Kitabı oku: «200 Harley Street: The Soldier Prince», sayfa 2

‘I know you’re the soul of discretion—but I wouldn’t be doing my job properly if I didn’t dot all the Is and cross all the Ts,’ Lexi pointed out gently.

‘I know.’ Becca smiled at her. ‘Sorry. I guess I got out of the wrong side of bed this morning. So tell me about my patient.’

‘A prince, no less.’

Becca wasn’t that impressed, knowing that the clinic had an A-list clientele. ‘What’s he in for?’

‘Flexor tendon. He was injured on a tour of duty, so that’s another reason we want it kept under the media’s radar.’

‘A soldier prince?’ Despite herself, Becca was intrigued.

‘Young, tall, dark and handsome,’ Lexi intoned. ‘Prince Charming.’

A heartbreaker, then. Becca had met the type before. And been stupid enough to get her own heart broken by one, at a time when she’d still been dragging her life back out of the gutter.

Most of the women at the children’s aid camp in South Africa had fallen under Seb’s spell; but, knowing that men couldn’t be trusted not to hurt you, Becca had avoided Seb like the plague. She’d been so determined to stay in the safety of her shell. But Seb had been patient. He’d made her feel special, had spent time talking to her about everything under the sun. And finally she’d relaxed with him and let him bring her out of herself. In the process, she’d fallen deeply in love with him. Enough to give herself to him. She’d even let herself dream of a future with him …

And then he’d left. Without even saying goodbye. He’d abandoned her. And the lesson had been branded on her heart: the only person she could ever really rely on was herself. Which was why she’d kept people at arm’s length and dedicated herself to her career ever since.

Lexi frowned. ‘Are you all right, Becca?’

Wild horses wouldn’t drag the truth from her. ‘Sure.’ She faked a smile.

Luckily it was convincing enough, because Lexi continued, ‘Even covered in mud, and looking as if he hasn’t slept for days, our prince is sex on a stick.’

Becca groaned. ‘And here’s you married for about five seconds. Shouldn’t you still be in the disgustingly loved-up stage, too busy to notice other men?’

‘I’m married, not blind.’ Lexi grinned. ‘And don’t tell Iain I said that.’

Becca just laughed. ‘Right. I have patients to see. Catch you later.’

After the operation, Marco woke in the recovery room. It was warm and comfortable and he wanted to go back to sleep.

Except then he threw up. Violently.

‘OK. We’ve got you.’ Gentle hands wiped his face clean and helped him sit up.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said to the nurse.

‘Don’t worry. It happens all the time.’

Right at that moment, Marco was really grateful for her kindness.

‘You’re round, then?’ Ethan asked, coming over to him.

‘Uh-huh.’ And his mouth felt disgusting. ‘Did it work?’

‘We’ll see.’

‘My arm feels numb and floppy.’ Which was enough in itself to make him panic. And it was at that point that he noticed it was propped up on pillows. ‘Does this mean I can’t use it?’

‘It’s completely normal for your arm to feel numb and floppy after an op. And the pillows are there to support your arm and keep it elevated—that controls any potential swelling. I want your arm up at shoulder level and your hand above your heart, and you need to use pillows to support your hand when you sleep,’ Ethan said.

‘Got it.’ Marco still felt groggy. ‘Though you might have to remind me again tomorrow. I’m not sure how much of what you’re saying now is going to stay in my head.’

‘Sure.’ Ethan paused. ‘When the anaesthetic wears off, it will be painful. So don’t be a martyr, Zorro. Take the painkillers my team offers you.’

Marco had the distinct feeling that Ethan was talking from experience. What had happened to him in Afghanistan? Had he lost someone—a member of his team, or someone he loved? Did he blame himself for it, the way Marco blamed himself for losing some good men? Had he not taken painkillers as a way of punishing himself?

‘So when can I use my arm?’ Marco asked.

‘The short answer is, you can’t. If you try to use that hand before your tendons have healed fully, the tendons will split apart. And, apart from the fact that I don’t like having to repeat work, a second repair won’t be as effective as the first.’

Marco absorbed this. ‘How long do the tendons take to heal?’

‘A couple of months.’

Marco stared at him in disbelief. ‘No way. You’re kidding.’

‘And that’s only for using your hand for light activities. You drive a motorbike?’

‘Car,’ Marco said.

‘Good. That’ll probably be OK in a couple of months. A motorbike would take a bit longer.’

‘Mountain bike?’

Ethan shook his head. ‘Sports you can do a month after that. And then maybe you can start to do heavy activities, as long as you haven’t had any problems with scar tissue.’

Marco stared at him, horrified. He couldn’t possibly be serious? But Ethan wasn’t smiling. ‘So basically you’re saying I take at least three months off and be a pen-pusher?’ Do a safe job while his men faced all the danger. Be a spoiled prince, leading safely from well behind the lines. That so wasn’t who he was. He sighed. ‘That really doesn’t sit well with me.’

‘Tough. It takes as long as it takes.’ Ethan shrugged. ‘Don’t get that splint wet. You’ll need to bag it completely and tape the bag to your arm if you want a shower or bath. Swimming’s definitely out—and you don’t take that splint off until I tell you or your physiotherapist tells you. Which is probably a month from now, minimum.’

The more Marco heard, the less he liked. ‘No exercise. That’s not good. I’m going to lose muscle mass.’ And fitness. Which would delay his return to the army even longer.

‘No push-ups, no pull-ups, no burpees, no weight training,’ Ethan said.

Oh, great. That was pretty much his workout routine out of the window. And it definitely confirmed that Ethan Hunter had trained in the army.

‘Running? Any form of cardio?’ he asked, trying not to let the desperation show in his voice.

Ethan shook his head. ‘You need to use your arm muscles to hold your arm across your chest with your hand to the opposite shoulder. So you’ll be off balance for running or using an elliptical.’ He shrugged. ‘No fencing, either, Zorro.’

Because with one arm strapped up he wouldn’t be able to balance himself properly. ‘So that’s a no.’ Marco rolled his eyes. ‘I’m going to go insane.’

‘Very probably, Zorro,’ Ethan agreed. ‘No horse-riding, no guitar-playing, no.…’

‘No sex?’

Ethan grinned. ‘Not if you insist on being on top, no.’

‘I think I hate you,’ Marco said.

‘No, you don’t. I fixed your hand. And I’m good at my job.’

‘You’d better be, Clavo,’ Marco said through gritted teeth.

Ethan raised an eyebrow. ‘Clavo?’

‘It’s Spanish for Spike.’ Marco gestured with his free hand. ‘Face. Attitude. The thing you use to cut people open.’

‘Technically, that would be a lancet.’

Marco shrugged. ‘Clavo will do. You’re sure my hand’s fixed?’

‘Yes. Unless you do something stupid, like try to use your hand too early.’

Marco groaned. ‘You’re telling me that I’m going to be stuck here for a whole month?’

‘I didn’t say that. I said you’ll wear the splint for a month. You’ll have physio every single day. Several sessions. I want to make sure there aren’t any contractures to your palm, so you need to do stretches and gentle work. You do what the hand therapist says, when she says it, and nothing else. Got it?’

‘Because, if I don’t, then my hand’s gone for good.’

‘That’s about it.’

So he had no choice. ‘OK. I’ll do what you say. And the hand therapist,’ he added with a grimace.

‘Good. Think yourself lucky it wasn’t a severed thumb, Zorro. I would’ve had to replace it maybe with your big toe, and stick leeches all over you.’

Marco gave Ethan a reluctant smile. ‘Remind me, which century is this again?’

Ethan laughed. ‘I’ll have you know leech saliva is the best anticoagulant ever—it’s a hundred times more effective than heparin.’

‘So I’ve got nothing to do except pace this room?’ And, for the umpteenth time, wish to hell he’d out-thought the enemy. Wish his men hadn’t died. Wish he’d managed to get them all to safety.

‘Like a caged tiger,’ Ethan agreed. He paused. ‘There’s a gym in the basement. It’s really for the staff, but patients can use it.’

‘I thought you just said I couldn’t run or do weights?’

‘You can’t. The treadmill and elliptical are both out of bounds, ditto all the free weights and the machines.’

‘Right.’ Everything he was most likely to use. ‘Which leaves me what, precisely?’

‘The static bike,’ Ethan said. ‘And don’t use your arms.’

That was Marco’s idea of tedious. A proper bike in the mountains, yes, with steep inclines and rough terrain to challenge him; a static bike, even if it had programmes to change the resistance, wouldn’t challenge him at all. ‘Great,’ he said, curling his lip.

‘You can do walking lunges,’ Ethan said. ‘But that’s bodyweight only. Just to be clear, that means not having a bar across your traps, and no using dumb bells, even with your good hand. Got it?’

‘Got it.’ Marco rolled his eyes again. ‘Marvellous.’

‘And you can do squats—again, bodyweight only, with a stability ball against your back.’

‘What? Like a total novice?’ Marco asked in disgust.

‘No, like someone who’s going to have one arm strapped up so his balance is going to be out and he’s not going to be stupid enough to risk damaging his tendons again before they heal. You cross your other arm across your chest like this—’ Ethan demonstrated ‘—and at least this way you can keep your core strong.’

Which was something, Marco supposed. Bodyweight exercises. ‘Floorwork?’ he asked.

‘No. But you can do sit-ups on the stability ball.’

Marco couldn’t bring himself to say anything.

‘It’s better than nothing at all,’ Ethan said, and there was a brief flare of sympathy in his eyes.

‘I guess.’ But Marco was pretty sure that this next month was going to be the longest of his life.

Becca pulled herself out of the pool and squeezed the water from her shoulder-length hair before padding through to the showers. One of the things she loved about working at the Hunter Clinic was the pool in the basement; a swim after work always got the knots out of her muscles and her head in the right place before she headed for her stint at the rehab clinic.

On her way out of the building, she glanced through the glass doors of the gym. There was a man doing lunge walks down the length of the gym; his back was to her, but given the evidence she could see of a strapped-up arm he was clearly one of the patients.

Dark hair, tall, just like Seb …

Her heart skipped a beat.

Stupid.

It had been years since she’d last seen Seb. Years. It was about time she put him out of her head and stopped thinking about him every time she saw a tall, dark-haired man. Particularly as he’d made it very clear that he hadn’t returned her feelings. He’d left the children’s aid camp in South Africa without so much as a word to her. Dump and run.

‘Get over it, Becca,’ she told herself sharply. ‘You’ve got a new life now. And you don’t need a man to make it complete.’ Besides, she had work to do. Somewhere she was needed.

Shaking herself, she walked up the stairs to the reception area and out into Harley Street.

Over the next couple of days, Marco was thoroughly bored. He tried to be charming to the nurses who came to check on him, but he hated all of this. Being fussed over. Smothered. Suffocated.

Even the gym wasn’t a respite. Yes, it meant he could still work out. Of sorts. But he would have been much happier using the top-of-the-range free weights available, lifting until he’d reached his maximum one rep and then pushing himself just that little bit more. Doing a novice type programme just wasn’t satisfying. The only reason he’d been able to keep himself in check was the fear of rupturing the repair work on his tendons and being permanently without the use of his left hand. Three months would be tough enough. For the rest of his life would be unbearable.

‘You hate this, don’t you, Zorro?’ Ethan asked when he dropped in to see Marco at the end of the day.

‘Sitting here, being useless, when I know I’m needed elsewhere?’ Marco scowled. ‘Wouldn’t you?’

‘It’s not the easiest thing to deal with,’ Ethan agreed. ‘You just have to learn to be patient.’

‘Is that what you did, Clavo?’ Marco asked.

‘Just do as I say,’ was the level response.

‘So you didn’t.’

Ethan shrugged. ‘This isn’t about me; it’s about you.’

‘I hate this,’ Marco admitted. ‘I’m used to doing things. Not just sitting here. And your gym is pure torture. All the things I want to use and can’t.’

‘Patience,’ Ethan counselled.

Marco just scowled at him.

‘Let’s have a look at your hand.’ Ethan inspected it, then smiled. ‘Good news, Zorro. You get to meet your physio tomorrow morning.’

‘So I can start exercising my hand?’

‘You do,’ Ethan said, ‘everything she tells you. And no more than that.’

‘Or I’m risking permanent damage. Yeah, yeah. You’ve already told me.’ Marco took a deep breath. Damn. He was being rude again, and the doctor meant well. ‘Sorry.’

‘Frustration. It gets all of us at some point. Don’t worry about it. See you tomorrow, Zorro.’

‘Hasta luego, Clavo.’ Marco sketched a salute with his right hand, and both men laughed wryly.

Becca was still thinking about what Lexi had told her about her new patient. Prince Charming. Ha. She’d met men like him before. The last time she’d made the mistake of falling for charm she’d learned the lesson well. In a way, she supposed that Seb had done her a favour. He’d left her at a crossroads. One way had led back to addiction, trying to wash away the pain with vodka—making her mother’s mistakes all over again. The other way led to working hard and making the best future she could—for herself, because Becca knew that she was the only one she could really rely on.

She’d made the right choice, and she wasn’t going back.

Ethan had said that the Prince was bored. So no doubt he’d be super-charming to her, wanting a distraction from his situation. Fine. He could be as charming as he liked. She’d be sweet and charming back, for the sake of the clinic. But she’d also make very sure that there was a professional distance between them, because she had no intention of being the Prince’s personal distraction.

The next morning couldn’t come fast enough for Marco’s liking. Even though he knew that ‘morning’ could mean technically anything from one second after midnight until one second to noon.

At last Ethan strolled in to Marco’s room followed by a woman in a white coat.

‘Zorro, I’ve got someone you’re dying to meet.’ He smiled. ‘Becca, I’d like you to meet—’

The woman in the white coat stepped to the side and stared at Marco. ‘Seb,’ she cut in, her voice a hoarse whisper, and all the colour drained from her face.

CHAPTER TWO

‘NO, THIS IS Marco—Prince Marco of Sirmontane,’ Ethan said.

Prince? What? The man definitely hadn’t been a prince when Becca had known him in South Africa at the children’s aid camp. He’d called himself Seb. Nothing more. No surname, no nothing. And she hadn’t asked for any more details because she’d had her own secrets to hide and hadn’t wanted to trade them.

At least he looked as shocked as she felt. That was one thing.

‘Becca. I didn’t know you were a hand therapist,’ he said.

‘I didn’t know you were a prince,’ she said, a little more tartly than she’d intended. Bad move. She didn’t want him to know that it bothered her.

‘You know each other?’ Ethan asked, looking surprised.

Oh, yes. In the Biblical sense, too. ‘You could say that.’ Though it turned out she hadn’t really known Seb—Marco—at all.

No wonder he’d left without a word. He was a prince, not an ordinary guy, and obviously he’d just been slumming it at the aid camp—something to do between finishing university and starting whatever it was that princes were supposed to do. Which made her relationship with him worth even less than she’d thought.

And how the press would dine out on that if they knew. A girl from the wrong side of the tracks, a girl who’d been hooked on vodka and E, a girl who’d almost ended up in the gutter … and she’d had a fling with a prince.

‘Becca—a quick word?’ Ethan said, gesturing to the door of Prince Marco’s—she couldn’t think of him as just Seb any more—room.

She went outside into the corridor with her boss.

‘Clearly there’s history here. Would you prefer someone else to treat Prince Marco?’ Ethan asked gently.

Yes, she would. She didn’t want to treat the boy she’d fallen in love with one dreamy summer. The boy who’d played guitar to her under the stars and sung songs of love in a language she didn’t know. But she’d seen the emotion in his face and known exactly what the words meant. The boy who’d made her feel so special—and then left without a single word, letting her dreams crash down round her.

But that was an emotional response. And Becca didn’t do emotional any more. She’d promised never to let herself get in a vulnerable state again. Yet, two seconds after seeing Seb for the first time in seven years, she was a mess. In shock that the past had come back to haunt her. Trying to process just how many lies she’d fallen for. Trying to get her head round the fact that Seb—the man she’d thought had been an ordinary boy—had actually been a prince in disguise.

With an effort, she pulled herself back into professional mode. ‘I’m the hand specialist. It’s my job to treat him.’

‘Not if it’s going to be a problem for you.’

She liked the fact that her boss was standing up for her. Having someone in her corner felt good; it was something she’d never known, growing up. But it also wasn’t fair to lean on Ethan and let him make excuses for her. Seb—Marco—whatever he wanted to call himself—was a patient here. Given that he was royalty, no doubt he was only here because of the reputation of the Hunter Clinic. And Becca wasn’t going to let any unprofessional behaviour on her part do anything to tarnish that reputation.

‘It’s not a problem, Ethan,’ she fibbed. ‘But thank you.’

‘Sure?’ he checked.

‘Sure.’

‘So just how do you know each other?’ Ethan asked.

‘We both worked at a children’s aid camp. Years ago. I was still a student. He’d just finished university.’ If that was true. For all she knew, that could have been another lie. She flapped a dismissive hand. ‘It’s not important.’

Ethan’s eyes narrowed slightly. ‘OK. But if treating him does turn out to be a problem just talk to me and I’ll get someone else in to cover his case.’

‘Thank you. But it’ll be fine,’ Becca said. Prince Marco wasn’t going to break her heart again.

How could you break something that was already broken?

‘I guess I owe you an apology,’ Marco said when Becca walked back into the room.

‘Why?’ Becca asked. For being yet another man who’d used her and broken her heart? As if a European prince could give a damn about how an unimportant girl from an obscure family felt.

He grimaced. ‘You know why.’

And of course now she was expected to make it easy for him. Be gracious about it. Or maybe she’d just act cool and casual, as if their summer fling had been just as unimportant to her as it had obviously been to him. ‘There’s nothing to apologise for,’ she said, hoping that she sounded a lot more dismissive than she felt.

‘I didn’t tell you who I was, back then.’

‘No.’ She knew it would be hypocritical of her to be mad at him for that. She’d kept her own past a total secret—from everyone else at the camp as well as him. And nobody here at the Hunter Clinic knew about that part of her life, either.

‘But I didn’t lie to you completely. My name’s Marco Sebastian Enrique Guillermo García.’

‘Uh-huh.’ Becca tried to maintain a semblance of cool. Though right at that moment she was remembering her first introduction to Seb, the guy who was to lead her team at the aid camp. She’d been nineteen and he’d been twenty-one, just graduated from university—well, unless he’d lied about his age as well. And Seb had been the most gorgeous man she’d ever laid eyes on. Tall, dark and handsome, with soulful eyes and a voice like melted chocolate, just a hint of a Southern Mediterranean accent. All the girls at the camp had been in love with him, and when he’d smiled at Becca she simply hadn’t stood a chance. She’d fallen for him almost the second she’d met him.

She’d fought the attraction at first, knowing that men couldn’t be trusted to do anything else but hurt you; but Seb had been patient with her. Gentle. He’d talked to her, skilfully drawn her out of her shell. It had amazed her that, despite the fact he could’ve had his pick of all the girls at the camp, he’d actually chosen her.

Fast forward seven years to now. There were shadows beneath those beautiful eyes—a combination of exhaustion and pain over the last few days, she’d guess—but Prince Marco was still the most gorgeous man she’d ever seen. And now he was a man, not a boy. The youthfulness had gone from his face, and he’d filled out from being a tall and slightly skinny youth to having hard, perfect musculature.

And his mouth … It still promised sin. The ultimate temptation. A mouth she could remember giving her almost unbearable pleasure. It would be oh, so easy to let herself act on the old attraction.

Well, she was just going to have to resist that urge, because the likes of him were definitely not for the likes of her. And she wasn’t stupid enough to jeopardise her career for one of the few sweet memories of her past. She’d worked way too hard for that.

‘My grandfather’s called Sebastian,’ he continued. ‘I was named partly after him. So it made sense to use his name—one of my middle names.’

‘What was wrong with calling yourself Marco?’

‘It would’ve made it too easy for the press to make the link,’ he said. ‘And I didn’t want everyone thinking that I was just some bored aristocrat slumming it.’

‘Weren’t you?’ she asked, before she could stop herself.

‘No,’ he said softly. ‘I wanted to make a difference.’

She could almost believe him.

Except … ‘You left without a word.’

He sighed. ‘I was called back to the Palace. My grandfather was ill. It would’ve been too complicated to explain.’

‘And you couldn’t have told me that you’d been called home because of a sick family member? You were that paranoid about the connections being made?’

‘I didn’t say that all my decisions have been the best ones—or the right ones,’ he said, and looked wryly at his strapped-up hand. ‘Or I wouldn’t have this.’

‘What happened?’ she asked.

‘Shrapnel. Well, glass,’ he said. ‘It severed a tendon.’

Which was pretty much as she’d been briefed. Patient: male, late twenties, royal, soldier, severed flexor tendon, needs physio work to regain mobility and movement in his hand.

The last thing she’d expected was for it to be the man who’d broken her heart to the point that she’d sworn off relationships for good and focused on nothing but her career.

Which was what she should be doing right now. Professional was good: it would put some much-needed distance between them. ‘Ethan said the repair was a success. So now it’s my job to get your hand mobile and working properly again.’

‘Is it going to be a problem, Becca?’ he asked. ‘Working with me?’

She shrugged. ‘You’re a patient, Your Royal Highness. This is my job.’

Was it her imagination, or had she seen a flicker of hurt in his eyes just then?

Well, tough. He’d hurt her. Badly. And, besides, she was pretty sure it was his ego that was hurt and nothing else. He might think of himself as Prince Charming, but she had absolutely no intention of playing Cinderella. Or fawning adoringly over him. She’d be cool and calm and professional, and treat him just as she would any other patient. With care and kindness, and just a little bit of necessary detachment.

‘You can drop the “Royal Highness” bit,’ he said.

‘What would you like to be called today?’ The snippy question was out before she could stop it.

He sighed. ‘I guess I deserve that. Call me Marco. And I hope I can still call you Becca.’

Oh, help. The way he said her name. That slight trace of a Spanish accent, so incredibly sexy. It made her knees buckle.

Resist, she reminded herself. This was a job. He was a patient, and she had to treat him with the utmost professionalism. And he was also a prince. They had no possible chance of a future together, and she wasn’t going to wreck her career for just a fling.

‘I guess. May I have a look at your hand?’ she asked.

He indicated his strapped-up arm with his free hand. ‘Help yourself.’

Gently, she removed the strapping and took the hand strap off the splint.

* * *

Seven years.

She’d changed. Back then Becca had still been a girl. Nineteen years old, a little shy. Beautiful.

Now she was all woman.

Even with her soft curves hidden beneath a sexless starched white coat, with that glorious auburn hair tamed back in a ponytail and those beautiful green eyes hidden behind wire-rimmed glasses, Becca Anderson was gorgeous.

Worse still, Marco knew what it felt like to kiss her. How her body responded to his when they made love. How her breathing changed just before she climaxed.

Ah, hell.

This was so inappropriate it was untrue.

Becca Anderson was his hand therapist, and Ethan Hunter had told him not to flirt with any of the female staff at the clinic.

Ha.

Flirting wasn’t the half of it.

What would Ethan Hunter say if he knew just how far things had gone between Marco and Becca all those years ago?

Marco had to get a grip.

Which was half the problem; right now his left hand didn’t have a grip. That was what Becca was going to fix.

And he needed to think of her as a medic. Not as a woman.

In fact, he needed not to think of her at all. Since he’d left her behind in South Africa he hadn’t let himself think about her. Well, apart from the day after the doctor had confirmed that his grandfather had come through the heart bypass operation safely and would be just fine. Marco had gone back to the children’s aid camp, then. For her.

Except she’d left, two days previously, with no forwarding address.

The one girl who’d seen him for himself instead of as a prince. Who’d made his summer feel full of magic. Who’d made him fall in love with her shy, gentle sweetness.

He’d lost her. And he hadn’t been able to track her down, even with the help of a private detective; somehow she’d managed to vanish completely.

And all sorts of things could have happened in the last seven years. He glanced swiftly at her left hand. There was no wedding ring, but that didn’t mean that she wasn’t committed. She might not wear rings to work, given that she was a hand therapist. She could have a family, now. A child.

Besides, she’d made it very clear how she regarded him now. ‘You’re a patient, Your Royal Highness. This is my job.’

So he needed to stop thinking about her, right now, and do what he’d done for the last seven years: keep himself busy at work, and then play just as hard with a string of totally unsuitable women. Not let himself think about the girl he’d left behind.

‘You’ve made a real mess of this,’ she said, examining his palm. ‘How did it happen?’

‘Hunter didn’t tell you?’

‘Soldier, severed tendon.’ She shrugged. ‘So I’d guess it happened in action?’

‘My windscreen was blown out. I put up my hand to protect my eyes.’

‘No wonder you severed a tendon. You’re lucky it didn’t sever an artery and you bled out on the field. Or it could’ve severed your whole hand.’

‘I know.’

Not that it made him feel any better. He’d been over and over what had happened the last two days and nights. Thinking about what he could have done differently. What he should have done differently. But it didn’t change what had happened. Or do anything to lessen the guilt. He’d phoned every single wife, every single mother, and apologised for not taking better care of their loved ones while they were under his leadership. They’d all been grateful that he’d phoned, amazed that a prince would bother to share his memories of their husbands and sons. They’d cried. They’d even thanked him.

And it hadn’t made a scrap of difference. He still hated himself for making those mistakes. For not bringing all his men safely home.

‘Others weren’t so lucky.’ He sighed. ‘Those who were injured have the best possible care. Those who …’ There was a lump in his throat and he couldn’t say the rest of it.

‘Marco, you were in a war zone. People get injured. They die. You can’t blame yourself for that.’

‘They were acting under my orders.’

She shrugged. ‘I take it other people were injured, or killed, following the orders of someone else?’

‘Well—yes,’ he admitted.

‘And do you blame the officers for those deaths?’

He sighed. ‘I guess not.’

‘Then don’t blame yourself. If it hadn’t been your orders, it would’ve been someone else’s. I think you’re suffering enough without adding guilt to it. You just did your job, Marco.’

How had she become so wise? he wondered.

To his relief, she changed the subject back to his injury. ‘The first few days of physio, you’re just going to do some gentle exercises. These will help to prevent your tendons becoming stuck in your scar tissue.’

‘Stuck?’

‘Then Ethan would have to operate again. And the outcome might not be so good second time round.’

‘Right.’ He paused. ‘I’m under orders to do what you tell me.’