Authors: Nora Roberts
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.
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 scuffs 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?”
Armand waited until the driver stopped in front of the entrance. “If there were, none of this would be necessary.” He stepped from the car first and turned to assist his daughter himself. “Welcome home, Gabriella.”
Her hand remained in his and the light breeze ruffled between them. She wasn’t ready to go in. Armand felt it, and waited.
She could smell the flowers now. Jasmine, vanilla, spice, and the roses that grew in the courtyard. The grass was so green, the stone so white it was almost blinding. There had to have been a drawbridge once, she was sure of it. Now there was an arched mahogany door at the top of curved stone steps. Glass, sometimes clear, sometimes tinted, glistened as it should in palaces. At the topmost tower a flag whipped in the wind. Snowy white with an arrogant diagonal slash of red.
Slowly she looked over the building. It tugged at her, welcoming her. The sense of peace wasn’t something she imagined. It was as real as the fear she’d felt not long before. Yet she couldn’t say which of those sparkling windows were hers. She’d come to find out, Brie reminded herself, and stepped forward.
Even as she did, the wide door was flung open. A young man with dark, thick hair and a dancer’s build
dashed out. “Brie!” Then he was on her, embracing her with all the strength and enthusiasm of youth. He smelled comfortably of horses. “I’d just come in from the stables when Alex told me you were on your way.”
Brie felt the waves of love coming from him, and looked helplessly over his shoulder to her father.
“Your sister needs rest, Bennett.”
“Of course. She’ll rest better here.” Grinning, he drew back, keeping her hands tight in his. He looked so young, she thought, so beautiful, so happy. When he saw her face, his eyes sobered quickly. “You don’t remember? Still?”
She wanted to reach out to him. He seemed to need it so. All she could do was return the squeeze of hand to hand. “I’m sorry.”
He opened his mouth, then shut it again, slipping an arm around her waist. “Nonsense.” His voice was cheerful, but he kept her carefully between himself and their father. “You’ll remember soon enough now that you’re home. Alex and I thought we’d have to wait until this afternoon to see you in the hospital. This is so much better.”
As he spoke he was easing her gently in the front door, talking quickly, she was sure, to put both her and himself at ease. She saw the hall, wide and stunning with its frescoed ceiling and polished floor, the gracious sweep of stairs leading up and up, to what she didn’t yet know. Because her heart was pounding, she concentrated on the scents that soothed her. Fresh flowers and lemon wax. She heard the sound of her heels striking the wood and echoing.