. I’ve already got the second-floor maids up, running a bath, preparing the peach room, laying out nightclothes.”

      His tone turned reluctantly admiring. “I have to admit, you’re nothing if not efficient.”

      “I do my best.