The Prince's Secret Bride. Raye Morgan

you,” she said instead, then frowned, wondering if maybe that was worse.

      The faintest of smiles quirked the corners of his mouth. “Too late. I’m entangled.” Reaching out, he took the hanger with the pink sweater from her hands and walked it back to the wardrobe.

      She gazed at him, nonplussed. “But why?”

      He hung up the sweater, then closed the door and turned back. “That doesn’t matter.”

      Her warning system was setting off tiny alarms again. “Sure it does. I don’t understand why you think you have any responsibility for me and my child.”

      He gazed at her for a long moment before answering that one—long enough that she began to feel self-conscious. She was standing there in a filmy nightdress, after all. Hardly the way one would want to appear in an audience with a prince. Unless, of course, one had seduction in mind. That sent blood rushing to her cheeks and she crossed her arms over her chest, wishing she had the sweater back to hide behind.

      “We care about all our subjects, Marisa,” he said at last.

      Right. She almost laughed aloud at that one. Especially when she considered the hint of mockery she heard in his tone.

      “Maybe so, but you don’t invite them all to come and stay in the palace, do you?”

      His blue eyes seemed to smile. “No. You’ve got me there. I’ll have to admit it. You’re special.”

      That gave her the shivers. “Why?” she demanded, though she wasn’t sure she really wanted to hear the answer.

      He glanced down. She knew her pregnancy was pretty well hidden by the folds of the gown, but it almost felt as though he had X-ray eyes. He was very obviously referring to her child as the reason he was taking extra care to protect her. Her hands went involuntarily to her belly once again and she bit her lip, wondering if she could trust him—or if this was just a way to lower her defenses.

      “Are you married?” he asked bluntly.

      “What?”

      “You’re pregnant. The usual order of things would require a husband somewhere in the mix.”

      She looked down. Funny, she couldn’t remember who the father was right now—but despite the fact that there had been a moment there, when she’d still been groggy from the mugging and this amnesia or whatever it might be was still new to her, that she’d been startled to find she was with child, she was now well aware that she was carrying a baby close to her heart. She would never lose sight of that for a moment.

      “I’m not married,” she said firmly.

      He cocked his head to the side. “Can you remember…?”

      “No.” She lifted her gaze to meet his. She knew instinctively that she had never voluntarily submitted to the authority of a husband. And she was beginning to feel very similarly about the authority of a prince. “But I know I’m not married. I can feel it.”

      He frowned. “Perhaps your husband was killed in the war.”

      She shook her head, chin high. “No.”

      His eyes darkened. “You seem very sure.”

      “I am. Look.” She held up both hands. The simple rings she wore left no room for the traditional Carnethian doubles all married women wore in this country. “I would remember. I just can’t believe I would forget a thing like that. Or if there were anyone in my life that I was in love with.”

      He nodded slowly. “Maybe the answer will be in your luggage. I’ll send out men to search for your suitcase first thing in the morning.”

      Her suitcase! That sense of urgency came over her again. She looked toward the door. “I really should go,” she began.

      “You’re not going anywhere,” he cut in, sounding like a man whose patience was still holding, but not for much longer. “The doctor said you needed rest.”

      “Yes. But that doesn’t mean I have to get it here. Look, I can take care of myself.”

      “I have no doubt of that. But what about your baby?”

      “What about my baby?” she said defensively. “It really has nothing to do with you.”

      For just a moment, she thought she saw him wince, as though her feisty words had hurt him somehow. Despite everything, she regretted it. And that was a real problem. Her impulse was to do anything she could to make him happy. And that made her want to scream.

      “Your Highness,” she said, purposefully using his rank as a way to distance herself from him. “I may not remember my name at the moment. And I may not be too clear on where I came from.”

      She paused for a moment as a picture swam into her mind, a hazy, misty picture that wouldn’t quite come into focus. She blinked, thinking the clouds would clear in a second or two and she would see it perfectly.

      “Are you remembering something?” he asked, stepping closer.

      She drew in a quick breath as the picture evaporated before her eyes. Looking at him, she twisted her mouth slightly. “Not anymore,” she said coolly.

      He nodded. “Let me know if you do,” he said, searching her face as though he thought the answers might appear there.

      She sighed. Here was the problem. He saw her as a victim, someone who needed to be taken care of. She’d been through a lot today and taken some hard knocks, but she knew one thing for sure—she was no victim. She could take care of herself. She was going to have to pull herself together enough to show him that inner toughness before it was too late.

      “Get some sleep,” he told her, starting to turn away. “We’ll discuss your situation tomorrow. I’ll see you in the morning.”

      “Not if I see you first,” she muttered to herself as she listened to the sharp sound of his boots on the tiled floor of the hallway.