From Kiss to Queen (11 page)

Mark had to give him a push to start him on his way. The sailor's poor hat was now being twisted into oblivion, and his eyes were looking at the floor.

“What's your name?” she asked.

“D-Dorjan,” he whispered to the floor.

“Well, Dorjan, could you come closer, please, and give me your hand?”

He gave her his hat. He quickly stuffed it in his pocket, then reached toward her again, holding out his shaking hand for her to take.

She squeezed it. “Thank you,” she told him simply.

His head snapped up, and Jane gasped when she saw the bruise on his cheek. She turned and glared at Mark. “Did you hit him?”

“No,” Mark replied, shaking his head and grinning.

She looked back at Dorjan, who was giving her an incredulous look. “Wh-why you thank me, lady? I . . . I am one who shoot you,” he finally got out in broken, heavily accented English.

“I'm thanking you for not killing me,” she said, squeezing his hand again. “I would bet you're an excellent shot, aren't you?”

He nodded stiffly, his face reddening.

“And you wished to save your prince, but you didn't wish to shoot me, did you?”

He nodded again.

“And so you placed your shot accordingly. Thank you. I appreciate your . . . aim.”

The poor man dropped to his knees by the bed and kissed her hand, which was still holding his. “I am sorry, lady, for hurting you. I was told by first officer to protect Czarevitch. I am best shot. But I not want to shoot you.”

“Well, it was a good compromise, Dorjan. I'm glad it
was you they asked, and I'm glad you hit what you're aiming at. You were aiming for my shoulder, weren't you?” she asked with a small laugh.

“Yes, lady,” he confirmed, nodding frantically.

“Well, a small wound is better than dead. Now tell me how you got that bruise.”

He lowered his eyes again.

Jane squeezed his hand. “It's okay, I've got a fair notion where it came from.”

She turned and glared at Mark again, who was looking at her with gleaming eyes, then looked back to Dorjan.

“When I go to the plane this afternoon, I won't be able to walk very well, because my ankle . . . well, it seems I twisted it as I was falling when you shot— Yes, well, I can't imagine what an ordeal it will be to maneuver a wheelchair over all those hatch-like doors in all the hallways, and I was wondering if you would maybe carry me up to the flight deck. If it's not too much trouble for you,” she quickly tacked on.

Dorjan's mouth fell open again as he looked up at her and then darted a frantic look at Mark, who slowly nodded.

“I would appreciate it,” she told Dorjan, squeezing his hand again.

Those broad shoulders suddenly straightened, and Dorjan finally found a smile. “I will be honored, lady.”

“Good.” She let go of his hand and tugged on his sleeve. “Will you get up now? You make me feel like some queen at court or something.” She rolled her eyes. “You understand, right? I want you to realize that I appreciate your position, and what you had to do. But mostly
I appreciate you were thoughtful enough to put my shoulder in your sights and not my head.”

Dorjan nodded, flushing again, only to flinch when Mark clapped him on the shoulder and then talked to him for several minutes—in Shelkovan. At first Jane was disgruntled, but when she noticed Dorjan's shoulders going back even more and his eyes filling with pride, she forgave Mark his rudeness. With a final clap on his shoulder, Mark sent Dorjan away. The man turned and bowed at Jane, smiled shyly, then finally left.

Mark walked over, bent down, and firmly planted his lips on her startled mouth. And he left them there for the longest time—nearly making her eyes cross.

“Wh-what did you do that for?” she squeaked once she got her mouth back. “And don't do it again,” she snapped once she got her wits back.

“I did it because I am in awe of you. Of your perception of your sniper, your insight into his bruise, and your solution to a very delicate problem,” he said, spoiling his speech by bending down and kissing her again.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” she muttered.

Mark cocked his head. “Maybe you don't. You're not a calculating woman; just natural.”

She didn't know what that meant, either. “When are we leaving for your imperial home?”

“One hour. Do you feel well enough to travel?”

“And if I say no?”

“Then we will wait.”

“Really? Why can't I just follow you later?”

“Because,” he whispered, getting close to her face again, “the minute I left, you would have every man on
this ship under your spell, and would end up getting someone to fly you back to Maine.”

Well, it had been worth trying. “I don't want to go home with you.”

“Why?” Mark asked with an exasperated growl, straightening and running a hand through his hair. “What is so terrifying about coming home with me?”

“I bet you live in a grand house, don't you? Or a castle or palace or something. I'd stand out like a sore thumb. I don't belong there.”

“You belong wherever you happen to be. You hide in your woods.”

“It's my home. Living where I was brought up doesn't mean I'm hiding.”

“Why haven't you married?” he asked. “Why were you still a virgin at your age?”

“Because I didn't want to be a mistress!” she all but shouted, only to clamp a hand over her mouth.

“Whose mistress? What man asked you to be his mistress?”

“None of your darn business.”

They stared at each other, both refusing to back down. Dr. Daveed walked in and practically had to pry them apart. Shaking his head, he spoke to Mark in Shelkovan.

“In English,” Jane snapped, only to cover her mouth again. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to sound like . . . like . . . I didn't mean to sound bossy,” she finished on a contrite whisper.

“It is I who should ask forgiveness, Jane. I was being rude. I was just saying that I wished to get you ready for your journey.”

“How long will that be? Shelkova is on the other side of the world and we're still in the Atlantic, aren't we?”

“It's a short distance if we fly over the North Pole,” Mark answered for him. “Not many hours. We will be in a transport, but it will be fast. Although not Mach two,” he told her with a smile. “Next time, okay?”

Jane snorted. “I'm not traveling with you again, Ace. Not even to walk to the store.”

Mark pivoted on his heel and walked out muttering something. Jane couldn't tell if it was in English or Shelkovan, only that it had sounded . . . ominous.

*   *   *

M
ark stood out of the way like a spare wheel. Jane, it seemed, was going to run this show. She had the doctor, the captain of the
Katrina
, several stupidly smiling officers, and Dorjan in the infirmary, all tripping over themselves to help her.

She was oblivious to it all.

The only thing Jane appeared worried about was that she would be too heavy for Dorjan to carry. Trying not to insult the man—apparently understanding male egos better than the men themselves did—she wanted a wheelchair brought for her to use until they made the flight deck.

And poor Dorjan, not wanting to lose the honor bestowed on him, kept trying to pick her up. But that was a difficult thing for a shy, nervous man to do to an angel. Dorjan kept leaning forward, hesitantly positioning his hands this way and that as he tried to work up the nerve just to touch her. Mark wasn't worried. Dorjan looked rugged enough to carry a tank up to the flight deck. He
also knew that once the poor man finally managed to get Jane in his arms, dynamite would be needed to pry her free.

“I'm not fat, Dorjan,” Jane told him for the third time. “And I know you're strong and everything. I just didn't mean you had to carry me through the entire ship.”

“My pleasure, lady,” Dorjan told her for the third time. “My . . . gift,” he added with a beaming grin, trying to find the right word to show his honor.

Jane sighed in defeat, and Dorjan again began the trying task of deciding where to position his hands. She finally wrapped her good arm over his stooped shoulders and wiggled to the side of the bed, all the time working frantically to keep her legs covered by the blanket. Daveed came to the rescue and pulled the blanket free and tucked it around her legs, encasing her like a mummy. Jane smiled at him and guided Dorjan's free arm to her knees, and everyone sighed in relief when he finally straightened with her in his arms.

The parade that followed gave pomp and circumstance a whole new meaning. Mark realized Jane was in awe, if not downright bewildered. Every blessed crewman was turned out in dress uniform and lining the corridors that led to the flight deck, each one falling into step behind the entourage of Jane and Dorjan, Mark, the captain, the doctor, and the officers. And when they reached the flight deck?

There were two rows, three sailors deep, forming an aisle to the waiting jet. Mark saw Jane bury her face in Dorjan's puffed-out chest—right after she patted down her hair with the hand that was supposed to be wrapped
around Dorjan's neck. She did lift her eyes long enough to glance at Mark, who was right behind her, carrying her pack and shotgun despite several officers offering to take his burden. But if he couldn't carry Jane, he would carry her things. She gave him an embarrassed look, which he answered with a reassuring smile, then she buried her face in Dorjan's neck again.

Mark was pleased.

Especially when she asked Dorjan to stop right in the middle of the aisle of sailors and pretended she had to adjust her blanket—which was just fine.

“Dorjan,” she said loud enough to deafen the man, “I'm so glad you're such a good sharpshooter. I did a very foolish thing, and you saved my life with your quick thinking and compassion. Thank you,” she practically yelled. And then Jane Abbot, understander of men and angel of God, leaned up and kissed the man's flushed cheek.

“Okay, I'm ready now,” she told him, readjusting her perfectly adjusted blanket.

“Th-that fine, lady,” Dorjan stammered, walking again.

“Jane. You must call me
Jane
, Dorjan. After all, you saved my foolish life.”

Mark hid his smile. Dorjan would definitely be deaf after that shouted endorsement.

“And I'm going to write to you and make sure you're getting along
just fine
,” she added meaningfully, glaring at the line of sailors watching in astonishment.

Mark felt invisible, since all eyes were on Jane.

And she called
him
pompous. Hell, she could give a show fit for a queen—or a lowly crewman out of grace
with his shipmates. Dorjan was now the envy of everyone on board.

For the first time in more days than he could remember, Mark was happy. Contented. Hopeful. And quite anxious to get on with the rest of his life, no matter that it was going to be the taxing life of a king.

Jane, he knew, would keep him sane, if also humble and polite and forever looking over his shoulder—and around corners and under desks—to see what trouble she might be getting into. Imagine, a shotgun-toting queen who liked Pepsi and M&M's.

Maybe, just maybe, he would eventually get to see that blazing temper poor old drunken Silas had seen, for he suspected Jane's little gun-waving threats had just been the tip of what had the potential to be one hell of an iceberg.

His father would be pleased with his quest to find an American bride.

Jane Abbot didn't know it yet, but she was being imported into the Lakeland clan.

S
he nearly died, Dad,” Mark whispered to the man sitting up against the headboard of the massive, ornate bed. “The woman saves my life and nearly gets killed for her efforts.”

Reynard Lakeland shrugged a set of shoulders as broad as his son's and only slightly stooped with age. “You were right to bring her here, as I don't doubt our enemies would have gone after her for no other reason than to prove they're willing to draw innocents into this war in hopes we'll back down. And what did Jane Abbot expect would happen if she pointed a gun at a prince in front of an entire ship of his warriors?”

Having paced to the window, Mark turned with a frown. “Jane doesn't think of me as a prince. To her I'm merely a man whose life she saved and who has given her
nothing but trouble since. And she couldn't have realized what she was doing. She was just . . . angry.”

“What kind of woman pulls a gun on any man?”

“An avenging angel.” Mark shook his head, remembering. “I wish you could have seen her. She knew the gun wasn't loaded. She was just mad that she had no control over her fate.”

Reynard raised an imperial gray eyebrow. “A tantrum, you mean.”

Mark shrugged. “She was entitled. I basically kidnapped her after nearly killing her with pneumonia, then nearly killed her again by forcing her into a submarine. And then I took her virginity,” he continued, watching both of Reynard's eyebrows rise into his hairline. Lord, his old man was a rock. “And then I got her shot and nearly finished her off again today with the plane ride here. She drank three liters of Pepsi and ate a pound of M&M's on the way home. Mostly, I think, to keep her mind off her pain.” He suddenly grinned. “She did enjoy being catapulted off the
Katrina
, even though it had to have hurt her shoulder.” But then he turned sad. “She looked at me with wondrous eyes and said all was forgiven for that simple experience.”

“And when will I meet this angel?”

“She's sleeping. She's exhausted and in pain, and she told me not to wake her for a week.”

“I suspect that's where my private nurse has gone?” Reynard asked in amusement.

“I'm sure you'll survive, even in such a weakened state,” Mark returned dryly, watching the gleam in his father's eye intensify.

“I could die,” Reynard whispered as he smoothed out his blankets. “Any minute now I could be knocking on heaven's gate. You dare to make light of my illness?”

“Heaven, father? And yes, I dare to question your doctor.”

“You leave that poor man out of this.”

“Why didn't you simply ask me to come home?”

Up went that brow again. “Without the American bride you're so convinced we need to establish Shelkova as a player in the world economy?”

Mark crossed his arms over his chest and planted his feet, giving his father a lazy grin. “Did I not come home with an American woman?”

Reynard's gleam was back, his own grin that of a man who knew his son had fallen prey to the Lakeland legend. Reynard's wife, Katrina, had captured him on their very first meeting, which had taken place during a fierce storm that had literally blown her into his arms. Mark knew the story. And though he had loved his mother with all his heart, he didn't like that his father was expecting him to perpetuate the legend.

Which he was, apparently. A king should be married, his father kept reminding him. And he should have babies—which very well might happen sooner than the old man would like.

Reynard had an open relationship with all of his sons, but Mark was his firstborn and heir apparent. Although Shelkova was slowly emerging as a sovereign nation, the Lakelands had been here for centuries as royalty but for the last several generations, during which time their reign had existed only in the hearts of the people.

Having been given the crown—and the power that came with it—within a week of Shelkova declaring its independence, four months ago Reynard had started insisting Mark take over. He didn't want to be king, or
czar
as the people fondly liked to call him; he wanted to advise but not lead. Their people needed a man with intelligence, charisma, and the energy of youth to drag them—kicking and screaming, if need be—into the twenty-first century.

Mark had been visiting with his father since he'd gotten home three hours ago. He'd chased everyone out of the room, then simply stared until Reynard's innocent look had turned disgruntled. And then they had hugged, long and silently and powerfully.

Then Mark had begun to talk.

Not about the two months he'd been away, but about the last six days. About the touch of an angel's lips that had saved him from a cold, watery grave. About a man named Silas and a truck named Manly. About a woman who limped and sneezed and threw tantrums, and an amazing pack he had then brought over and dumped on the bed.

His father had been duly impressed. “Take me to her,” Reynard suddenly said, pushing back the covers and standing up.

“What?”

“Take me to meet my future daughter,” Reynard repeated, rubbing his hands together. “She sounds like she'll make a fine queen.”

Mark snorted. “A queen who thinks she's nobody. Besides, I didn't say anything about marrying her,” he said just to goad him. “She's here for her own protection.”

Reynard raised a brow. “You apparently couldn't even
protect the woman's virginity—which is why I will be making sure it doesn't happen again until
after
the wedding.”

“She will give you a real stroke, old man, within a week.”

Donning his robe, Reynard looked for his slippers and then started for the door without them. “I handled your mother just fine; I believe I can handle a mere slip of an angel.”

“Dad, it's after midnight and that angel's asleep, drugged to her eyeballs,” Mark reminded him, only to follow him from the room with a loud, audible sigh.

“I just want to peek.”

And peek they did, as they stood at her bedside smiling like fools. Mark pulled the blankets up to Jane's chin and Reynard adjusted her pillow, using the excuse to brush her wildly curling hair from her face. The woman murmured something unintelligible and swatted at the air, making them both jump back.

Mark smiled. “They have plenty of mosquitoes in Maine, I believe. Any disturbance makes her swat at them instinctively,” he whispered.

“She's beautiful,” Reynard said softly, sounding pleased.

“Then tell her that. Often. She doesn't know it, apparently, and refuses to believe me when I tell her.”

“I certainly will,” Reynard said thickly. He took hold of Mark's arm and pulled him into the hall. “Well, what do we do with her now?” he asked as he quietly closed the door.

“Let her heal. Teach her to love our country too much to leave. Give her . . . importance.”

“But no babies,” Reynard ordered. “Your firstborn will be timely.”

“Jane hopes she's already pregnant.”

“Well, Markov, you had better hope she's not. Your people would likely accept your not marrying a virgin, but I doubt they're modern-minded enough for your bride to be pregnant when she says her vows.” Reynard headed down the hall with a decided spring in his step. “Now go to bed. You look like hell.”

*   *   *

H
aving spent five full days holed up in a monstrous bedroom with an attached bathroom bigger than her last manager's cabin, being catered to by a nurse and various . . . staff, Jane finally had to admit she was hiding. Heck, she'd figured that out three days ago. Mark probably had, too, although he was smart enough not to come right out and say it. The sharp, jabbing pain in her shoulder had grown to a persistent dull ache and her cold was completely gone, but Jane kept telling anyone within earshot she was still too weak to venture out of the room, torturing herself and probably not fooling a soul.

Mark visited her at least twice a day, but never stayed long; she assumed because he had a lot of . . . prince stuff to do.

She missed him. And she didn't like that, because she really didn't want to like
him
.

She couldn't know yet if she was pregnant, but that didn't stop her from hoping. And with nothing else to do for five boring days than imagine herself holding her very own baby, Jane had decided if she wasn't already
pregnant she was going to find a doctor who could find her some sperm just as soon as she got home. Oh yeah, she wanted a baby more than anything now; a child she could love and cherish and would never,
ever
abandon like unwanted trash.

It hadn't been until she'd started kindergarten that Jane had realized most kids lived with their parents, and she'd asked the sisters at Saint Xavier's how come she lived with them and not her own mom and dad. Obviously prepared for the question—Jane was one of six girls at the orphanage at the time—Sister Roberta had explained that the social worker thought her dad must have died and her mom hadn't been able to raise an infant by herself, but had loved her baby so much that she'd given her up to their care. But having lived with the idea of being pregnant for almost a week now, Jane knew the only way she'd ever give up her child was if someone pried it out of her cold dead hands.

Even though she'd blurted out her hope to Mark that morning on the aircraft carrier, she wasn't so naive as to think she'd really get pregnant the very first time she had sex—Sister Roberta's dire warnings notwithstanding. And despite her friend Katy swearing that several of her MacKeage cousins had gotten pregnant the first time they'd made love to their future husbands, Jane was pretty sure her best bet was artificial insemination. But for that to happen she had to get out of here; first out of this room before she went stir-crazy, then out of Shelkova. Which might be easier said than done, since her checkbook and credit cards had blown up with her car, and she only had about seventy-five dollars in her backpack—wherever the heck that was.

Was there an American embassy in Shelkova?

Well, she guessed the only way to find out was to
ask
, which meant she had to venture into the mainstream of Mark's home. She had to meet his father, too, but she'd been avoiding that little duty as well. It had been one thing to meet
just Mark
's father, but another to be meeting a real live
king
. And so she'd been telling Mark every day when he asked that she was in no shape to meet anyone yet.

Okay, then; the door was right there. And she knew it wasn't locked, because she'd tried it the first time she'd gotten out of bed four days ago. She'd done a little snooping after and found her brace and some clothes in the wardrobe. The clothes were elegant and they fit, but wearing them made her self-conscious. She wasn't sure, but thought the blouse was silk. She'd never touched silk that she could remember, being more of a fleece and flannel person.

So all dressed up in borrowed clothes, her hair combed but not braided, and with the sling Dr. Daveed had given her cradling her tender left arm (the one she needed for
everything
), all she had to do was walk out of her self-imposed prison. Jane walked to the small desk between two tall windows instead, pulled out the chair and sat down, then stared at the ornate telephone just like she had at least five times a day for the last four days. She knew it worked, because she'd forced herself to pick up the receiver three days ago and had heard a dial tone. Heck, she'd actually dialed Katy's cell phone yesterday, but had quickly hung up when she heard it ring and realized the call had gone through.

She hadn't had any idea what to say then, and still didn't.

Hi, Katy, it's me, your in-really-big-trouble, really dumb friend. What's that? No, I'm pretty sure you're going to agree with me this time. You see, I fished this really handsome guy out of a pond when his plane crashed, then tried to help him get home to his sick father. Only I got myself kidnapped, dragged onto a lobster boat, then a submarine, then an aircraft carrier—which I was catapulted off of—then flown over the North Pole to a fairly new country on the other side of the world called Shelkova. Oh, and that home the guy was trying to get to is a PALACE, and his sick father is a KING.

Jane figured she'd be shouting that last part, what with Katy laughing so hard.

Wait, it gets even better. Did I mention I made love to my kidnapper, who just happens to be a PRINCE, when we were on the aircraft carrier?
Yeah, that should sober her friend.
After which,
she would rush on into the sudden silence,
I got shot in the shoulder for pointing my shotgun at him in front of an entire ship of sailors sworn to protect him.

Jane picked up the receiver, dialed Katy's cell phone and listened to a series of clicks and beeps, then took a deep breath and forced herself not to hang up when she heard it ringing.