Royally Pregnant. Barbara McCauley
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head again, was relieved that the bleeding had eased. “Dylan Penwyck.”
Her brow furrowed. “Your last name is the same as the palace you mentioned? Are you a member of the royal family?”
Even though Dylan had done his best to stay out of the public eye his entire life, everyone who lived on this island knew that Dylan Penwyck was King Morgan Penwyck’s son. Not everyone knew exactly what he looked like, especially since he’d been gone the past two years, but still, the name Dylan Penwyck was well known to his country’s general population.
Unless this woman wasn’t from Penwyck, he thought. Or, possibly, the blow to her head had wiped out more of her memory than her own name.
But as Liam pulled up in front of the infirmary, Dylan hadn’t time to answer her question, or ask any more of his own. Wearing a gray rain slicker and carrying an umbrella, the doctor hurried down the steps, then quickly opened the car door.
Questions and answers would have to wait for a while, Dylan knew. He scooped the woman into his arms and carried her up the infirmary steps while the doctor shielded her from the rain with his umbrella. Whatever the beautiful woman’s name might be, and what she’d been doing up on the mountain road, would have to remain a mystery for a little while longer.
Thirty minutes later, Dylan stared at the waiting-room clock and frowned. What the hell was taking so long? He swore under his breath, then spun on his heels and continued his pacing. Liam had gone to report the accident to Queen Marissa and Dr. Waltham was still in the examination room.
Dylan’s frown deepened, and he stared at the clock again. Surely the doctor had something to report by now.
For the hundredth time, Dylan recalled the sound of the car striking the woman’s bicycle, the expression of shock on her face just before she flew through the air, then the way her body had crumpled when she’d landed beside the road.
All the cuts and bruises, the blood.
His hands clenched into fists at the memory, then he turned and headed for the examination room at the end of the hall. Enough was enough. He refused to wait any longer. Someone was going to tell him something.
Now.
He lifted his fist to knock on the door, but it opened before he made contact. Mavis Weidermeyer, Dr. Waltham’s head nurse, stood on the other side. The woman quite literally filled the doorway.
Damn. Not Mavis, Dylan thought. He’d learned at a young age how to get around most of the staff in the palace, sometimes with charm, sometimes by pulling rank. But nothing worked with Mavis Weidermeyer. There’d been talk that Dr. Waltham’s nurse wasn’t human, but rather a mechanical military experiment gone awry.
“Your Royal Highness.” Nurse Mavis stepped out of the room and closed the door behind her. At six foot, the woman didn’t have to look up to meet Dylan’s eye. “Is there something I can help you with?”
If I ever need a piano moved, Dylan thought.
He straightened his shoulders. “I’d like to speak with Dr. Waltham.”
“I’ve already told you that Dr. Waltham will speak to you when he’s finished his examination,” Mavis said firmly. “Please have a seat in the waiting room. I’ll call you when the doctor is ready for you.”
She turned before he could respond and walked behind the waiting-room counter.
He stared at the woman’s broad back. Dammit. He was the one who was supposed to give the commands around here. Nevertheless, he turned and headed back to the waiting room, then sat stiffly on one of the leather-and-chrome armchairs.
Mavis sat at her computer and began typing. He was considering rushing the exam-room door when Liam came into the office, a cup of steaming coffee in his hand and a worried expression on his face. Mavis glanced up at the driver, gave him a stiff nod, then turned back to her computer.
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