awkwardly. “I—I thought you were in a meeting with Admiral Monteque this morning.”
Dylan resisted the urge to tug at the charcoal silk tie around his neck, wished to God he didn’t have to wear these damn suits to informal meetings. “Not for another hour.”
Completely flustered that she’d been caught talking about a member of the royal family, an offense that she knew she could be fired for, the young maid began to babble. “I—I’m sorry, Your Royal Highness. I didn’t mean to, that is, I wouldn’t have—”
“Never mind, Sally.” Frowning, Dylan waved a dismissive hand. “I’d like to speak to Emily, if you don’t mind.”
Sally folded her hands in front of her and smiled. “Well, of course I don’t mind.”
Dylan lifted a brow. “Alone.”
“Oh, yes, of course, of course. I’m so sorry.” The maid pushed the food cart aside, then glanced at Emily. “I’ll be back in a little while to help you with a bath and wash your hair, but if you need anything at all, just dial two-four on the phone. Or I can wait outside, if you like, or I can—”
“Sally.”
The maid jumped at Dylan’s sharp reprimand, then backed toward the door, her eyes cast downward as she bowed out of the room.
Brow furrowed, Dylan stared at the closed door for a long moment. He’d never quite gotten used to the bows and curtsies he’d been subjected to his entire life. He’d accepted all the formality as part of his inherited duty, but still, that didn’t mean he had to like it.
There were times he was thankful that his brother would be named the next king. From the time they’d been young children, Owen had been more suited to rule Penwyck. He’d always had more patience, more interest in the politics of the country, while Dylan had found it difficult to stay in one place for any length of time or to follow the endless rules that the royal family was subject to. And his temper had gotten him in trouble on more than one occasion, a fact that his mother had lamented over his entire life.
And still, there were times that Dylan wondered if he could make a difference if he were to rule the country, if he could curb his temper and rule with his intellect instead of his emotions.
But what did it matter? Owen would be the next king of Penwyck, and Dylan bore his twin no ill will over that fact. Owen would make a fine king. He had a wife, Jordan, who would be a lovely queen, and their four-year-old daughter, Whitney, was already a beautiful princess. Owen would make their parents and family and all the people of Penwyck proud.
Dylan turned his attention to Emily. Pillows plumped behind her back, she sat upright in the large bed, a breakfast tray perched across her legs. She watched him with a cautious, uncertain expression in her eyes, eyes still glazed and heavy from sleep.
His blood stirred at the sight of her. With her thick, dark hair tumbling around her pale face and slender shoulders, and the soft rise of her bare breasts at the V of her green silk pajama top, she seemed more fantasy than reality.
Then his gaze dropped to the mark on her cheek and reality returned. A swear word hovered on the tip of his tongue, but he checked himself before it escaped. Though the swelling appeared less noticeable than the day before, the bruise itself had darkened to an angry, deep blue.
“Good morning, Your Royal Highness.” She lifted her gaze to his when he moved beside the bed. “I hope you’ll forgive me if I don’t curtsy. You’ve caught me at a disadvantage, I’m afraid.”
“From where I’m standing, Emily, you are hardly what I, or any other man, would consider disadvantaged.” Her blush spread across her cheeks and down the long, smooth column of her neck. Once again his gaze was drawn to her breasts, and he saw the outline of her nipples under the thin silk pajama top. The blood she’d stirred only a moment ago now began to heat quickly.
Forcing his mind off ravaging the woman, Dylan cleared his throat. “How are you feeling?”
“As if my head were a forest,” she replied. “And a little man with a chain saw is busy cutting down the trees.”
He reached for the phone. “I’ll have your nurse paged right away.”
“It’s just a headache.” She touched his arm to stop him, then quickly pulled away. “I’m sorry, Your Royal Highness. That was presumptuous of me and I—”
“Stop that.” He frowned at her, then pulled the chair from beside the nightstand next to the bed and sat down. With a sigh, he took her hand in his. “Emily, I told you yesterday, when we’re alone, I’d rather you call me Dylan.”
“I—” She dropped her gaze. “If you like.”
“I like.”
He liked a lot of things when it came to Emily, Dylan realized. The lovely flush of pink on her cheeks, the soft lilt of her voice, her calm courage. Most of the women he’d known would have been in hysterics over all that had happened and would probably have the entire palace staff running in ten different directions.
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
