by Nora Roberts
He hadn’t. With a sigh, Reeve admitted why. His father had asked so little of him and had given so much. The friendship that bound Ambassador Francis MacGee to His Royal Highness Armand of Cordina was strong and real. Armand had flown to the States for his mother’s funeral. It wasn’t possible to forget how much that support had meant to his father.
And he hadn’t forgotten the princess. He continued to stare out the window. The woman slept behind him in the hospital bed, pale, vulnerable, fragile. Reeve remembered her ten years before, when he’d joined his parents for a trip to Cordina.
It had been her sixteenth birthday, Reeve remembered. He’d been in his twenties, already working his way up on the force. He hadn’t been a man with illusions. Certainly not one to believe in fairy tales. But that had been exactly what Her Serene Highness Gabriella had been.
Her dress—he could still remember it—had been a pale, mint-colored silk nipped into an impossibly small waist, billowing out like clouds. Against it, her skin had been glowing with life and youth. She’d worn a little ring of diamonds in her hair, glittering, winking, sizzling, against that deep, rich chestnut. It was hair a man wanted to run his fingers through, possessively. Her face had been all roses and cream and delicacy, with a mouth that was full and promising. And her eyes … Reeve remembered them most of all. Her eyes, under dark, arched brows, surrounded by lush, lush lashes, had been like topaz.
Almost reluctantly, he turned to look at her now.
Her face was still delicate, perhaps more so since she’d grown from girl to woman. The sweep of her cheekbones gave her dignity. Her skin was pale, as though the life and youth had been washed out of it. Her hair was still rich, but it was brushed straight back, leaving her face vulnerable. The beauty was still there, but it was so fragile a man would be afraid to touch.
One arm was thrown across her body, and he could see the sparkle of diamonds and sapphire. Yet her nails were short and uneven, as though they’d been bitten or broken off. The IV still fed into her wrist. He remembered when she was sixteen she’d worn a bracelet of pearls there.
It was that memory that caused the anger to roll through him. It had been a week since her abduction, two days since the young couple had found her collapsed on the side of the road, yet no one knew what she’d been through. He could remember the scent of her perfume from ten years before. She couldn’t remember her own name.
Some puzzles could be left on the shelf and easily ignored; some could be speculated on and left to others. Then there were those that intrigued and tempted. They called to the part of him that was seduced by questions, riddles and the often violent way of solving them that, he’d nearly convinced himself, had been overcome.
Armand had been clever, Reeve thought grimly, very clever, to insist that he see Princess Gabriella for himself. What was he going to do about her? he asked himself. What in hell was he going to do? He had his own life to start, the new one he’d chosen for himself. A man trying for a second beginning didn’t have time to mix himself up in other people’s problems. Hadn’t that been just what he’d wanted to get away from?
His brow was furrowed in the midst of his contemplations; that was how she saw him when she opened her eyes. Brie stared into the grim, furious face, saw the smoldering blue irises, the tight mouth, and froze. What was dream and what was real? she asked herself as she braced herself. The hospital. She allowed her gaze to leave his only long enough to assure herself she was still there. Her fingers tightened on the sheets until they were white, but her voice came calmly.
“Who are you?”
Whatever else had changed about her over the years or over the past week, the eyes were the same. Tawny, deep. Fascinating. Reeve kept his hands in his pockets. “I’m Reeve MacGee, a friend of your father’s.”
Brie relaxed a little. She remembered the man with the tired eyes and military stance who’d told her he was her father. No one knew how restless and frustrated a night she’d spent trying to find some glimmer of memory. “Do you know me?”
“We met several years ago, Your Highness.” The eyes that had fascinated him in the girl, and now in the woman, seemed to devour him. She needs something, he thought. She’s groping for any handhold. “It was your sixteenth birthday. You were exquisite.”
“You’re American, Reeve MacGee?”
He hesitated a moment, his eyes narrowing. “Yes. How do you know?”
“Your voice.” Confusion came and went in her eyes. He could almost see her grab on to that one thin thread. “I hear it in your voice. I’ve been there … Have I been there?”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
He knew, she thought. He knew, but she could only guess. “Nothing.” Tears welled up and were vanquished. She was too much her father’s daughter. “Can you imagine,” she began very steadily, “what it is to wake up with nothing? My life is blank pages. I have to wait for others to fill it for me. What happened to me?”
“Your Highness—”
“Must you call me that?” she demanded.
The flash of impatient spirit took him back a pace. He tried not to smile. He tried not to admire it. “No,” he said simply, and made himself comfortable on the edge of her bed. “What would you like to be called?”
“By my name.” Brie looked down in annoyance at the bandage on her wrist. That would be done away with soon, she decided, then managed to shift herself up. “I’m told it’s Gabriella.”
“You’re more often known as Brie.”
She was silent a moment as she struggled to find the familiarity. The blank pages remained blank. “Very well, then. Now tell me what happened to me.”
“We don’t have the details.”
“You must,” she corrected, watching him. “If not all, you have some. I want them.”
He studied her. Fragile, yes, but under the fragility was a core of strength. She’d have to build on it again. “Last Sunday afternoon you went out for a drive in the country. The next day, your car was found abandoned. There were calls. Ransom calls. Allegedly you’d been abducted and were being held.” He didn’t add what the threats had been or what would have been done to her if the ransom demands weren’t met. Nor did he add that the ransom demands had ranged from exorbitant amounts of money to the release of certain prisoners.
“Kidnapped.” Brie’s fingers reached out and gripped his. She saw images, shadows. A small, dark room. The smell of … kerosene and must. She remembered the nausea, the headaches. The terror came back, but little else. “It won’t come clear,” she murmured. “Somehow I know it’s true, but there’s a film I can’t brush away.”
“I’m no doctor.” Reeve spoke in brisk tones because her fight to find herself affected him too strongly. “But I’d say not to push it. You’ll remember when you’re ready to remember.”
“Easy to say.” She released his hand. “Someone’s stolen my life from me, Mr. MacGee … What’s your place in this?” she demanded suddenly. “Were we lovers?”
His brow lifted. She certainly didn’t beat around the bush, he mused. Nor, he thought, only half-amused, did she sound too thrilled by the prospect. “No. As I said, you were sixteen the one and only time we met. Our fathers are old friends. They’d have been a bit annoyed if I’d seduced you.”
“I see. Then why are you here?”
“Your father asked me to come. He’s concerned about your security.”
She glanced down at the ring on her finger. Exquisite, she thought. Then she saw her nails and frowned. That was wrong, wasn’t it? she wondered. Why would she wear such a ring and not take care of her hands? Another flicker of memory taunted her. Brie closed her hands into fists as it hovered, then faded. “If my father is concerned about my security,” she continued, unaware that Reeve watched her every expression, “what is that to you?”
“I’ve had some experience with security. Prince Armand has asked me to look out for you.”
She frowned again, in a quiet, thoughtful way she had no idea was habit. “A bodyg
uard?” She said it in the same impatient way he had. “I don’t think I’d like that.”
The simple dismissal had him doing a complete reversal. He’d given up his free time, come thousands of miles, and she didn’t think she’d like it. “You’ll find, Your Highness, that even a princess has to do things she doesn’t like. Might as well get used to it.”
She studied him blandly, the way she did when her temper threatened her good sense. “I think not, Mr. MacGee. I find myself certain that I wouldn’t tolerate having someone hover around me. When I get home—” She stopped, because home was another blank. “When I get home,” she repeated, “I’ll find another way of dealing with it. You may tell my father that I declined your kind offer.”
“The offer isn’t to you, but to your father.” Reeve rose. This time Brie was able to see that for sheer size he was impressive. His leanness didn’t matter, nor did his casually expensive clothes. If he meant to block your way, you’d be blocked. Of that much she was sure.
He made her uneasy. She didn’t know why, or, annoyingly, if she should know. Yet he did, and because of this she wanted nothing to do with him on a day-to-day basis. Her life was jumbled enough at the moment without a man like Reeve MacGee in her way.
She asked if they’d been lovers because the idea both stirred and frightened. When he’d said no, she hadn’t felt relief but the same blank flatness she’d been dealing with for two days. Perhaps she was a woman of little emotion, Brie considered. Perhaps life was simpler that way.
“I’ve been told I’m nearly twenty-five, Mr. MacGee.”
“Must you call me that?” he countered, deliberately using the same tone she had. He saw her smile quickly. The light came on and switched off.
“I am an adult,” she went on. “I make my own decisions about my life.”
“Since you’re a member of the Royal Family of Cordina, some of those decisions aren’t just yours to make.” He walked to the door and, opening it, stood with his hand on the knob. “I’ve got better things to do, Gabriella, than princess-sit.” His smile came quickly, also, and was wry. “But even commoners don’t always have a choice.”
She waited until the door was closed again, then sat up. Dizziness swept over her. For a moment, just a moment, she wanted to lie back until someone came to help, to tend. But she wouldn’t tolerate being tied down any longer. Swinging out of bed, she waited for the weakness to fade. It was something she had to accept for now. Then carefully, slowly, she walked toward the mirror on the far wall.
She’d avoided this. Remembering nothing of her looks, a thousand possibilities had formed in her mind. Who was she? How could she begin to know when she didn’t know the color of her eyes. Taking a steadying breath, she stood in front of the mirror and looked.
Too thin, she thought quickly. Too pale. But not, she added with foolish relief, hideous. Perhaps her eyes were an odd color, but they weren’t crossed or beady. Lifting a hand to her face, she traced it. Thin, she thought again. Delicate, frightened. There was nothing in the reflection that resembled the man who was her father. She’d seen strength in his face. In her own she saw frailty—too much of it.
Who are you? Brie demanded as she pressed her palm against the glass. What are you?
Then, despising herself, she gave in to her despair and wept.
Chapter 2
It wasn’t something she’d do again, Brie told herself as she stepped out of a hot, soothing shower. She wouldn’t bury her face in her hands and cry because things were piling up on her. What she would do, what she would begin to do right now, was to shift them, one at a time. If there were answers to be found, that was the way to find them.
First things first. Brie slipped into the robe she’d found hanging in the closet. It was thick and plush and emerald green. It was also frayed a bit around the cuffs. An old favorite, she decided, accepting the comfort she felt with the robe around her. But the closet had offered her nothing else. Decisively Brie pushed the button and waited for the nurse.
“I want my clothes,” Brie said immediately.
“Your Highness, you shouldn’t be—”
“I’ll speak to the doctor if necessary. I need a hairbrush, cosmetics and suitable clothes.” She folded her hands in a gesture that looked commanding, but had more to do with nerves. “I’m going home this morning.”
One didn’t argue with royalty. The nurse curtsied her way out of the room and went directly for the doctor.
“Now what’s all this?” He came bustling into the room, all warmth, all good cheer and patience. She thought of a short, stout brick wall cleverly concealed behind ivy and moss. “Your Highness, you have no business getting up.”
“Dr. Franco.” It was time, Brie decided, to test herself. “I appreciate your skill and your kindness. I’m going home today.”
“Home.” His eyes sharpened as he stepped forward. “My dear Gabriella.”
“No.” She shook her head, denying his unspoken question. “I don’t remember.”
Franco nodded. “I’ve spoken to Dr. Kijinsky, Your Highness. He’s much more knowledgeable about this condition than I. This afternoon—”
“I’ll see your Kijinsky, Dr. Franco, but not this afternoon.” She dipped her hands into the deep pockets of the robe and touched something small and slim. Bringing it out, Brie found herself holding a hairpin. She closed her hand tightly over it, as if it might bring something rushing back. “I need to try to figure this out my way. Perhaps if I’m back where things are familiar to me, I’ll remember. You assured me yesterday after my … father left, that this memory loss is temporary and that other than fatigue and shock, I have no major injuries. If that’s the case, I can rest and recuperate just as well at home.”
“Your rest and recuperation can be monitored more efficiently here.”
She gave him a quiet, very stubborn smile. “I don’t choose to be monitored, Dr. Franco. I choose to go home.”
“Perhaps neither of you remembers Gabriella said the same thing only hours after her tonsils were removed.” Armand stood in the doorway, watching his delicately built daughter face down the tanklike Franco. Coming in, he held out his hand. Though her hesitation to accept it hurt, he curled his fingers gently over hers. “Her Highness will come home,” he said without looking at the doctor. Before Brie could smile, he went on, “You’ll give me a list of instructions for her care. If she doesn’t follow them, she’ll be sent back.”
The urge to protest came and went. Something inherent quelled it. Instead she inclined her head. What should have been a subservient movement was offset by the arrogant lift of brow. Armand’s fingers tightened on hers as he saw the familiar gesture. She’d given him that look countless times when she’d bargained for and received what she wanted.
“I’ll send for your things.”
“Thank you.”
But she didn’t add “Father.” Both of them knew it.
Within an hour, she was walking out. She liked the cheerful, spring dress splashed with pastels that she was wearing. She had felt both relief and satisfaction when she’d discovered she had a clever hand with cosmetics.
As Brie stepped into the sunlight there was a faint blush of color in her cheeks, and the shadows under her eyes had been blotted out. Her hair was loose, swinging down to brush her shoulders. The scent she’d dabbed on had been unapologetically French and teasing. She found, like the robe, that she was comfortable in it.
She recognized the car as a limo and knew the interior would be roomy and smell rich. She couldn’t remember riding in it before, or the face of the driver who smiled and bowed as he ushered her inside. She sat in silence a moment as her father settled in the seat across from her.
“You look stronger, Brie.”
There was so much to say, yet she had so little. Details eluded her. Instead there were feelings. She didn’t feel odd in the plush quiet of the limo. The weight of the glittery ring she wore was comfortable on her hand. She knew her shoes were Italian, but only the sc
uffs on the soles showed her that they’d been worn before. By her, certainly. The fit was perfect.
The scent her father wore soothed her nerves. She looked at him again, searching. “I know I speak French as easily as English, because some of my thoughts come in that language,” she began. “I know what roses smell like. I know which direction I should look to see the sun rise over the water and what it looks like at dawn. I don’t know if I’m a kind person or a selfish one. I don’t know the color of the walls of my own room. I don’t know if I’ve done well with my life or if I’ve wasted it.”
It tore at him to watch her sitting calmly across from him, trying to explain why she couldn’t give him the love he was entitled to. “I could give you the answers.”
She nodded, as controlled as he. “But you won’t.”
“I think if you find them yourself, you’ll find more.”
“Perhaps.” Looking down, she smoothed her fingers over the white snakeskin bag she carried. “I’ve already discovered I’m impatient.”
Quick, dashing, he grinned. Brie found herself drawn to him, smiling back. “Then you’ve begun.”
“And I have to be satisfied with a beginning.”
“My dear Gabriella, I have no illusions that you’ll be satisfied with that for long.”
Brie glanced out the window as they climbed up, steadily up, a long, winding road. There were many trees, with palms among them, their fronds fluttering. There was rock, gray, craggy rock thrusting out, but wildflowers shoved their way through the cracks. The sea was below, deep, paintbrush blue and serene.
If she looked up, following the direction of the road, she could see the town with its pink and white buildings stacked like pretty toys on the jutting, uneven promontory.
A fairy tale, she thought again, yet it didn’t surprise her. As they approached, Brie felt again a sense of quiet comfort. The town lost nothing of its charm on closer contact. The houses and buildings seemed content to push their way out of the side of rock, balanced with one another and the lay of the land. There was an overall tidiness and a sense of age.
No skyscrapers, no frantic rush. Something inside her recognized this, but, she thought, she’d been to cities where the pace was fast and the buildings soared up and up. Yet this was home. She felt no urge to argue. This was home.
“You won’t tell me about myself.” She looked at Armand again and her eyes were direct, her voice strong. “Tell me about Cordina.”
She’d pleased him. Brie could see it in the way his lips curved just slightly. “We are old,” he said, and she heard the pride. “The Bissets—that’s our family name—have lived and ruled here since the seventeenth century. Before, Cordina was under many governments, Spanish, Moorish, Spanish again, then French. We are a port, you see, and our position on the Mediterranean is valuable.
“In 1657, another Armand Bisset was granted the principality of Cordina. It has remained in Bisset hands, and will remain so, as long as there is a male heir. The title cannot pass to a daughter.”
“I see.” After a moment’s thought Brie tilted her head. “Personally I can be grateful for that, but as a policy, it’s archaic.”
“So you’ve said before,” he murmured.
“I see.” And she saw children playing in a green leafy park where a fountain gushed. She saw a store with glittery dresses in the front, and a bakery window filled with pink and white confections. There was a house where the lawn flamed with azaleas. “And have the Bissets ruled well?”
It was like her to ask, he thought. While she didn’t remember, the questing mind remained, and the compassion. “Cordina is at peace,” he said simply. “We are a member of the United Nations. I govern, assisted by Loubet, Minister of State. There is the Council of the Crown, which meets three times a year. On international treaties, I must consult them. All laws must be approved by the National Council, which is elected.”
“Are there women in the government?”
He lifted a finger to lightly rub his chin. “You haven’t lost your taste for politics. There are women,” he told her. “Though you wouldn’t be satisfied by the percentages, Cordina is a progressive country.”
“Perhaps ‘progressive’ is a relative term.”
“Perhaps.” He smiled, because this particular debate was an old one. “Shipping is, naturally, our biggest industry, but tourism is not far behind. We have beauty, culture and an enviable climate. We are just,” he said with simplicity. “Our country is small, but it is not insignificant. We rule well.”
This she accepted without any questions, but if she’d had them, they would have flown from her mind by the sight of the palace.
It stood, as was fitting, on the highest point of Cordina’s rocky jut of land. It faced the sea, with huge rocks and sheer cliffs tumbling down to the water.
It was a place King Arthur might have visited, and would recognize if his time came again. The recognition came to Brie the same way everything else had, a vague feeling, as if she were seeing something in a dream.
It was made of white stone and the structure spread out in a jumble of battlements, parapets and towers. It had been built for both royalty and defense, and remained unchanged. It hovered over the capital like a protection and a blessing.
There were guards at the gate, but the gates weren’t closed. In their tidy red uniforms they looked efficient, yet fanciful. Brie thought of Reeve MacGee.
“Your friend spoke to me—Mr. MacGee.” Brie tore her gaze away from the palace. Business first, she reflected. It seemed to be her way. “He tells me you’ve asked for his assistance. While I appreciate your concern, I find the idea of yet another stranger in my life uncomfortable.”
“Reeve is the son of my oldest and closest friend. He isn’t a stranger.” Nor am I, he thought, and willed himself to be patient.
“To me he is. By his own account he tells me we’ve met only once, almost ten years ago. Even if I could remember him, he’d be a stranger.”
He’d always admired the way she could use such clean logic when it suited her. And willfulness when it didn’t. Admiration, however, didn’t overshadow necessity. “He was a member of the police force in America and handled the sort of security we require now.”
She thought of the neat red uniforms at the gate, and the men who sat in the car following the limo. “Aren’t there enough guards?”
