Royally Pregnant. Barbara McCauley
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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.”
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