Royal Captive. Dana Marton

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      “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.