There was a story behind every story, he thought, and suddenly he had a flash of what must have happened. A camper van crashing. A fire. A death, a woman so badly burned she died two weeks later, and a child. A child burned like her mother.

He knew enough about burns to understand you didn’t get these type of scars without months-years-of medical treatment. Without considerable pain.

He’d arrived here thinking he had an orphaned eight-year-old on his hands. On his hands. She’d seemed like one more responsibility to add to his list. Her nanny was listed as one Mrs Elsa Murdoch. He’d had visions of a matronly employee, taking care of a school-aged child in return for cash.

His preconceptions had been so far from the mark that he felt dizzy.

Despite the man-sized sandwich on his plate, he wasn’t eating. The official reception had been mid-morning, there’d been canapés, and he’d been watched to see which ones he ate, which chef he’d offend. So he’d eaten far more than he wanted. Elsa’s doorstop sandwich was good, but he felt free to leave the second half uneaten. He had a feeling Elsa wasn’t a woman who was precious about her cooking.

Actually…was this cooking? He stared down at his sandwich and thought of the delicacies he’d been offered since he’d taken over the throne-and he grinned.

‘So what’s funny?’ Elsa demanded, and he looked up and found she was watching him. Once more she was wearing her assessing expression. He found it penetrating…and disturbing. He didn’t like to be read, but he had a feeling that in Elsa Murdoch he’d found someone who could do just that.

‘I’ve had an overload of royal food,’ he told her. ‘This is great.’

‘So you wouldn’t be eating…why?’

‘I’m full of canapés.’

‘I can see that about you,’ she said. ‘A canapé snacker. Can I have your sandwich, then?’

He handed it over and watched in astonishment as she ate. Where was she putting it? There wasn’t an ounce of spare flesh on her. She looked…just about perfect.