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Franco studied his friend’s face and his laughter faded. ‘You want to talk?’

‘No, I want to run.’

His friend nodded. ‘That bad? Right, I will make your apologies, even if you don’t have any. I like to think I’m getting a handle on the diplomacy stuff.’

Not in the mood for an exchange of witty repartee, Leandro continued on his way, negotiating the stone spiral at a reckless pace.

The path he took to the beach was a good ten kilometres and he broke his record by some margin. He stood on the shoreline, his hands braced on his thighs, his chest heaving as his pulse rate returned to something near normal.

Normal. He wasn’t sure he knew what that was. Aware that his tongue was cleaving to the roof of his mouth and he hadn’t paused to consider anything as basic as hydration, he walked to the south of the beach where a stream emerged, its force digging out a channel in the sand.

He reached a spot where the water was clear of salt and knelt down, cupping the water in his hands. Having quenched his thirst, he poured several handfuls over his head and tramped back to the beach.

Running normally cleared his head, and it had to some extent worked, not that he was necessarily glad of it. It was more comfortable to occupy the high ground—easy to do in the grip of outrage.

Now his rage had receded, doubts and questions came rushing in to fill the vacuum.

What was he really angry about?

‘You made me fall in love with you, Elsie Oliver, you…you…’

A hundred bad names came to his mind and he found he couldn’t say any of them.

‘Damn you, Elsie,’ he whispered softly as he stared out to sea, listening to the relentless sound of the waves breaking on the shore and retreating, and seeing her face when she’d told him she would have loved to have his baby.

He saw her eyes that always told the truth and saw the pain in the blue depths…the love.

He was better off without her.

But he had been prepared to give it all up for her, turn his back on his duty, that was what really hurt. He had wanted to protect her.

Without warning, his anger drained as he realised that part of him still did. He grabbed his head in both hands and groaned out his pain, a long, lonely sound that echoed like a solitary wolf call.

‘Duty!’ he spat out. Duty was meant to make him a better man than his father, whereas actually he had been just as weak. Duty didn’t make him a strong man, a good king. Love made him that.

She had known how he would react but she had told him anyway. She hadn’t known that he already knew the truth; she could have lived the lie.

He could never be an ordinary person, he knew that, but did that mean he couldn’t be happy? He had rejected the one chance in his life to be happy, and that chance was Elsie Oliver. The sea remained indifferent to the torment in his heart.

Don’t stand there accepting it, man, you’re the bloody King! Do something about it!

Suddenly, only one thing seemed impossible. He could write laws, move mountains, but he couldn’t live this life that he had been born into without Elsie.

Several people saw the figure running but he didn’t see them, in the grip of tunnel vision. He was a man on a mission.

Yelling, he went through the rooms, banging doors and calling her name with no effect, then it occurred to him to open a closet door.

It was empty. She had gone.

* * *

Elsie didn’t remember the journey home. She kept the misery locked inside until she saw her twin standing in the airport, waving.

Emily’s smile faded when her twin got closer. Without a word, she pulled her into a hug. Elsie felt the dam break inside her and her misery flowed along with the tears.

Her twin stopped the car before they reached the castle.

‘Tell me again—you love him? Are you sure?’