From Kiss to Queen (25 page)

“Maybe it's him I should warn,” Jane muttered under her breath, taking Sister's arm and leading her to the door.

*   *   *

Y
ou've been crying again,” Mark said quietly as they glided—thanks to his strong arms and stalwart toes—across the ballroom floor.

The room was nearly the size of a football field and had once been the throne room. Hell, there was still a throne sitting at the far end, raised up on a dais and looking imperial and intimidating. The room was also near to overflowing with people, all of them turned out in formal attire, all of them diplomats and businessmen who'd come to pay court on the new king.

And his new nearly-queen.

“Answer me,” he demanded, squeezing her waist. “Why have you been crying?”

“Your father gave me these earrings.”

Mark danced them over to the nearest wall and
stopped, then smiled when she finally looked at him, only to sigh when he noticed her tearing up again. “You're killing me, angel. Why would that make you cry?”

“He
gave
them to me. To keep forever. They were his wife's,” she explained as she reached up and fingered one of the earrings. “He gave me your mother's diamond earrings.”

Mark sighed again.

“He told me they were from Katrina and him. And then he kissed me and hugged me and called me
daughter
. And then he . . . he cried.”

Mark drew her wet face down to his chest. “Ah, baby. What am I going to do with you?” he whispered to her hair.

He didn't really want an answer, so he ignored her mumbling into his shirt, reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, then carefully dabbed her eyes.

“I—I was afraid he was going to have a real stroke,” she said between sniffles. “He looked so sad and happy at the same time that I started crying with him.”

Mark instantly picked up on the one thing that would dry her sentimental tears. “What do you mean, a real stroke?”

It worked. She blew her nose, frowned up at him, then rolled her eyes. “I know a man on the make for attention when I see one. Your father shamelessly let me believe he has been gravely ill.” Her dry eyes narrowed. “Come to think of it, you've all been letting me believe he was sick.”

Mark knew better than to answer that accusation. “When did you find out?”

“Not long after I arrived. One day I saw him walking his horse away from the house, then saw him gallop that
same horse down a wooded path. He didn't ride like a man recovering from near death.”

“Then why have you allowed him to keep up his charade?”

“Because he's enjoying it so much,” she said, sounding exasperated.

“And all the hours you spend with him taking therapeutic walks? And all the times you've scolded him to rest? You were just playing along?”

“No. The orders to rest were to tease him. He always turned a dull red whenever I worried so long and loud about his illness.”

Not caring where they were or who was watching, Mark kissed her right on her surprised lips. And then he hugged her again and closed his eyes, turning enough to shield her when everyone suddenly stopped dancing and started clapping. He shot a smile over his shoulder, then swept Jane out onto the balcony before she started crying again—this time with embarrassment.

“I hope Sister Roberta didn't see that,” she muttered into his soggy shirt—just before she hit him. “Don't you dare do that again.”

“You like my kisses,” he said, kissing her again, this time on her forehead. “Admit it.”

“Not in front of half the world.”

“Nor your Sister Roberta.”

“And thank you,” she snapped.

“For?” he asked with a chuckle.

“For bringing her here.” She suddenly looked worried. “You . . . you won't believe everything she tells you, will you?”

“Believe her? Jane, the woman's a nun. Of course I'll believe her.” He arched a brow to keep from grinning. “What will she tell me?”

She ignored the question. “Although she's a nun, Sister sometimes . . . embellishes things. And she's old. Her memory's probably faulty.”

“So the woman's going to tell me colorful stories of your childhood?”

“I was a good kid. Most of the time,” she muttered, looking back at the ballroom.

Looking to escape, Mark guessed. Although he knew she was uncomfortable in a room crowded with strangers, she was apparently more uncomfortable with the subject at hand.

“I love you, Jane Abbot.”

Damn. She looked ready to cry again. The poor woman was on an emotional pendulum tonight, wavering between nervousness, excitement, and the realization she was loved—not only by him but also by his family. And tomorrow she would be loved by an entire nation needing the joy of a new, angelic queen.

“I love you, too,” she mumbled, looking out onto the city of Previa, only to suddenly pull away and run to the rail. She leaned out to see what the commotion was about on one of the streets near the palace. “What's going on?”

Mark narrowed his eyes until he was able to discern what was happening. And then he silently cursed and led Jane toward the ballroom. “It's nothing. Just some revelers.”

“No, it's not,” she said, pulling out of his grasp and
running back to the rail. “It's a mob. And there's a woman screaming.”

“Jane. Come inside. I will send someone to go see what is happening.”

“I can already see!” she snapped, pulling her arm free again. “Some man is assaulting a woman, and everyone's just watching. They're urging him on! Mark, we've got to stop it,” she cried, turning and heading for the stairs.

“No, you may not go out there, Jane!”

She whirled in his arms when he caught her. “You're not going to stop it?”

“It is a personal matter. That man is her husband.”

“I don't care who he is. Oh my God, Mark, look. He's tying her to a post!”

“Jane. Stop struggling. I will send someone to stop it if you wish.”

“If I wish!” she shouted, enraged. “That woman's being assaulted and . . . and humiliated. Why?” she cried.

Still holding her arms, Mark shrugged. “My guess is she's most likely an adulteress. Now calm down and I will explain.”

“No. Do something!”

“Jane, for centuries men have made examples of their unfaithful wives this way.”

“That doesn't make it right.”

“No,” he growled, pulling her against him. “It doesn't. And we will change it, Jane. Together,
you and I
will change it. But you can't halt generations of a practice in a matter of one night. I will stop this one incident from going any further, but for now, that's all I can do.”

“What about the man?”

“The husband?”

“No, the man she was unfaithful with. What's his humiliation?”

Mark winced. “There is none. The husband will leave his wife tied to the post until someone—usually family—frees her, and she'll not be allowed back in her husband's home. If her lover wishes to come forward and claim her, he may.”

“That's not fair.”

“No, but it is the way things are. Or have been,” Mark assured her, leaning away enough to give her an encouraging smile. “We will change it, okay? Together.”

“Yes. We'll shift things so the
lover
is the one tied to the post. He should be stripped naked, flogged, then tied to that post for a week.”

“My, what a bloodthirsty angel you are sometimes.”

“Even God used a heavy hand once or twice in history,” she said, the anger still glowing in her eyes. “Now come on. Let's go stop it.”

“Not you. You are to stay right here.”

Her chin rose. “I thought I was supposed to be a queen or something.”

“You are,” Mark said, nodding slightly.

“Then I might as well begin as I intend to go on. I'm going down there and marching right up to that woman, and if her husband tries to stop me, he'll hear a thing or two from me. And I'm bringing her back to the palace.”

Mark didn't want to smile, because he wanted to stay looking angry enough to get her to obey him. And he didn't want to remind her that the husband probably
wouldn't understand what she was saying, anyway. So he simply started dragging her toward the ballroom.

She planted her feet. Mark picked her up and carried her inside, right up to the huge throne at the end of the room. Conversations ceased as they passed, and silence descended as he gained the dais and deposited Jane on the throne. He leaned over her when she tried to rise, and put his nose nearly touching hers. “If you move from this chair, if your feet so much as touch the floor while I'm gone, I will sit myself on this throne and put you over my knee right in front of everyone, including Sister Roberta. Understand?”

Eyes wide, she nodded.

Mark nodded back and walked down the dais, pushing his way through the staring crowd. He found Sergei, Alexi, and Dmitri and motioned them to follow.

“Mark!” came an angel's bellow, making him look back to see Jane standing on the seat of the throne—her feet definitely not touching the floor. “You bring her back here! Do
you
understand?” she shouted. “Take her to Cook!”

Hiding his grin, he bowed to the almost-queen of Shelkova standing on his throne shouting orders at him like a tyrant.

*   *   *

T
he ball went well, don't you think?” Reynard asked as he stood beside Mark on the balcony overlooking the now-quiet city of Previa.

“If you don't count your new daughter bellowing like a fishwife,” Mark agreed, taking another sip of his much-needed American whiskey.

Reynard shrugged. “She didn't exactly look like an
angel, did she, standing up on that throne and yelling.” He smiled at Mark. “But she forgot to be nervous.”

“Especially when she went to the kitchen later and found that poor woman still crying. I thought she was going to ask for one of her guns and hunt down the husband.”

“I would have helped,” Reynard admitted sadly. “This practice has to stop.”

“Oh, it will. And not by a gradual reeducation, but by the wrath of our queen.”

“Yes. Jane will stop it. And the people will do so just to please her. She's going to be an involved queen, isn't she?”

“And a very important one.”

“Do you think she'll ever realize how important?”

“Probably not.” Mark took a sip of his drink only to stop in mid-swallow. He brought his glass down and watched the dark figure moving through the shadows, headed for the gates, then nudged his father and used his drink to point at what he was watching. “Although she's already beginning her duties,” Mark told the old man.

“That's Jane? Where's she going?”

“To begin our people's reeducation.”

“She can't leave the grounds. Not alone,” Reynard said in alarm.

“She's not alone. Seeing the expression on her face when I walked her to her room earlier, I set Petri on quiet guard. He's not to deter her, just keep her safe.”

“But where is she going at this late hour?”

“Watch.”

And watch they did. Jane was carrying something heavy as she quietly limped past the guards, who were intent on keeping people out, not in. Jane then marched
up the sidewalk, every step fairly shouting her anger. And finally both men watched her take out that anger on the now abandoned post in the town square. If they listened carefully, they could hear every biting chop of the axe as it slowly, painstakingly destroyed the offensive relic of the past.

It took her well over twenty minutes to cut through the aged, hardened wood, but with a final shove and angry shout, the post toppled to the ground with an anticlimactic thud. Her shoulders slumped, Jane made her way back to the palace, startling the guards at the gate. After a little discussion and lots of bowing, Jane reentered the palace, and Reynard and Mark watched Petri talk briefly with the guards and then follow her inside.

“Yes, a damn fine queen,” Reynard said, slapping Mark on the shoulder. He chuckled. “But you're going to have to station some guards facing
in
.”

“Beginning tomorrow night the woman will be in my bed where I can keep an eye on her. Don't worry, old man, I can handle one slip of an angel.”

“An angel who appears quite capable of handling you,” Reynard got out as a parting shot, just before he walked into the throne room.

Mark looked up at the sky studded with blinking diamonds. All angels of God, he decided. And he was glad one in particular had been sent to Earth, to the woods of Maine, for him to find, and love, and give the gift of importance.

S
he had very nearly missed her wedding.

Jane stood in front of the tall window and looked out at the moonlit northern Pacific churning against the rocky cliffs below her new home. The first home she could actually call her own. Simple wedding vows had given it to her. And those same vows had given her a husband and made her a queen by the mere act of conferment.

It had been a trying day.

And it wasn't over.

First she'd overslept this morning, due to the fact that she hadn't gotten to bed until nearly dawn. And when she had finally roused, it had been to a throbbing shoulder protesting her nighttime journey into the city. Swinging an axe had been no easy feat, and she'd paid the price by not being able to lift her left arm this morning.

Then, once she'd come fully awake and was able to quit groaning in agony, Jane had spent half an hour hunched over the toilet, groaning some more. When she'd finally straightened and looked in the mirror, she'd almost fainted at her reflection. Her hair had been standing on end, her eyes had been teary, and her skin had looked green. It had taken a whole pot of tea and three toasts to settle her stomach.

And so had gone the rest of the day in a haze of nerves. As soon as she'd said “I do,” in what Jane hoped had sounded like passable Shelkovan (Irina had taught her the words), Mark had all but slapped a dainty tiara onto her head and said something even more important-sounding—also in Shelkovan. Then he'd given her a long, satisfied, possessive look and turned her to face all the people in attendance. Jane had barely made it back down the aisle before she'd been sick again. And teary again. And hot and sweaty and as cold as a clam all at the same time—again.

That second bout of nausea may have had something to do with nerves. Or it may have been the fact that Mark had carried her out to the top step of the beautiful, onion-domed church and had held her in his arms in front of a cheering crowd of Shelkovans.

Or it may have been another bout of morning sickness.

She was pregnant. Just this morning, after swearing Petri to secrecy, she'd taken a little trip in to see Dr. Daveed.

And yup, she was about as pregnant as a girl could get.

And tonight—her wedding night—she really should consider telling her husband.

But at the moment she couldn't even manage a smile, having turned from the window to face her new bedroom. Mark's bedroom. Their bedroom, now.

The one he was standing in, naked but for a towel wrapped around his waist. His hair was damp and curling slightly at the neck, his face was once again clean-shaven, and he was back to giving her that butterfly-inducing smile of his.

That smile of anticipation.

That smile of promise.

She really should smile back, if only to let him know she loved him.

Jane fingered her new wedding band instead.

It was an outrageously wide band, solid gold, with inlaid fir and pine trees made of what Jane worried were real emeralds. It probably cost a kingdom. Not that she would have to worry about ever losing it, since the darn thing was darn tight.

Mark had forced it onto her finger with a satisfied grunt, then winked at her. Sister Roberta, standing beside Jane as her witness, had actually sighed with what had sounded like relief. Alexi, Mark's witness, had groaned and shaken his head, mumbling loud enough for everyone to hear, “God deliver us, we've just acquired an angel.” Sister Roberta had stopped smiling at that, and leaned forward and given Alexi a good glare and a sniff.

Mark had laughed out loud. And in a voice even more carrying than Alexi's, had said, “Ah, but an angel with the kiss of life.” And then he'd swooped down and kissed her life-giving lips right there at the altar, in front of God,
the Shelkovan priest, and the Catholic priest Sister Roberta had somehow found to co-officiate.

Nobody had dared contradict the nun when she'd stated the wedding would be blessed by a man of her church, as Sister Roberta had been wearing her own uniform of God at the time.

“Are you going to stand sentry at that window all night?”

“No.”

Mark cocked his head. “What are you thinking?”

“That the band I gave you today is rather plain. And loose,” she tacked on.

“And perfect. I love it. Just as I love its giver.”

“Aunt Irina said as much when she took me shopping for it. And I know not all men wear rings.”

“I like that you wanted me to wear one.”

“I just wish I had a real wedding present to give you.”

He cocked his head again and studied her, a small grin on his lips and that twinkle still in his eyes. Jane was glad he was keeping his distance—as if he were afraid she'd bolt out the window if he came too close.

She wondered if she would.

“You feel you come to me with nothing,” he said, not asking but stating. “With only the clothes on your back.”

“Yes. And an old shotgun.”

“And if I tell you giving yourself to me, in love, is gift enough, will you believe me?”

Okay, she finally believed he might actually love her, although she still didn't understand why. But she wanted to give him a proper wedding gift. Something special.
She suddenly smiled. Oh, but she did have something for him; the perfect gift for a king.

Jane finally approached her husband, which she knew he was waiting for her to do, and pressed her right hand over his heart to feel it beating strong and steady. “I just realized I do have a gift for you. Something every king wants.”

“And what is that, angel?” he whispered thickly.

“An heir.”

There was suddenly no chest under her hand, as it had disappeared, along with her husband. She looked down to see him sitting on the edge of the bed. A bed even larger than Reynard's; one that could fit a whole new generation of rascal princes . . . and just maybe a princess or two.

“You're pregnant?” he whispered, staring up at her.

She nodded.

“You know for certain?”

She nodded again.

Mark spread his knees, wrapped his arms around her waist, and pressed his forehead to her belly. “A baby,” he whispered in awe. “A son. You're giving me a son.”

“Or daughter,” Jane whispered back, running her fingers through his hair. “I just might break tradition, Markov Lakeland, and give you a princess.”

“That is fine,” he said, lifting his head to look at her.

The twinkle was gone, replaced by . . . something else. Jane didn't want to hope that was moisture in his eyes, didn't want to believe she'd been able to bring this huge, strong, noble man to tears, that only she was able to give him something so special.

Before she could hope for any more, Mark pulled her down on the bed by simply lying back and taking her with him. He still held her tight, his arms still around her waist, and Jane found herself in the very interesting position of lying across his chest, staring down at him.

She smiled again. “So what do you think about that, Mr. Your Majesty? How about I give you a daughter? She'll have golden eyes like her daddy, and hopefully hair like her daddy, and she'll have my keen sight for shooting and my sweet disposition.”

The body she was lounging on began to rumble, then shake, then nearly threw her off but for her husband's arms still tight around her. “He'll have my eyes, your hair, and hopefully not an ounce of your disposition, witch.”

“We'll teach her to camp in the woods, swim in your cold lakes, and fly a plane. No, a jet. We'll teach her to fly a fighter jet off the
Katrina
.”

“He'll be taught diplomacy, compassion, and the law. He'll learn to ride horses and shoot a gun, and he'll learn how to fight for what he wants.”

“She'll be taught manners. And how to dance. And she'll be taught how to cook.”

“Our son will be taught to look after his younger brothers.”

“Our daughter will be taught to look after her younger sisters.”

“My father will have a real stroke.”

“He deserves it. And he deserves a granddaughter.”

“You're daughter enough for the old man. Granddaughters, if they're at all like their mother, will surely kill him.”

“I love you, Mark.”

“And I love my little Maine angel. Now kiss your husband and let us start this marriage.”

*   *   *

M
ark's new bride was suddenly shy again. And worried. Oh, what a worrier she was. But now, at least, he understood her easily sprung tears and swinging emotions.

She was pregnant.

As Dr. Daveed had told her on the
Katrina
, if a child was meant to be born, it would.

This babe may not arrive as timely as Reynard would wish, but it was fitting that Jane had conceived on their odyssey home together; during their discovery of each other and the blossoming of their love that had flourished despite the fact that they had both tried to deny it.

Mark rolled over, placing Jane beneath him. He looked down into her huge, worried eyes and smiled. Then he started kissing her face, slowly working his way to her lips. He didn't stay there long, though, but continued his journey of gentling her, raining small, warm attention over her neck and shoulders. He had to pull the gown she was wearing to the side, but she didn't seem to notice. Her hands were hovering over his shoulders until they finally landed. And then they squeezed him tightly as Mark found a sweet little sensitive spot on her collarbone.

“I'm going to do it properly this time,” he crooned in promise between kisses. “I'm going to go slow, and I'm going to drive you mad with want for me. And Jane?”

“Yes?” she breathed on a whisper.

“Don't be afraid to shout.”

His words came back to haunt him more than once that night. Their wedding bed became their own private world of exploration and fascination and, ultimately, satisfaction. As promised, Mark went slow, educating Jane to his body and also her own; teaching her to glory in their senses. And after a long, intimate, gentle assault, he was able to get her to shout with fulfillment, not once, but twice, before his own shout overtook her echoes.

Wondrous, dazed eyes looked back at him. “Wow.”

It was an arrogant grin he gave her.

“I understand now,” she whispered breathlessly. “About that night on the
Katrina
. You did like it.”

His grin broadened at her blush. He nodded, still not able to find his voice.

“That didn't hurt our baby, did it?” she asked, suddenly all worried again.

“No,” Mark said with loving tenderness. “Each time we make love while you're carrying, it will let our child know how much its parents love each other. Each time, it will make our baby more secure in its new life.”

“Her new life.”

Mark groaned and rolled off. “Let's not start that again. We'll wait eight months and see what we get.”

“Yes, we'll see,” Jane agreed, a mischievous, utterly feminine smile breaking free. She cuddled up to him, trying to stifle a very unfeminine yawn.

Mark hugged her tightly. “Sleep, Jane. You've had a very hard day,” he ordered, pulling the blankets up over them.

Mark settled down to also sleep, laying one of his legs
over hers to pull her more firmly against him. That was when he felt his foot touch not skin, but wool.

The woman was wearing socks. On her wedding night. He almost burst into laughter, despite the fact that he probably had no energy left.

Damn, but he hadn't known angels wore socks to bed.