From Kiss to Queen (7 page)

The doctor gave her a shot, further assuring Mark she would eventually be fine. Rest, warmth, liquids, and more rest were prescribed after the doctor heard about Jane's last few days. Mark had to hand it to the man for not
hiding his disapproval of how she'd been treated thus far, although the doctor did respectfully bow his leave.

Mark respectfully dismissed him, then pushed a button on the communications panel and ordered the captain to have Jane's clothes laundered and her boots dried. He set everything in the corridor and locked the door, then picked up her brace and studied it again, remembering the scars on her right ankle, which the doctor had said were evidence of several operations. He set the brace on the desk and headed for the adjoining shower.

She was awake when he came out. Maybe. Mark's gut tightened when he got a closer look at her. Jane was sitting up in bed with her knees pulled to her chest, staring at nothing, her skin ashen instead of flushed. Actually, she looked catatonic.

Frozen hysterics. He'd seen it before. Jane Abbot was claustrophobic.

Mark nearly roared in anguish. No wonder she'd fought him tooth and nail. Her rage hadn't been from fever; she'd been petrified of the submarine. He'd literally forced the woman into the bowels of her own private hell.

Mark hit the panel hard enough to break the switch. “Surface, Captain! Now!”

He was answered, frantically, in Shelkovan.

“I don't care if we're sitting in the middle of the Potomac River—surface!” Mark didn't wait for a response. He quickly dressed, putting on layers of clothes he pulled from the cabin's closet. They were too tight, but would have to do. He then wrapped all the sheets and blankets on the bed around Jane and lifted her into his arms, having
to steady himself against the sudden upward shift of the ship, and stepped into the corridor and headed for the control room.

The captain opened the hatch himself, then held Jane while Mark climbed the ladder. He turned and lifted her into the fresh air, sat down inside the sail tower with her in his lap, and immediately started talking while pulling the blankets away to let the salt-laced air touch her face. “Come on, sweetheart. It's okay now. See, you're outdoors. The sun is coming up, Jane. Watch it rise. Look around, angel. You can breathe now, you're outside,” he crooned on and on until she finally stirred.

And still he continued to talk, asking her questions, getting answering nods as she slowly came out of her stupor, her eyes blinking against the strengthening sunrise. It wasn't until she finally spoke that Mark began to breathe properly himself.

“I . . . I'm sorry,” she whispered, her face turned to the breeze.

“Not as sorry as I am,” he murmured against her hair, undecided if she was finally resigned to her fate or simply too exhausted to fight him anymore. “I should have realized. I should have listened to you.”

She looked up. “You would have let me go back to shore?”

He closed his eyes on her pleading expression. “No. But I would have kept this ship above water, and I would have kept you out in the air, had I realized.”

He opened his eyes to see her looking at him. “Who are you?”

“The man whose life you saved—despite not deserving it, for what I've put you through.”

“How long will we be on this submarine?”

“I'll have another connection by this afternoon. Then we'll fly home in the morning.”

She dropped her gaze from his. “You must know some pretty powerful people in Shelkova to be able to call up a submarine. Does . . . Are there nuclear missiles on board?”

Mark wasn't sure if she was awed or worried. “No. We disarmed and unloaded them the moment we acquired the
Previa
. Too much responsibility comes with such weapons. Sleep, Jane,” he softly ordered, cuddling her closer. “Doctor's orders.”

“What doctor?” she asked, only to look down and gasp. “Where are my clothes?” Then she moved her legs until her naked toes peeked out of the blanket and her cheeks turned crimson. “Who . . . who undressed me?”

“The doctor,” Mark lied without compunction. “I was taking a shower.”

He watched her face return to its fevered pink, but also noticed that she surreptitiously tucked her right foot deeper into the blankets just as the captain came up on deck and spoke to Mark in Shelkovan. Smiling at Jane's disgruntled frown, he answered the captain in Shelkovan and then dismissed him.

“You sound like a general most of the time, you know that?” she said, still frowning. “And in Shelkovan, you sound even more arrogant.”

Mark felt rather disgruntled himself. “What do you mean,
arrogant
?”

“You spit out orders,” she explained, lifting her impertinent little nose. “And expect to instantly be obeyed. That nice man came up to see how I was, and you dismissed him.”

“That nice man,” Mark drawled, “came up here to complain that you're making us stay exposed in American waters. He suggested I throw you overboard and be done with the problem before we're spotted and shot at.”

“He did not!”

Thank you, God.
Mark was thankful and relieved Jane was back to her scolding, arguing self.
I'll take care of her from here,
he promised.
Forever.
“And I did dismiss him.”

“See what I mean!” she cried, getting huffy. “You're arrogant and bossy and . . . and . . .”

“And sorely tired,” he finished for her. “Go to sleep, Jane.”

He covered her head with the blankets, holding her tightly until she sneezed again and finally settled down. Within minutes both of them were snoring—Jane with ladylike grace and Mark with relieved fatigue.

*   *   *

W
ell, the next boat she saw blew her spy theory to smithereens. Countries didn't call out aircraft carriers for mere spies trying to get home to Daddy, did they?

Jane was running out of theories. If Mark wasn't a criminal or a spy, then he must be . . . well, the president or prime minister's nephew. But if their next rendezvous turned out to be a Sputnik space rocket, she'd have to guess
Mark
was the president.

“You connect with the most amazing boats,” she said
to the man standing beside her as they approached the largest ship she'd ever seen. “And they just keep getting bigger and bigger. I can't wait to see what's next,” she drawled—the effect she was going for ruined when it came out as a croak.

“They don't get any bigger than that, angel,” Mark perfectly drawled back, even as he zipped her jacket up to her chin.

He'd gotten her back inside the submarine, but only after promising it would stay on the surface and the hatch would stay open. Hating the boat almost as much as she hated her fear of it, Jane had stopped in the control room and tried to apologize to the captain for exposing all of them for her sake. Mark had gruffly said she needn't apologize for anything, then swept her up in his arms—right in front of the captain and the entire crew—and carried her back to their room after a loud, English command to leave the hatch open. That last had been for her benefit. Heck, she wasn't even sure the captain or crew spoke a word of English.

Mark had left her alone to dress, telling her he needed to check on some details, after showing her where the communications panel was and making her promise not to lock the door against him. A man would be right outside—for her convenience, he'd quickly added, not to keep her from leaving. And no one would come in until she allowed it.

Jane had found her clothes all cleaned and folded on the stripped bed, and then she'd found her brace. It had been sitting right out in the open on the desk, and she could only hope Mark hadn't noticed. She didn't like the
fact that all men saw was her limp, and she sure as heck didn't want this particular man seeing her brace.

Sister Roberta would tell her she was vain.

But Jane was just plain embarrassed. She especially never wanted Mark to see her skinny, scar-marked ankle and curled foot. It would disgust him, and remind him that she was just a crippled nobody from the backwoods of Maine. She liked that he thought of her as a heroine. Heroines were somebody—at least to the person they'd saved.

Mark had knocked on the door ten minutes later and led her back to what he explained was the sail tower. But instead of climbing the ladder, she'd stopped and thanked the captain and the crew again for being so patient and understanding. Everyone in the control room had smiled at her, their heads bobbing in unison.

And then Jane had really looked around.

And then she'd gasped hard enough to stumble backward. It was like being on the set of
The Hunt for Red October
. Sophisticated equipment busily blinked and beeped and pinged, men were scattered about looking just as busy, and there was a real live periscope!

Seeing her line of vision, Mark had grabbed her hand, telling her they had to be
underwater
for the periscope to be effective. Shuddering, Jane had let him help her up the ladder and back into the fresh air. Now they were watching the aircraft carrier—which Mark had told her was named the
Katrina
—grow larger and larger as they came closer and closer.

“The
Katrina
's not in American waters, is she?” Jane asked.

Mark looked at her, his left eyebrow raised. “She'd be
kind of hard to hide. That's why the submarine ride to open waters.”

“What would have happened if we'd been spotted?”

“I think it's referred to as ‘an international incident.'”

“Oh. What would the captain have done?”

Mark chuckled. “Tossed you in a life raft and dived.”

“Oh.”

“You're feeling better?”

“Yes. Sort of. The air helps. But it also makes my nose run,” she added with a small laugh as she turned away to wipe her sore nose on the gob of toilet paper she'd filched from the bathroom.

“You'll get a good night's sleep tonight,” he promised, pulling her snugly against him.

Jane suddenly had a thought. “What about Manly? How is Silas going to get him back?”

“Manly,” Mark said, leaning down and kissing her forehead, “is being returned to Silas by the man whose boat you shot a hole in. I gave him two hundred dollars for gas and a map.” Mark chuckled. “I also gave him a quick lesson on Yankees.”

“Who was the man in Stonington?”

Mark shrugged, shrugging Jane with him. “A fellow countryman who married an American and decided the Maine coast was as close to being home as he could get.”

“Who are you?” she softly asked again.

“Mark. The man you pulled from a lake.”

Jane sighed. He was never going to tell her. Maybe he was just a smart criminal who the country of Shelkova thought was a spy, who also happened to be related to the president.

More likely he was the devil in disguise.

Jane suddenly squealed. “Are we going to fly off that thing tomorrow?”

Mark eyed her warily. “Please tell me you aren't afraid of flying.”

“Oh no! I even have my pilot's license. I've been flying floatplanes since I was sixteen. Are we going to take one of those really fast jets?” she asked, gripping the front of his jacket and tugging. “A really, really fast one? Something that will do Mach two?”

Mark laughed, hugging her to him. “I'll get us the fastest jet on the ship.”

“Oh, boy. Oh, heavens. I've always wondered what it would feel like to fly in one of those F-something-or-others. I've always thought if I could just feel the power of one of those jets, I would die a happy woman. Oh, Mark, I can't wait!”

“I'm glad I finally got something right,” he offered dryly, squeezing her again. “But we call them MiG-something-or-others.”

“Close enough. I forgive you all your sins.”

Mark couldn't help it. With the skill of a pouncing tiger he set his lips over hers—only to taste chocolate. She'd found the M&M's, he realized, not caring if he caught her cold. Using one hand to pull her closer when he felt her shudder, Mark used his other hand to shift her head and deepen his kiss—barely stifling a groan when her tongue shyly touched his.

Hearing a cough behind him, Mark reluctantly pulled away, but not before using a finger to close her slackened
chin, then winking at her startled expression as he straightened.

“Oh, heavens,” she whispered, hiding her face in his jacket.

Not knowing if she was invoking the heavens because of his kiss or because the captain had caught her starting to kiss him back, Mark frowned at him. The captain, a score of years older, instantly sobered and gave his information.

“Speak English,” Mark ordered, “out of respect for our guest.”

Jane straightened with a gasp.

“The launch is ready, Sire,” the captain repeated in English, adding a slight bow.

Jane gasped again, her gaze darting between the captain and Mark, then shook her head, deciding the wind had made her hear incorrectly.

Mark held out his hand. “Thank you, Captain, for your timely and stealthy voyage. I will see that your superiors hear of your valor.”

The captain bowed again after shaking his hand, and then Mark pulled Jane over to the ladder that led down to the launch. The seas were relatively calm for open water, but he still ended up lifting her over the rail to waiting hands on the
Katrina
's launch boat. He climbed in after her and they were soon speeding through the swells.

W
ith the wind in her face and the gigantic aircraft carrier looming ahead, Jane looked back at the submarine and, without thinking, waved. But she was too late. The
Previa
was already being swallowed by the Atlantic Ocean, and she'd just bet the captain was right now sighing in relief to be invisible again and finally free of his bothersome, hysterical . . . guest.

Suppressing a shudder as the submarine sank from sight, Jane tried to shake off the one word the captain had said that bothered her. Sire.
The launch is ready, Sire
. Or had he said
sir
? Yeah, that made more sense. Shelkova must have a president or prime minister or something. And a captain would call the nephew of the president
sir
, wouldn't he? Then again, Mark somehow seemed to
command respect from people whether he'd earned it or not, his arrogant air compelling people to
sir
him.

And besides, a
sire
didn't go around flying his own plane and getting shot at; he traveled with an entourage, bodyguards, and pilots to do the flying. So the captain must have said
sir
, and Mark was just taking advantage of his relationship to the prime minister.

Or maybe instead of an uncle, his ailing
father
was the president or whatever. Yeah, that made more sense. Mark's father would certainly have the clout to mobilize an entire navy to get his son home.

Okay, then; Mark was the son of the president of Shelkova.

Jane was jolted out of her musings when the launch smacked into the back end of the aircraft carrier, and she barely stifled a scream when they suddenly started rising into the air before she realized they were on a ramp that was lifting out of the water like an elevator. The large inflatable raft was soon high and dry, and Mark helped her out and stood her on the gridiron ramp beside him, the ocean now frothing several yards beneath their feet.

Several important-looking officers were there to greet them, all appearing elegant in their crisp uniforms. Trying not to gawk as each man gave a slight bow while introducing himself to Mark, Jane felt better about all the attention now that she'd figured out
who
he was. The officers were speaking in Shelkovan, but she could see they respected Mark—or at least his father.

Heck, they even bowed to her, too!

She tried to bow back, but Mark kept a firm hand on
her arm and tugged her upright each time. So Jane tried giving him a frown, only to get hauled against his side. Yeah, well, he could be an arrogant jerk, but she continued smiling and nodding at every last one of the officers who were going out of their way to get Mark home. Her smile faltered, however, when she turned on the ramp and saw what had to be a thousand men standing at attention inside what had to be the largest airplane hangar on the planet.

And she had to limp past every one of them?

Mark turned her to face him. “Are you feeling steady enough to walk, Jane?”

Walk or be carried? Which was more embarrassing? “I'm fine,” she assured him, smiling brightly at his suspicious look. “Really. I'm fine.”

With her head held high and her arm tucked in Mark's as he led her off the ramp, Jane concentrated on not limping. It was bad enough her nose was running and her cheeks were probably blistering red and she was dressed like a backcountry hick; she didn't want word to get back to Mark's father that his son was dragging home a pathetic-looking
invalid
from America.

“How about one of these, Jane?” Mark asked as they walked along a row of jets whose wings were folded like wounded birds. He stopped in front of a sleek fighter jet that was more engine than aircraft. “Would you like to take this one tomorrow? She looks fast.”

“She looks like she only has two seats. Where's the pilot going to sit?”

“I'll let you sit in the front and you can fly. Once I get us airborne,” he clarified.

“You know how to fly a fighter jet?” she asked, pinching the inside of his elbow.

Mark chuckled—causing eyebrows on the officers beside them to lift, she noticed. “Of course,” he drawled. “I, too, like to go fast in a plane.”

“No offense, Ace, but I've seen your flying, remember? So I think I'll ride with one of the
Katrina
's stick jockeys,” she drawled back, trying to mimic his accent.

That sobered him.

Several officers coughed. One actually choked.

Jane simply added a few watts to her smile.

Mark started off again past the crewmen of the
Katrina
, all still standing at attention, only their eyes following the progress of the small entourage. “I'll show you to your room and you can have a shower. Then you will sleep.”

“Heavens, you don't take teasing very well, do you, Ace?” she asked, still smiling.

Mark stopped, causing the whole parade of officers to stop again. He looked down at her, then turned to the watching crewmen. “I want everyone to speak English in the lady's presence,” he said loudly enough to be heard clear across the cavernous hangar. “She is my guest,” he finished, looking pointedly at the officers, who all suddenly saluted—the entire crew saluting with them.

Jane pinched him again. “Stop that!” she quietly hissed.

“Stop what?”

“Being so bossy. You're taking advantage of your father's position,” she whispered tightly, ignoring the indrawn breaths of several nearby officers and crewmen. “You can't expect everyone on this ship to do whatever you say. That's the captain's job.”

Mark stared at her for a full minute. “And just who is my father,” he asked softly, “that I am taking advantage of?”

“He's the president of Shelkova. And his being nice enough to help get you home doesn't give you license to go around acting so . . . so pompous.”

Every single officer took a step back.

“
Pompous
,” Mark repeated.

She nodded.

“Jane, Shelkova doesn't have a president,” he quietly snapped before taking her arm and leading her out of the utterly soundless hangar.

Well, shoot. That blew that theory to smithereens. What was left? Maybe Shelkova had a prime minister. Or maybe Mark's father was a general or admiral or . . . whatever.

Yeah, an admiral would explain Mark knowing how to fly jets off aircraft carriers, if he was following in his father's footsteps. And who better to call up half the naval fleet to get his son home. It would also explain why everyone on the
Previa
and
Katrina
was being so nice; they wanted Mark to tell his father how efficient they were.

Now that she really thought about it,
this
theory made perfect sense.

Mark led her through what was turning out to be a seemingly endless maze of corridors until Jane thought about asking him to carry her. Heck, the ship was bigger than her hometown of Pine Creek! And she was getting short of breath and her right ankle was starting to hurt from
not
limping.

Jane sighed in relief when they finally stopped in front of a door just as she was working up the nerve to ask. “The
captain has been gracious enough to give you his cabin,” Mark said, his hand on the knob.

“What? No. I don't want him to— Oomph.”

Mark covered her mouth with a hand. “You will take it if you don't wish to insult an entire ship of men. Shower and sleep, in that order,” he commanded, turning her around and nudging her into the room.

Spinning toward him, Jane lifted a hand to her forehead. “Yes, sir!” she snapped—only to sneeze three times in succession.

Mark walked away laughing as the five officers who'd accompanied them spun on their heels and followed—some of their faces pale, some red, all incredulous.

*   *   *

H
e wouldn't wake her. He just wanted to make sure she was fine. And maybe just lie down with her awhile, so he could listen to her breathe. That way he wouldn't worry her illness was worse, and he could finally get some rest.

Mark took off his shoes and quietly slid into bed beside her.

He wouldn't disturb her. He knew Jane had taken the doctor's pills, so she should sleep deeply. No problem. She'd never even know she had a visitor.

But what did he discover? Little Miss Can't-Curse-Worth-a-Damn, Little Miss Prim and Proper, was buck naked.

Every noble intention, every promise Mark had made to himself concerning his soul, fled at the discovery he was lying in bed with the woman who had captured his heart.

He was going to make love to her. He was going to concede to the Lakeland legend and claim the woman who had sealed their fate by sealing her lips to his.

And damn if he wasn't going to enjoy this.

Mark sat up and pulled his shirt off over his head without unbuttoning it, then lay down and slowly rolled Jane onto her back and brushed the hair away from her face. He gently feathered kisses over the warm skin just below her ear, then slowly worked his way to her cheek, her chin, her nose, and finally her lips.

Jane gave a disgruntled murmur and tried to brush him away.

He moved on to her neck, her collarbone, and then her shoulder.

She swatted at the air again, this time muttering something about mosquitoes.

Mark began to use his tongue, stirring her enough to make her suddenly gasp.

“Hello, angel,” he whispered, continuing his exploration.

“Wh-what are you doing?”

“Succumbing to temptation,” he murmured, moving his mouth lower and gaining another gasp. “Sealing our fate,” he added, lavishing the soft, tender skin.

“Oh. Ooohh. Oh, heavens. I-I don't think you . . . You probably shouldn't . . . Ah, Mark?”

“Shhh. It's all right, sweetheart. I want to touch you.”

“Y-you do?” she whispered on an indrawn breath when he reached the soft tender skin of her breast. “Wait, have you been drinking?”

He stilled, then slowly lifted his head. “Excuse me?”
He sighed hard enough to move her hair. “No,” he said, lowering his head again. “But I am seriously thinking of starting. Let me touch you, Jane. Let me make love to you.”

“You really want to make love to me? Are . . . are you
sure
you're sober?”

“I'm sure. Are you?” he asked, working his way back toward her neck.

Her answer was a snort. “I . . . I guess so.”

“That's good, angel. You can touch me, Jane. I'd like that.”

“Oh. Yeah. Sure,” she said absently, apparently more focused on arching her back into his touch as she slid her hands to his shoulders, only to gasp again when she felt bare skin.

Mark shuddered at her simple, unsettling touch and wrapped his arms around her as he rained kisses over her face and neck and lips. “That's it, Jane. Hold me. Touch me. Let me feel your life-giving lips on mine.”

Growing bolder by the minute, his saving grace began kissing his jaw and then his neck, then blazed a searing trail down to his chest. Her touch was sometimes hesitant, sometimes bold, obviously unschooled—and telling. Jane Abbot had been no man's wife. Her awkward advances completely endeared her to him in the way only an angel could bestow her gift of innocence on a man who wanted to claim her for his very own.

Beginning to shake with overwhelming need, Mark quickly unbuckled his pants, lifted his hips to slide them off, and kicked them away, then rolled over to cradle himself between Jane's thighs, only to hesitate as he looked down on her wondering, mesmerized expression.
“I'm not going to be able to wait, angel,” he whispered thickly, wrestling his raging passion for at least enough control to not scare her. “I need to be in you. Now. Let me in, Jane,” he entreated, shifting his hips and urging her to open her legs, knowing that if he could just feel her heat surrounding him, he might have a chance of slowing down and fulfilling them both.

Her response was immediate and without hesitation as she eagerly accommodated him, wetting his manhood with her own passion. Lifting his chest and anchoring her hands beside her head, he watched her face as he shifted to slowly and steadily ease inside her until he tore through the expected barrier, making her give a hoarse shout and buck against his intrusion.

He waited until he felt her soften before he moved by kissing her face and crooning soothing words, then began an easy rhythm as he felt her slowly begin to move with him, once more arching her body to his. Her legs came around his waist, holding tightly against his increasing tempo, and even as he had the fleeting thought that he was forgetting something important, Mark barely remembered to breathe as he suddenly and gloriously gave himself up to an angel with a shout of wonder.

*   *   *

M
ark rested his forehead on Jane's with a silent curse. She really was a virgin—or rather, had been. And he'd hurt her. She wasn't moving.

He didn't move, either, not wanting to see her tears. He'd taken her gift of innocence—that she'd trustingly given him—and in the process had probably killed her.
Finally getting his pounding heartbeat under control, and not being able to put it off any longer without adding emotional hurt as well, Mark lifted his head to find her looking up at him with wide, wary eyes.