From Kiss to Queen (18 page)

Muttering and shaking his head and looking skeptical, Sergei went off to wake his family for a midnight conference.

“Include Aunt Irina,” Mark called after him.

Sergei's muttering increased in color and volume.

Jane came out of the pantry, her good arm laden with cocoa, marshmallows, and cookies. She stopped when she saw Mark taking down another pan and pouring more milk into it.

“Are you expecting company?”

Mark turned and caught his breath. God, she was gorgeous.

And looking quite kissable at the moment.

He was also alone with her, Sergei never realizing he'd been successfully routed from his role as chaperone.

Now, to kiss an angel. Mark took Jane's burden, ignoring her frown at not getting an answer, and quickly picked her up and plopped her down on the counter. Before she could finish her squeak, he'd settled between her knees and captured her face in his hands. “Tell me why you were crying earlier.”

“Crying?” she asked breathlessly, her eyes wary.

He ran his thumbs under her chin, lifting it. “When you opened your door tonight, your eyes were red and swollen. Tell me,” he added when she tried to pull away.

“I'm homesick,” she lied, the set of her jaw daring him to challenge her.

He shook his head. “That's possible, I suppose, but not likely.” Mark settled deeper between her thighs while reaching down with one hand, clasping her bottom to pull her against him, and stifling a grin when her eyes widened in alarm. “I'm going to kiss you again, Jane Doe Abbot,” he whispered.

She tried to shake her head, her good hand going to his chest to push him away. It was a futile attempt, she soon discovered, as Mark wasn't about to be deterred, unsure when he'd get her alone again. He covered her lips with his, stifling the squeak that opened her mouth.

Lord, this woman truly was an angel sent to tempt him. She tasted sweet and innocent and vulnerable; her independent nature not liking to be vulnerable to him, Mark guessed when he felt her resistance.

But he persisted by carefully wrapping her up in his arms and slanting his lips across hers to tease her now-retreating tongue. Such a shy woman, if a little bewildered by his passionate attack. She held herself stiff in his arms, a wary sprite. And then she suddenly relaxed, gave a little moan, and wrapped her good arm around his waist and hugged him back. Her tongue stopped retreating and began a cautious exploration of its own, and she began making little mewling whimpers while trying to gather him closer by wiggling her bottom and wrapping her legs around him.

The shriek startled them both. Mark stopped Jane from falling and pushed her face against his raggedly breathing chest, then turned his head to find Cook—huge, disheveled, gloriously angry—charging into the kitchen like a screaming banshee. She stopped before his ferocious glare, instantly changed direction, and headed for the stove. Spewing a litany of Shelkovan curses that did him proud, the woman shut off the burners and began dumping scorched milk down the sink.

Mark watched the rising steam and felt much like that milk himself. Damn, if he hadn't just been set on fire by an angel.

One who was struggling against him in earnest now. Mark leaned away only enough to look down, and saw her face was blistering red as she peeked around his shoulder and watched Cook slam the pot back down on the stove, still cursing the air blue.

Jane shyly looked up at him.

He kissed her again, then pressed her face back to his chest. Feeling the scorch of her cheeks through his shirt, he strung off a list of orders to Cook in Shelkovan, only able to hope the woman could hear him above her caterwauling over the fine mess they'd made of her stove. This was why, he remembered, they didn't venture into the kitchen. It was Cook's sacred domain, with only cowed kitchen staff—and disheveled wood-sprites, apparently—allowed.

Deciding he'd been cursed enough, Mark swept Jane off the counter and headed for the door. He looked down to see her looking back over his shoulder, her eyes still wide and her blush still bright. They were halfway up the stairs before she found her voice.

“Put me down.”

As soon as he reached the top, Mark did as she instructed. And he kissed her again before she could start to bluster. But it wasn't going to work this time; she was onto him now.

“Stop doing that,” she snapped the moment he stopped.

“No.”

“I'm warning you, Ace. I know how to protect myself from unwanted advances.”

He grinned. “Then you must have wanted mine back in the kitchen. I'm still alive.”

She tried to push him down the stairs. Mark laughed and started leading her in the direction of his father's bedroom. But soon he sobered. “Tell me why you were crying tonight.”

“Where are we going?”

“Were you crying because your shoulder pains you?”

“My room's the other way.”

“Or did we hurt your feelings with our lecture tonight?”

She gave an unladylike snort at that suggestion.

“Were you crying because you're hopelessly in love with me and you don't know what to do about it?” he asked.

He felt her stiffen, which made her stumble and nearly fall. Mark kept walking, stifling his grin. Silent tears alone in her room and sweet little whimpers when he kissed her; hell yes, the lady was falling in love with him.

And she didn't like it one little bit, apparently.

“This is your family's wing. Why are we here?” she asked, sounding alarmed.

“For a family meeting.”

“I want to go back to my room. I'm not family.”

“You will be,” he countered, throwing open the door
of his father's bedroom. Everyone was there already, including a sleep-tousled Aunt Irina. And everyone was smiling except Sergei—who was looking at Jane's kiss-swollen mouth.

Sergei jumped up and swept a startled Jane into his arms, his snapping gaze never leaving Mark as he set her on the bed beside their father. Reynard immediately wrapped an arm around Jane and turned his own disgruntled glare on Mark.

The poor woman was looking bewildered again and sought out Aunt Irina—who only shrugged and rolled her eyes.

“Now, as much as I like these family gatherings, Markov, it's almost one in the morning,” Reynard reminded him. “Care to tell me why you've all descended on my room?”

“I want all of us to explain to Jane why she has to have protection. What the threat is to our family and to Shelkova.”

“You're her biggest threat,” Alexi sleepily piped up from the foot of the bed.

Mark tried to scowl at him, but it was wasted. Alexi had his eyes closed. Dmitri, his hair standing on end and his shirt buttoned crookedly, walked around the bed and sat beside Jane, sandwiching her between him and their father. So Mark turned his scowl on Dmitri, but the younger brother simply grinned and took hold of Jane's good hand.

She let him keep it. But her blush was back as she stared at her small hand inside of Dmitri's. Mark shoved Alexi over, taking his place at Jane's feet, which she quickly pulled up beneath herself and covered with her robe.

“This couldn't wait until morning?” Irina asked, smiling at the picture before her.

Mark patted a place beside him, beckoning her over. The woman didn't hesitate, but soon made a place for herself. Sergei, not about to be left out, gave Alexi another push and crammed himself onto the bed.

Thank God it was a big bed fit for a king. This was not the first time they'd all gathered this way, but it was obviously beyond Jane's comprehension. Her eyes were incredulous as she looked around at the seven people crammed together like a comfortable, contented family of sardines.

“No, it can't wait till tomorrow, as we're all scattered to the winds during the day. And,” Mark added in a growl, “Jane is usually nowhere to be found.”

She lifted her chin.

“So,” he continued, “I want us all to explain why I landed in a lake in Jane's forest, why she's stuck here with us now, and why she can't go traipsing around Previa alone.”

“I agree,” Reynard said, patting Jane's thigh, careful not to bump his shoulder into hers. “It's time she understood. Then she will not take our concern so lightly?” he finished, smiling at her remorseful blush. “So begin, Markov.”

Mark frowned. Where to begin?

“Before Shelkova gained back its sovereignty,” he started, his attention on Jane, “we were merely a state of the USSR known mostly for our forests. An outside consortium of investors was in the process of closing a deal for our timber at the time of the breakup. But when we gained our independence back, the people of Shelkova,
under the guidance of my father, halted the deal. Had we continued with it, we in effect would have been giving away our most valuable resource, as our timber is what will make Shelkova an economically strong country.”

Mark paused, watching Jane to see if she was following. She nodded for him to continue, her cute little brow now furrowed.

“These investors were not happy. They still aren't. They became angered not with Shelkova, but with us personally. They hold my father responsible for foiling their scheme, as he was the voice of reason to a scared people trying to become a viable nation. The money they were willing to pay us was considerable, and we certainly needed it, but even when they upped their offer, it was still only a quarter of what our timber is worth. And they intend to bring in outside workers to cut the forests. First my father, and now I, have refused their deal.”

“And so they tried to kill you?” Jane asked in a barely audible whisper, her blush having vanished.

“Well . . . yes. But they did not want my death to be linked to them in any way. My plane crashing was the second attempt on my life while I was in America.”

Any remaining blood drained from her face, and her eyes became huge metal discs of anguish as she sucked in a ragged breath.

“Jane,” he said gruffly, reaching out and grasping her left foot, which was peeking from beneath her robe, and giving it a gentle squeeze. “I'm not trying to scare you. I am alive and well, thanks to you.”

Reynard leaned over and kissed her hair. “And your breath of life, daughter,” he added.

Mark tugged on her foot. “I'm only trying to explain our concerns. Our enemies are watching and waiting for us to make a mistake they can take advantage of.” He looked at his father, then at his brothers, and then at Irina. Finally, he looked back at Jane. “We appear to be relatively safe in our own country, since there have been no attempts to harm any of us on Shelkovan soil. So far, at least, we've been vulnerable only when we leave, as the odds of making our deaths look like an accident outside the country are better.”

“So you're all safe if you just stay home?” she asked, her eyes still huge and worried.

“So it has seemed to date, although we still take precautions whenever any of us leave the palace grounds. We can't count on the consortium assuming that if the king of Shelkova were to be assassinated in his own country, there would be such anger that it would never gain the land it seeks.” Mark shrugged. “But if that king, or his heir apparent, dies overseas under vague circumstances, it will be easier for them to cry anger along with our people. They would act just as outraged, saying they're willing to step in and help a struggling country during its loss.”

“But there are five of you,” she pointed out. “They can't kill you all. If they had succeeded with you, they must have realized your father and brothers would have continued the fight.”

Mark had no trouble stifling his smile, because even though Jane was becoming outraged on their behalf, as he'd hoped, it was a hollow victory. She was sincerely scared for them. That hadn't been his goal; he'd simply wanted her to care. And understand. “They would take
advantage of having the wind knocked out of us and act quickly to cement their position before we were through mourning our loss.”

“Do you know who the guys in this consortium are?” she asked, her face getting red again, only this time with anger. “Do you actually know their names?”

Mark nodded. Oh yeah, his avenging angel was emerging.

“Then kill them first.”

Aunt Irina gasped. Reynard sputtered. Sergei barked in laughter, and Alexi finally opened his eyes. Dmitri merely rolled off the bed to kneel on the floor and gape at Jane.

And Mark let his grin finally escape. “Sister Roberta would have you in church for a year, on your knees, saying penance for even thinking such things.”

She lifted her chin and tried to wiggle off the bed, but failed when Reynard stopped her.

“You can't just sit around waiting for it to happen,” she railed at the lot of them.

“We're not.”

“So what are you doing?”

“Along with the small army and navy we acquired during the breakup, we were lucky enough to obtain a few good intelligence officers. They're looking into the matter for us.”

“And meanwhile?”

“Meanwhile, you will consider yourself one of us,” Mark said rather forcefully. “You're not a prisoner here, Jane,” he continued, softening his voice. “You may explore Shelkova and enjoy yourself, but with
trained
bodyguards.”

She looked stunned. She turned her head, apparently looking for Reynard's opinion. He nodded his agreement, his features leaving no opening for arguments.

She looked back at Mark. “Then I actually am a prisoner, because I'm not about to let somebody place himself in the line of danger to protect me.”

Mark instantly took Dmitri's place right beside her, so he could get his face really close to hers. “You will have protection, and you will let the men do their jobs.”

“Why can't I just go home?”

“You
are
home,” he growled. “As long as I breathe, you will be living here with me.”

Her eyes narrowed. “We'll see,” she muttered through gritted teeth.