From Kiss to Queen (27 page)

It had been coauthored by his wife.

And it was going to hit their people like a size twelve boot right in the butt.

But for all of his planning, and all of Jane's reluctance to be a visual part of things, Mark should have realized that if his wife was involved, things usually went from organized chaos to disasters in the blink of an eye. They walked into parliament arm and arm to the standing cheers of all the members—likely because none of them knew what he was going to say today.

He pulled his wife up to the podium with him despite her tugging, then stood before the still-standing, still-cheering crowd and the cameras that were going to broadcast his speech live to all of Shelkova. The light on the camera was on, and Mark knew his countrymen—and women—were watching. Those without televisions in their homes were probably gathered in community centers and pubs and churches. Nearly the entire population of the city of Previa was standing outside, in the streets, listening to loudspeakers.

“Smile,” Mark whispered to his nervous, stricken wife.

She glared up at him. “I'm going to get you for this,” she whispered through smiling, gritted teeth.

“You have my permission to try,” he whispered back, his smile sincere.

Hers disappeared.

Mark wrapped an arm around her and waved for parliament to quiet down. And then he spoke into the microphone and told his country they were going to be getting a new prince or princess in five months. Parliament rose with a roar this time, which was all but drowned out by the roar of excitement coming from the streets.

“What did you tell them?” Jane shouted, pressing herself against him in near horror.

“I told them that in five months Shelkova will have a new baby to fawn over.”

She relaxed and smiled again, only to suddenly stiffen. “Five months?” she squeaked. “You didn't say five months!”

He nodded.

“But we've only been married three! Mark! Your people can count!”

She was back to looking horrified. He kissed her, on the cheek this time, and hugged her closer. “I'm fairly certain they would have been counting five months from now anyway, Jane. Let them get used to the idea.”

“You're a rat.”

“But you love this rat. Now be a good little wife and go sit down. I have king work to do. Did you bring your shotgun?” he asked, releasing her as the cheering finally began settling down.

“No. Why?” she asked, looking confused.

Mark shrugged. “I thought it might come in handy when we try to escape the angry mob I'm about to create.”

“Mark,” she said, sounding exasperated, her hands on her hips. She was no longer embarrassed, anyway. “You're doing the right thing. And everyone will realize it . . . soon.”

“I'm going to say it was all your idea. Right at the end of my speech, in Shelkovan, I am going to tell them all to blame you.”

She gave him a thoroughly un-intimidated smile. “And look like a weak, henpecked husband? I don't think so, Your Majesty.”

“Go away,” he growled. “And let me get to work.”

She started to. Really, she did. She took a step back and started to turn, but suddenly his wife gasped, and her eyes widened in horror. Mark stiffened and looked around for some threat, only to flinch when Jane ran up to him, her cheeks bright red again, and frantically started swiping at his shoulders. He looked down, wondering if he was on fire the way she was beating at him. But what he saw was his pregnant queen industriously trying to wipe away the powdered sugar imprints of her hands.

On both shoulders.

As if a sticky-fingered wife had been kissing him silly.

And every swipe, every worried and loving rub, was being televised to the nation and probably the world. It wouldn't be his speech that made cable news tonight, Mark guessed with a confident smile. It would be Jane Lakeland performing an act that would be understood by every woman on the planet who had ever had a husband. Hell, he wouldn't be surprised if she wetted her finger and straightened his hair next.

Good God. There was nothing his little angel could
have done to endear her to his people more than that simple wifely act.

*   *   *

I
t was a private Lakeland dinner that night; no guests, no children from the orphanage, no one but family. Everyone was dressed in casual attire again. Jane was actually in yoga pants. Mark guessed her new clothes were becoming a little tight in the waist, and that Petri was going to be supervising another shopping expedition in the near future.

“I can't believe the silence today,” Alexi said, voicing what was on everyone's mind. “You could have heard a pin drop in parliament when you finished your speech.”

“And in the streets,” Sergei added. “Every last person was stunned.”

Mark grinned through his worry. “I did come down a little hard on them,” he admitted. “But I've had enough of parliament's bickering over this land issue.”

“You gave them one week to produce a law for you to sign,” Dmitri whispered in awe.

“I'm not sure that's what stunned everybody,” Irina offered. “I think it had to do with your words on family traditions.”

“I think it had to do with everything,” Sergei argued. “My God, man, you sounded like a scolding father. You boxed their ears in.”

“He laid down the law,” Alexi added, nodding agreement. “Telling them to look not at themselves, but at their children. That the next generation of Shelkova will
be—how did you put it? World-wise. That our concentration of funds will be going to our schools.”

“And then you told them the women are going to vote,” Alexi said. “Half of parliament nearly choked on that one. A few of those men are going to lose their seats to women.”

“I like when you dared to decree that the posts in all town squares were to be taken down. That certainly took guts,” Sergei said with brotherly pride.

“I imagine the woman will happily see to that little chore,” Reynard added.

Mark glanced at his silent wife, who was very busy eating her dinner instead of adding anything to this discussion. “What did you think of my speech, Jane?” he asked.

She finally looked up, and he had his answer.

“I think you did a wonderful thing today,” she said, her eyes bright with her own pride in him. “And I think the people will agree with you . . . eventually. They're probably all sitting at their own dinner tables, like us, and discussing the same things we are. I think husbands are looking at their wives a little differently tonight. And parents are looking at their children differently, too.” She turned to the rest of the table. “In their hearts they know that Mark is right, that it's time for change. Since they gained their independence, they've been standing at a fork in the road, and Mark just pushed them along in the right direction today. Now that they know which way to walk, they'll walk forward.”

Reynard reached out and patted her hand. “Yes, daughter. They will walk with you and Markov now. What was done today was right. And timely.”

“We're going to have to be on guard more than ever,” Mark told the table in general.

“You think the people will rebel?” Alexi asked in surprise.

“No. We needn't fear anything like that. But I pushed the issue of the land rights, and in one week the consortium will have no hope of acquiring our timber.” Mark looked at Jane. “Are you satisfied now, Your Queen Majesty?”

“Me? I—I don't know what you mean.”

“I've kicked our people in the butt, just like you wanted.”

“I think you may have embellished the speech we wrote together,” she muttered. “I don't remember it being that long or that . . . heated.”

Mark sighed. “Jane. I had just had my jacket brushed like a little child. And I thought you were going to slick my hair and wipe my nose. I had to gain back my manhood by sounding forceful. Otherwise all that would have been remembered was your wifely concern.”

*   *   *

J
ane promptly went back to eating her dinner, industriously trying to ignore the chuckles surrounding her. Heavens! She couldn't believe she'd really done that. In front of the world, no less. But geesh, Mark had been standing up there all proud and kingly with handprints on his jacket. Everyone would know how they'd gotten there. She'd been so horrified that she'd run up and started wiping them off, just like he said, as if he were a child.

Well, she wasn't showing her face in public for a year.

And she wasn't going to even
look
at sugar again as long as she lived.

They finally made it up to the sanctuary of their bedroom after watching the nightly news, and watching her—in vivid color—wipe her husband's jacket again, this time in front of the entire world. Sister Roberta was probably laughing her head off back home right now.

Jane was still cringing inside as she undressed for bed. She could hear the shower running in the adjoining bathroom and remembered her husband's petition that she come in and scrub his back. It had become a frequent request lately, but one she certainly enjoyed doing. Showering with him was a novel experience, and usually a prelude to a long, tender night of lovemaking. But now her belly was bumping out. Jane stood naked in front of her mirror and studied herself. Yes, she was definitely showing. And every so often lately, when she least expected it, her insides would start to flutter with the gentle stirring of her growing child.

She was having a baby.

She was going to be a mother to a young person who would need her.

Just as much as her husband did. Jane finally believed Mark needed her just as much as she needed him—which she needed like air to breathe. And the three of them, all tucked together lovingly in bed each night, reconfirmed that one single truth.

Sometime in the past three months, Jane realized, she'd stopped being an orphan and started being a wife, a mother, a daughter, a sister, a niece, and even an example for the women of her new homeland. And if she didn't
start getting the language right, she was going to start cursing like Cook.

“The water's getting cold!” her impatient husband called from the shower.

Jane smiled and patted her protruding belly. “Come on, baby, let's go clean up your daddy,” she whispered, kicking her brace out of the way with her naked right foot. “Our king is calling.” She didn't hesitate at the door of the shower, but pushed it back and entered the steamy room, blinking and then staring at the sight before her.

Dear God in heaven, she loved this man. And she would never get used to the idea that he was hers, and that she could look and touch and kiss and adore him to her heart's content. Mark was built like Atlas himself, possessing an inner strength that would always amaze her. Jane boldly moved up to him and lovingly began running her hands over his chest, marveling at the way his muscles instantly contracted at her touch. She wiped away the soap, pushing him back under the spray and soaking herself, then began to kiss him all over, wherever she could reach. His hands came up to hold her.

She stopped him, shaking her head and pushing them back to his side. “No,” she whispered. “Let me love you tonight, Mark. Let me touch you.”

W
e promise, Petri. Just one more store and then we'll go home,” Jane assured her patient bodyguard with a sheepish smile, realizing she'd said that same thing two stores ago.

“We only need to pick up a few more items,” Irina added. “This is our last stop.”

They were shopping for maternity clothes. Jane was nearly five months pregnant and couldn't fasten any of her pants any longer. Irina was showing her some of the smaller, quaint little shops in the less traveled part of the city, and Petri, bless his soul, was stoically following, despite his obviously increasing unease.

They entered the last shop only to be greeted by an excited, downright flustered woman who couldn't believe she was being patronized by her queen. Irina did the
talking, explaining what they wanted, and Jane went about browsing.

She was a little overwhelmed by it all; the maternity clothes and all the baby things. She picked up a tiny gown that looked like it fit a doll, and stared at it with amazement. A baby. She was really going to have a baby.

She'd actually asked Mark's permission to come out today. Not because she was a meek wife, but because she didn't want to worry him. She could tell the entire household was on edge this week, what with the land bill pending. But Mark had smiled at her belly and told her to go. Petri, ever vigilant, had brought along reinforcements. There were two guards and a driver; all armed, all alert.

But despite his precautions, disaster struck—swiftly and from the back of the store.

The back door crashed in, the proprietor screamed, and Petri lunged for Jane. He never made it. He was shot several times as he came toward her, his gun drawn and his cold eyes pinned on the threat behind her. Jane scrambled out of the way to give him a clear shot, but he was down in a pool of blood before she got out her own scream.

More gunfire erupted as the other bodyguards charged through the front door only to also fall in a hail of gunfire. By this time Irina was in the clutches of one of their attackers, and Jane was scurrying backward, throwing anything she could get her hands on at the two men approaching her.

The chaos was over within two minutes.

Just like that, grief had come and terror reigned as Irina and Jane were bound, gagged, and shoved into the
trunk of a waiting car in the back alley. Within another minute they were speeding through the streets of Previa, locked in dark, confining, swaying blackness.

Jane could hear Irina's sobs mingled with her own over the rev of the engine and throb of the tires. It took willpower for Jane not to throw up and choke in her gag. She could only huddle close to Irina and cry silent tears at the slaughter she'd just witnessed; at the defeat of a good man she'd come to care deeply about. Her only salvation was an equally silent prayer that Petri was not dead, merely wounded. And with the prayers of her childhood, Jane asked God for this hope—at the same time asking that she and Irina be delivered back to the family she loved. And she prayed for Mark to be given strength, for the noble man not to lose his wife and child as a result of trying to save his people.

“Jane,” Irina choked. “Can you pull off your gag?”

They'd shackled her hands in front of her, then bound them with a rope around her waist. But she was finally able to work the gag down her cheek and to her chin, able to breathe in huge gulps for the first time since the terror had begun. “I—I've got it,” she gasped back.

“Oh, my God! Petri. He's dead,” Irina sobbed, burying her face against Jane's shoulder. “And the others. I don't know what happened to them.”

“No!” Jane hissed. “He always wore a special vest. He may just be wounded,” she said, rubbing her cheek against Irina. “We have to believe that.”

“Where do you suppose they are taking us?”

“I don't know,” she whispered, closing her eyes on another wave of dizziness. The motion of the black hole
they were in was making her sick. Despite the freedom of her mouth, she still couldn't take in enough air. And what she did take in was becoming stale and stifling. “We need to try to relax,” Jane told her friend. “And concentrate. Can you tell anything about the road we're on?”

“No. But it's smooth. And we seem to be going fast. It must be a good road. They must be taking us out of the city.”

“But in which direction?”

That was a good question. She and Irina huddled together for what seemed like hours in their dark cocoon, until the car suddenly slowed and turned onto a bumpy, jarring road. Another hour and Jane and Irina, bruised and sick from fumes and fear, nearly fainted with relief when the car finally stopped. But their terror was not over. They were unceremoniously dragged from the trunk and pushed toward a large, decaying building. They didn't need to blink to adjust their eyes, as it was now dark. The only light in the eerily silent, dense forest came from the building.

There were three men in all that had brought them here, each carrying guns and just as silent as their surroundings. They were all large, hard-featured men.

And they didn't look like Shelkovans.

Barely able to walk after the cramped ride in the trunk, Jane tripped twice going up the stairs. She was harshly grabbed by her weak shoulder, which was just beginning to feel normal, and a pain shot through her, causing her to cry out. She was roughly jerked forward, which caused her to almost fall again, which caused the man holding her arm to jerk her upright. Jane thought she was finally going to throw up from the pain.

They were ushered into a large, dirty room and brought
to stand in front of a man Jane instantly recognized. She'd met him at Mark's coronation ball, and the next day at her wedding feast. He was from someplace in South America, if she remembered correctly, and had been all smiles and good wishes to Mark and her. She wondered if Mark's intelligence officers had known they were inviting the enemy to the ceremonies.

“Well, Your Majesty,” the ugly little man crooned, walking toward her, “how nice of you to visit.”

Jane thought about spitting in his ugly face, but one of the men still held her bad arm and she didn't think she could stand another wrenching. “The pleasure is mine, Señor Guavas,” she said, nodding regally.

Her manner disarmed him, but only momentarily. His grin turned nasty. “So, you remember me, eh? And your little trip here has not daunted you, I see.” He grabbed her neck in a bruising choke hold and jerked her close to his face. “We will see how impudent you are when you leave here. If you leave,” he hissed, pushing her back at the man still holding her arm. “Take them upstairs and lock them in,” he ordered, just before he reached for her neck and snapped the chain holding the fir tree Mark had bought her on their first shopping trip.

Irina and Jane were shoved up two flights of rickety stairs and pushed into a dark, dusty room. Jane could see an old metal bed with a sagging mattress and two boarded-up windows before the door was shut, throwing them into darkness.

“Don't panic,” she whispered when she heard Irina's broken sob. Groping, shuffling, she was able to approach
and nudge her gently. “Come on. You've got to help me untie my hands.”

“We are bound with handcuffs,” Irina choked back.

“But untie the rope at my waist. Then I will do the same for you. We'll feel better.”

“I can't see.”

“There's a little moonlight coming through that broken board in the window. Let's move over there.” With more shuffling and hitting of shins on boxes strewn throughout the room, they made their way to the window, and Jane turned Irina and went to work on her knots first. Once she had her free, Irina did the same for her. “Let's see if we can loosen some of these boards.”

“We're up two flights,” Irina reminded her.

“I just want some light,” Jane muttered, tugging one of the boards.

They had to try several before they managed to work one free. It was too high overhead to see out of, but it did let in enough moonlight to see the room more clearly. It showed that there was an old kerosene lamp on the nightstand. And, amazingly, some matches. Awkwardly, because of the handcuffs, Jane was finally able to light the lamp and breathe easier again. Irina carefully sat down on the bed and looked around.

“Pigs wouldn't stay here,” Jane offered, also looking around.

“Are you afraid of spiders or mice?” Irina asked softly, as if afraid to disturb any of the critters.

“No.” Jane sat on the bed beside her. “I'm only afraid of the dark.”

“Then how did you stand it? I was near to screaming with hysterics in that trunk.”

“I recited passages from the Bible,” Jane told her. “And from Emily Post.”

Irina gave a little giggle that quickly turned into a sob. “What are we going to do?”

“We're going to wait. Mark will come get us.”

“He doesn't know where we are. Neither do we. How can you be so calm?”

Jane's handcuffs rattled as she patted Irina's knee. “Because I'm going to load my shotgun with rock salt and hunt him down if he doesn't.” She sobered. “He'll come. He has to. He loves me.”

Irina found a weak smile. “So sure you are,” she whispered.

“Darn right. He needs me.”

Irina closed her eyes and swayed slightly. “I am so tired. And thirsty.”

Both women looked around, but saw no food or water. They did find a dented, chipped chamber pot, and Jane walked over and rattled it with her toe. “I say we fill this up and throw it at the first man to walk through that door.”

“Do . . . do we dare ask for some water?”

“I dare,” Jane said, walking to the door and rattling the knob. It was locked, as she'd expected, so she began pounding on it. When that brought no results, Jane picked up the board she'd broken and started banging on the door.

It finally, suddenly opened.

She took a step back, dropping the board, and meekly asked for some water. The door was slammed shut in her
face. But ten minutes later, a battered, dented bucket was brought in by one of the men. Another man brought in another bucket with what Jane guessed was supper. A third man stood sentry, a gun pointed at the two dangerous prisoners.

Jane stuck out her tongue at the closed door. “Did they think we were going to overpower them?” she asked as she awkwardly picked up the bucket of water. “The least they could have done was give us a cup,” she muttered, setting the bucket on the nightstand. Peering down in it, she made a face. “Do you think it's drinkable?”

“I don't care,” Irina said, lugging over the other bucket and setting it on the bed, then looking inside. “I'm willing to drink mud. Oh, look. A cup,” she cried, like a child at Christmas.

“You go first,” Jane told her, rummaging around in the food bucket. She pulled out a plastic bag. “Oh, boy. Bread and water. How quaint.”

“But better than nothing,” Irina said, drinking greedily, spilling the water down her chin.

Not having anything else to do, they both ate three slices of bread and drank some of the water. And then they politely each turned their backs while the other awkwardly, almost comically, tried to use the chamber pot. And then they all but fell on the bed and into a restless sleep.

Bright sunlight came through the broken window the next morning to find Jane and Irina huddled together and shivering. Blinking, looking up at the window, Jane nudged Irina awake. “Good heavens. It snowed last night.”

Irina followed her line of sight. “It did,” she said in disbelief. “We must be inland and possibly even in the
mountains to be seeing snow, as the ocean current brings more temperate weather to the coast by the end of February.”

“Well, now we know where we are.”

Irina snorted. “Fat lot of good it does us.”

Jane sighed. They could be five miles from home and it wouldn't do them much good. There were three pit bulls guarding their prison, all of them with guns and all looking ready to use them. The day held no surprises and no less worry. They were kept locked in the room, the only light they dared allow coming from the broken window. The oil in the lamp was getting low, and Jane wanted to keep it for the darkness.

They explored their little prison, looking in all the boxes. What they found were ancient, mildew-covered books on logging and forestry and wildlife. There were no tools, nothing metal whatsoever to use to pry more boards off the windows. And so the women spent their time talking about their childhoods, reading, and worrying.

Jane learned, much to her surprise, that Irina had been married for twelve years to a wonderful man she still mourned and had no desire to replace. No one, Irina told Jane, could compare to George Spanes, an American from Alaska who had stolen her heart one warm summer eve when he'd come to her father's home on the coast of Shelkova to buy fish from their village. George had died six years ago in a plane crash on one of his buying trips. Irina had returned home to Shelkova, and then she'd come to live with the Lakelands when Katrina had suddenly taken ill.