Protecting the Pregnant Princess

“I’m trying to help you,” he said, his voice low and raspy—either from her attack or because he didn’t want to be overheard.

“Then get me the hell out of here!”

“That’s the plan.”

Her breath shuddered out in a gasp of surprise. “It is?”

“It’s why I’m here, Charlotte.”

“Why—why do you think I’m Charlotte?” The question slipped out, unbidden. And now she silently cursed herself. If Charlotte was the woman he’d intended to free, then she should have let him believe she was Charlotte.

Hell, maybe she was.

His eyes, that eerily familiar pale blue, widened in surprise. “You’re not?”

God, now he wasn’t sure, either.

She should have kept her mouth shut, but maybe she had done that as long as she had physically been able. Her voice was raspy, as if she hadn’t used it much lately. Or maybe someone had tried choking the life out of her, too.

She needed to get the hell out of this place. But should she leave with a stranger? Maybe he posed a bigger threat than the man with the Glock.

He studied her face, his gaze narrowing with the scrutiny. “Princess Gabriella?”

“Pr-princess?” she sputtered with a near-hysterical giggle. “You think I’m a princess?” Maybe it wasn’t that ridiculous a thought, though. It was almost as if she had stumbled into some morbid fairy tale where the princess had been poisoned or cursed to an endless slumber.

Except she wasn’t sleeping anymore.

“I don’t know what the hell to think,” the man admitted, shaking his head as if trying to sort through his confusion.

Maybe it wasn’t the blow to her head that had knocked out her sense since he couldn’t understand what was going on, either.

“Please,” she urged him, “get me out of here.” She glanced toward the window in the door, where the burly Mr. Centerenian usually stood guard. “Now.”

“I need to know,” he said. “Who are you? Gabby or Charlotte?”

Gabby? The name evoked the same familiar chord within her that Charlotte and his eyes had struck. It must have been a name she’d used. “Does it matter?” she asked. “Would you take one of us but leave the other?”

And why couldn’t he tell the difference between the women? Was she a twin? Was there someone else, exactly like her, out there? Hurt? In danger? As freaking confused as she was?

He shook his head. “No, damn it, I wouldn’t. You know I wouldn’t leave either of you here.”

Either of you…

Where was the other woman? Locked in another room in this hellhole? Jane’s breath caught with fear and concern for a person she didn’t even know. But then she didn’t even know herself.

“But why won’t you be honest with me?” the man asked, and hurt flashed in his pale blue eyes. “Don’t you trust me?”

It was probably a mistake. But the admission slipped out like her earlier question. “I don’t even know who you are.”

“Damn it, you have every right to be pissed, but it was the king’s decision to make that announcement at the ball. He wouldn’t listen to me…” he said then trailed off, and those pretty eyes narrowed again. “You’re not talking about that. You’re not just mad at me.”

Maybe she was.

He definitely stirred up emotion inside her. Her pulse raced and her heart pounded hard and fast. Her mind didn’t recognize him, but her body did as even her skin tingled in reaction to having touched his. An image flicked through her mind, of her hands sliding over his skin—all of his skin, his broad shoulders bare, his muscular chest covered only with dark, soft hair.

Then her fingers trailed down over washboard abs to…

Her head pounded as she tried to remember, but the tantalizing image slipped away as a ragged breath slipped between her lips. Despite the pounding, she shook her head and then flinched with pain and frustration. “No. I really don’t know who you are.”

He sucked in a sharp breath, as if her words had hurt him even more than her hands wrapped tightly around his throat had.

“Don’t feel bad,” she said with a snort of derision. “I don’t know who I am, either.”

“You don’t?” His dark brows knitted together, furrowing his forehead. “You have amnesia?”

She jerked her head in a sharp nod, which caused her to wince in pain again. “I don’t know who I am or why I’m here. But I know I’m in danger. I have to get the hell out of here.”

Even if leaving with him might put her in more danger…

The door rattled. And she gasped. “You waited too long!”

While this man was probably stronger than the one who usually guarded her, this man was unarmed. He would be no more a match for the Glock than she had been.

The door creaked as it swung open. The man spun around, putting his body between hers and the intruder—as if using himself as a human shield.

“Timmer, we gotta go,” a male voice whispered. “He’s coming back.”

A curse slipped from Timmer’s lips. “We have to bring her with us.”

“There’s no time.”

Anger flashed in those pale blue eyes. “We can’t leave her here!”

“If we try to take her out, none of us will be able to leave.”

The man—Timmer—nodded.

She grabbed him again, clutching at his arm. “Don’t leave me!” she implored him.

“I’ll be back,” he promised.

“Hurry!” urged the other man, who hovered yet outside the room. “He’s coming!”

Timmer turned back toward her, and taking her hand from his grasp, he quickly slipped her wrists back into the restraints and bound her to the bed.

He obviously hadn’t intended to help her at all. Maybe it had all been a trick. Some silly game to amuse a bored guard…

As her brief flash of hope died, tears stung her eyes. But even in her physically weak state, she was too strong and too damned proud to give in to tears. She wouldn’t cry. And she damn well wouldn’t beg.