“It’s true, I don’t.” Frustrated, she pulled her fingers through her hair. He saw his ring throw out fire against the fire. His fire, he thought. And hers. “It’s always basically the same—the dark, the smells, the fear. I don’t have anything tangible, Reeve.” For a moment she closed her eyes tight. Weakness was so easy. Tears were so simple. She wouldn’t allow them for herself. “There’s nothing for me to hold on to. Every morning I tell myself this could be the day the curtain lifts. And every night …” She shrugged.

He wanted to go to her, hold her. Passion he could offer safely. Comfort was dangerous. He kept his distance. “Tomorrow you won’t have to think about it. We’ll go out on the water. Just sail. Sun and sea, that’s all. There won’t be anyone there you have to play a role for.”

A few hours without pretenses, she thought. He was offering her a gift. Perhaps he was taking one for himself, but he was entitled. Brie looked down at her ring, then up at him. “Nor you.”

He smiled. She thought it was almost friendly. “Agreed.”

Chapter 7

Like too many other things, Brie had forgotten what it was to really relax. Learning how was a discovery in pleasure, and one that was blissfully easy. She hoped that when other memories came back to her, they’d be as sweet.

Still, she’d found one more thing she could be certain of. She was as at home on the sea as she was on land. It was a simple pleasure—as relaxing was—and therefore an important one, to find that she knew her way around canvas and rope. If she’d been alone on the pretty little sloop, Brie could have sailed her. She’d have had the control, the knowledge and the strength. Of that she was certain.

She could listen to the noise of the water against the hull as the boat gathered speed and know she’d heard the sound before. It didn’t matter where or how.

She loved to sail. Everyone Reeve had spoken to had confirmed it. The idea for a day on the water had come to him when he’d noticed that the finely strung nerves, the strain and the depression hadn’t eased. Not as much as she pretended. She’d told him not to be kind, but it wasn’t always possible to follow even the orders of a princess.

Relying on his instincts, he’d let her take the tiller when they’d cast off. Now he watched her turn it slightly, away from the wind. In accord, he pulled in on the main-sheet to quiet and stretch the flapping canvas. As the boat sped across the wind, it gathered more speed. He heard Brie laugh as the sails filled.

“It’s wonderful,” she called. “The best. So free, so simple.”

The wind exhilarated her. Speed, on this first run, seemed to be imperative. Power, after being for so long under the power of others, was intoxicating. Control—at last she’d found something she could control. Her hand was light on the tiller, adjusting, as Reeve did, whenever it was necessary to keep the pace at maximum.