Royal Captive. Dana Marton

And she noticed how tightly he was hanging on to the edge of the container as the whole ship swayed.

      Several pieces fell into place. “Are you seasick?”

      “Certainly not,” he said with heat, which told her she’d hit a nerve.

      She sat back on her heels as she examined him. She didn’t picture him having any weaknesses. He’d been nothing less than formidable from the moment they’d met. She couldn’t help a relieved smile.

      “I’m always glad when I can use my misery to entertain others,” he groused.

      “Having weaknesses makes a person more approachable. You can be harsh, you know.” She paused. “You probably do. You probably do it on purpose. I wasn’t looking forward to working with you, to be honest.”

      He pulled up an eyebrow. “The feeling is completely mutual.”

      She smiled again, at his unflinching honesty, the first thing she liked about the prince.

      “Do you always take so much delight in other people’s misfortune?” he asked in a wry tone.

      “Sorry.” She reached back and unhooked her necklace, pulled the round eye hook off with her teeth, rolled off all the pearls save two. She stashed the free pearls in her pocket, then with four knots she secured the remaining two about three finger widths apart. “Give me your wrist.”

      “I don’t wear jewelry.”

      “Please, you’re royalty.”

      “I wear some symbols of the monarchy on ceremonial occasions,” he corrected.

      She held his gaze.

      “I don’t have a problem.”

      “This will help the problem you don’t have.”

      After a moment of glaring at her, he held out his left hand. She fastened the string so the pearls would be on the inside of his wrist, pressing against the nerves there.

      “What is this?” He examined her concoction dubiously, while she made a matching one for his other wrist.

      “An acupressure bracelet. My father used to be seasick. He was terrible. You’ve never seen that shade of purple. He looked like a walking Monet painting when it hit him bad.”

      The darkening of his face told her that bringing up her father might have been a mistake. “He was a good man, in his own way,” she added, feeling the need to defend the man who’d kept her fed and clothed, alive for the first part of her life.

      He remained stoic. “Forgive me if I don’t take your word for it.”

      After a moment of silence, he climbed from the top of the container onto the top of the row below them, then down several more levels to the deck. He strode forward between the rows, going pretty fast, pulling into cover each time he reached a gap between two containers.