Crowned: The Palace Nanny

It didn’t take his medical qualifications to realise how badly this child was damaged. The report he’d read had told him that four years ago Christos, his wife and their four-year-old daughter had been involved in a major car accident. Christos had died instantly. Amy, his wife, had died almost two weeks later and Zoe, their child, had been orphaned. No details.

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 midmorning, 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.

Where had that description come from? He thought of the glamorous women he’d had in his life, how appalled they’d be if they could hear the perfect adjective applied to this woman, and once more he couldn’t help smiling.

‘Yep, we’re a world away from your world,’ she said brusquely.

What the…? ‘Will you stop that?’

‘What?’ she asked, all innocence.

‘Mind reading.’

‘Not if it works. It’s fun.’ She rose and started clearing dishes. He noted the limp again but, almost as he noted it, it ceased. Zoe was visibly wilting. ‘Zoe, poppet, you go take a nap. Unless…’ She paused. ‘Unless Stefanos wants us to drive him into town now.’

‘I need to talk to you,’ he said.

‘There you go,’ she said equably. ‘I mind read that too. So, Zoe, pop into bed and we’ll take Stefanos home when you wake up.’

‘You won’t get angry again?’ Zoe asked her, casting an anxious look across at him.

And he got that too. This child’s mental state was fragile. She did not need angry voices. She did not need anyone arguing about her future.

This place was perfect for an injured child to heal, he thought. A tropical paradise.

He had another paradise for her, though. He watched with concern as Elsa kissed her soundly, promised her no anger and sent her off to bed.

There was no choice. He just had to make this…nanny…accept it.

She washed.

He wiped.

She protested, but he was on the back foot already—the idea of watching while she worked would make the chasm deeper.

They didn’t speak. Maybe the idea of having a prince doing her wiping was intimidating, he thought wryly, and here it was again. Her response before he could voice his thought.

‘An apron beats tassels for this job any day. I need a camera,’ she said, handing him a sudsy breadboard to wipe. ‘No one will believe this.’

‘Aren’t you supposed to rinse off the suds?’

‘You’re criticising my washing? I’m more than happy to let you do both.’

‘I’m more than happy to do both.’

She paused. She set down her dishcloth and turned to face him, wiping her sudsy hands on the sides of her shorts.

She looked anxious again. And territorial.

And really, really cute.

‘Why the limp?’ he asked and she glanced at him as if he was intruding where he wasn’t wanted.

‘It’s hardly a limp. I’m fine. Next question?’

‘Where’s Mr Murdoch?’ he asked, and her face grew another emotion.

‘What?’ she said dangerously.

Uh-oh. But he couldn’t take the question back. It hung between them, waiting for an answer.

‘My researchers said Zoe’s nanny was a Mrs Elsa Murdoch.’

‘Ms,’ she said and glared.

‘So never a Mrs?’

‘What’s that to do with the price of eggs?’

‘It’s merely a polite question.’

‘Polite. Okay.’ She even managed a…polite…smile. ‘So where’s your Princess?’

‘Sorry?’

‘I’m Mrs so there has to be a Mr. I believe I’m simply reversing your question. Is there a matching Princess?’