Royally Pregnant. Barbara McCauley
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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