He nearly smiled. Perhaps the trauma had confused her memory, but she was still his Brie. “Cordina is a principality. I am Prince Armand. You’re my eldest child. You have two brothers, Alexander and Bennett.”

Father and brothers. Family, roots. Nothing stirred. “And my mother?”

This time she read the expression easily: pain. “She died when you were twenty. Since then you’ve been my official hostess, taking on her duties along with your own. Brie.” His tone softened from the formal and dispassionate. “We call you Brie.” He turned her hand up so that the cluster of sapphires and diamonds on her right hand glimmered toward her. “I gave you this on your twenty-first birthday, nearly four years ago.”

She looked at it, and at the strong, beautiful hand that held hers. She remembered nothing. But she felt—trust. When she lifted her eyes again, she managed a half smile. “You have excellent taste, Your Highness.”

He smiled, but she thought he was perilously close to weeping. As close as she. “Please,” she began for both their sakes. “I’m very tired.”

“Yes, indeed.” The doctor patted her hand as he had, though she didn’t know it, since the day she’d been born. “For now, rest is the very best medicine.”

Reluctantly Prince Armand released his daughter’s hand. “I’ll be close.”

Her strength was already beginning to ebb. “Thank you.” She heard the door close, but sensed the doctor hovering. “Am I who he says I am?”

“No one knows better than I.” He touched her cheek, more from affection than the need to check her temperature. “I delivered you. Twenty-five years ago in July. Rest now, Your Highness. Just rest.”

Prince Armand strode down the corridor in his quick, trained gait, as a member of the Royal Guard followed two paces behind. He wanted to be alone. God, how he wanted five minutes to himself in some closed-off room. There he could let go of some of the tension, some of the emotion that pulled at him. His daughter, his treasure, had nearly been lost to him. Now that he had her back, she looked at him as though he were a stranger.

When he found who— Armand dismissed the thought. It was for later. He promised himself that.

In the spacious, sun-splashed waiting room were three more Royal Guards and several members of Cordina’s police department. Pacing, smoking, was his son and heir, Alexander. He had his father’s dark, clean-lined looks and military bearing. He did not, as yet, have his father’s meticulous control.

Like a volcano, Armand thought, looking at the twenty-three-year-old prince, that simmers and bubbles, but doesn’t quite erupt.

Sprawled across a plush, rose-colored sofa was Bennett. At twenty he threatened to become the newest playboy prince. Though he, too, was dark, his looks reflected the heartbreaking beauty of his mother. Though he was often reckless, too often indiscreet, he had an unflagging compassion and kindness that endeared him to his subjects and the press. As well as the female population of Europe, Armand thought wryly.