From Kiss to Queen (13 page)

“Oh, I'll scope out the palace, all right, looking for a chapel,” Jane drawled back, letting her smile break free. “And then I'm lighting every candle in there to shorten
your
stay in purgatory. You do know encouraging someone to sin is a sin, don't you?”

“We'll keep each other company,” Katy said with a chuckle, only to go silent. “Be your smart, courageous self, Jane,” she said, suddenly serious. “Keep that temper in check and don't point any weapons at anyone. And please, for me, could you at least try to enjoy yourself?”

“I . . . I'll try.”

“I love you. And I'm so very glad you're alive.”

“Yeah, me, too. Except I love you
more
,” Jane added
loudly, hearing her friend's snort as she gently set the receiver down on the ornate cradle.

Jane then walked to the window and stood staring out at the ocean as she tried to decide how she felt about Katy's revelation that three men had showed up at Twelve Mile Camp the day after they'd left. Okay, then; it would appear Mark really had been saving her life.

But why make love to her? It's not like she was some raving beauty who turned men to lustful idiots with just a smile. Well, not
sober
men, anyway. Really; she didn't even own lipstick. And she dressed like a guy. She could outshoot and outfish them, too. She couldn't dance, but she could run a fully loaded canoe down class IV rapids without cracking an egg. She'd never eaten at a restaurant that had more than one fork and knife and spoon at a setting, but she could fry up a mean dish of trout and fiddleheads over an open fire. And last she knew, eau de fish guts wasn't exactly a come-hither scent, any more than wet wool was.

Jane leaned her forehead on the window. Geesh, she had to have looked like something the cat dragged home the night Mark had made love to her, considering her nose had been running like a river, she'd been so hot with fever she hadn't even bothered to sleep in her shirt, and she was pretty sure croaking bullfrogs sounded sexier.

So why would a prince looking for an American bride crawl into bed with a backcountry nobody? Because really; even orphans knew better than to believe in
family legends
.

S
he was in a palace. She knew that. She'd surmised that fact from what she could see from her bedroom window. Oh, but what a grand place this must have been generations ago; although the furnishings appeared of high quality and everything was spotless, it was obvious the Lakelands hadn't gone crazy spending their emerging country's money on frivolous restorations. Heck, just the hallway was a study in architecture, history, and old wealth. The walls were stenciled in slightly faded but still rich colors, lined with paintings and artifacts and . . . and a note, if she wasn't mistaken—addressed to her!

Jane walked across the hall and carefully pulled the beige envelope with a green border off the wall. On closer inspection, the border was a small forest of fir and pine trees. On the back was what appeared to be a royal crest,
made up of more trees and gold lettering that said
Lakeland
. She carefully pulled out the card inside.

If you are well enough to leave the palace grounds, I will consider you well enough to—

Well, don't make me have to come after you, angel.

Love,
Mark

Seriously? Jane came within an inch of tearing the thing to shreds, but stopped and pressed the card to her chest instead. As love notes went, it lacked a little something, but it was from Mark
to her
. And he'd signed it with the one word she'd given up hope of ever seeing addressed to her. Although he'd only used her name on the envelope and not the note itself, Jane decided to keep it. No matter that he hadn't meant it that way, she would show it to their child someday, if they'd made one.

Spinning back toward her room to put the note away, Jane got another surprise. On a table beside her door was a small bouquet of flowers and another beige envelope bordered by green trees. Pulling out the card and reading it, Jane smiled, then sighed, then giggled. This note was from Reynard Lakeland, and said these flowers were for a pretty little angel who knew how to breathe life into a man.

Jane decided Mark's father could say she was pretty because he'd never seen her, and she was keeping this card as well. Picking up the flowers and giving them an appreciative sniff, she reentered her room and set both notes and the vase on a bureau. And on a whim, she
pulled a flower free and tucked it in her hair like Sister Patricia used to do whenever Jane was feeling sad with herself.

So with a silly smile on her face, she ventured into the big, scary world of Markov Lakeland. Holding her head high, Jane limped down the hall as if she belonged there while silently appreciating the beautiful surroundings. She'd gleaned from the maids and nurse who had paraded through her room, all of them speaking broken but adequate English, that this palace had once been the Lakeland seat of power generations ago. Several tall doors lined the hall, all of them closed to the contents they housed. Jane ignored them all, wanting to get outside to the fresh air and the sea that had been beckoning her for the last five days. But it was a trying task; the rabbit warren of halls was seemingly endless.

It was a frustrating ten minutes before she found the stairs, which appeared wide enough to hold an entire orchestra; long and carpeted and impressive in that they opened up to a gigantic foyer that made the White House look like a log cabin. But across the foyer was the door to freedom, and Jane took the steps at a rushing pace despite her weak ankle, having developed a rhythm for stairs at an early age in order to keep up with the other children of Saint Xavier's.

She would have made it, too, if the three men hadn't crossed her path just as she reached the bottom step. She ran headlong with a grunt into the first man, knocking him into the second and forcing him to grab her shoulders to steady her.

Jane yelped as his hand wrapped over her wound. He
immediately let her go, only to grab her waist when she started to fall. He saved her by smashing her nose to his chest, pinning her sling-covered arm between them and wrapping his arms around her.

“Ho, what is this I've caught?” he chuckled, giving her a squeeze. “Could it be an angel that's flown into our midst?” he asked over the top of her head.

“This angel is going to bite you if you don't let me go,” she said into his shirt.

That got her a chuckle. “Ah, Sergei, an angel with teeth.”

Deciding the bite threat was a little risky, Jane instead pinched him right on the fat of his side, only to feel solid flesh—she was suddenly glad she hadn't bit him. He did release her, though. She took a step back and looked up into Mark's eyes but not Mark's face. This face was younger, far less serious, and
almost
as handsome.

The man wrapped his hands around his waist and bowed deeply. “My apologies, angel, for bumping into you,” he said, still bowed.

“Th-that's okay.” Jane looked at the two men accompanying him, and
they
smiled and bowed. But not until she'd seen their eyes, which were also exact duplicates of Mark's.

“Please,” the first man entreated as he straightened. “Let me introduce myself. I am Alexi, youngest brother to Markov. And this smiling fool is my brother Dmitri, the next youngest. And Sergei here has the privileged distinction of being Reynard's second son.”

Jane could only stare at the three obvious devils acting like civilized men. And they were all Lakelands!

Dmitri picked up the flower that had fallen from her hair, and, smiling like the devil himself, carefully tucked it back in her hair. “And you must be Mark's beautiful angel, Jane Abbot of Maine, giver of life and owner of that wondrous pack we have heard about,” he said, giving her a mischievous wink.

Still stupidly staring, Jane blushed to the roots of her unbraided hair.

“I am sorry I hurt you,” Alexi apologized. “I did not stop to think.”

“That's okay,” Jane repeated to his chest. His physically fit chest. She could see now that there was no fat anyplace—on any of them.

“Where is it that you were going in such a hurry?” Sergei asked.

“Just outside.”

“May we escort you someplace?”

Not in this lifetime
.
Not you three devils
. “I think I'll . . . ah . . . I was looking for a bathroom first.”

“I will show you,” Sergei offered, gesturing in the direction
away
from freedom.

Just wanting to get any door between herself and these gorgeous specimens of manhood, Jane rushed ahead, nearly tripping when her ankle faltered. Sergei quickly took her right arm and tucked it in his, then led her down another hall as the others followed.

Jane was mortified. Three men were escorting her to the
bathroom
as if they were taking her to high tea. And she was facing another stupid, endless hall. But at least this one was on the ground floor. Heck, she could jump to freedom.

Which is exactly what she did just as soon as she closed the door on their smiling faces. Jane ran over and threw open the window. It was only a five-foot drop, no worse than most boulders she scaled in the course of a hike. Not feeling the least bit guilty, and wishing she could be a fly on the wall when the men realized she wasn't coming back out, Jane slid a leg over the ledge and, with one-armed awkwardness, jumped to freedom.

*   *   *

J
ane spent a good hour walking the cliffs and watching the sea churn up foam against the rocks below. Seagulls, birds of the world, soared on the wind and gave her a spectacular aerial show, their soothing caws slowly un-frazzling the tension of the last eleven days.

But the horizon finally darkened with the encroaching night, forcing Jane to return to her gilded sanctuary. She reentered by way of a door set into the side of the house. No,
palace
. But it did seem to be a home, with a father and at least four sons. Jane was pretty sure the Lakelands could live in a shack and still be a strong, close family, and she envied them that gift.

Her first mistake was not looking to see what room she was entering. Her second was not checking to see if it was occupied. It was; by an older man with white hair, broad shoulders, and the eyes of his sons.

“Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't realize this was . . . That you were . . . I'm sorry. I'll just go out and try again.”

“Please don't run away, Miss Abbot,” Reynard Lakeland said. He set down the book he'd been reading and stood, extending his hand. “Come sit and talk to this old
man.” His eyes took on a shine. “Or are you anxious to face my four disgruntled sons?”

“You're not old. Your Highness,” she tacked on. “And your disgruntled sons don't scare me.” She frowned. “Four?”

Reynard Lakeland laughed. “Once those poor, unsuspecting boys decided you weren't coming out, they ran to Mark with tales of an angel who had flown away on ungrateful wings.”

Jane could picture the three princes running and complaining like pouting children.

“So come sit with me, child, that I may thank you for letting me keep my eldest son,” Reynard entreated, motioning to two chairs facing each other beside a large, marbled hearth.

Jane felt herself turning red. “I didn't really do anything,” she said, conceding to the slight plea in his voice and taking a seat across from him. As soon as she sat, so did he. Jane had been around a lot of men, but none with manners like the Lakelands. They had a way of making a woman feel . . . special. And her uncomfortable.

“According to my son, you dove into the cold water of a pond and pulled him free of his wrecked plane. Is this a frequent habit of yours?”

“No. I mean no, Your Highness.”

“I am no longer a ‘Highness,'” the man told her. “In two weeks, I will be just Reynard.”

“You don't even get an honorary title? After being a king?”

“Well, maybe,” he admitted. “But I have been king for
only three years. I'm more used to
Reynard
. Will you accommodate me on this, Miss Abbot?”

She gave him a smile, letting him know she knew what he was doing. “Okay, Reynard. If you call me Jane.”

“I've been told you're a perceptive woman.” He suddenly scowled. “You are chilled. Shall I call for a fire to be set? We have a couple of hours before dinner.”

“Oh, I can do it.” Jane jumped up, glad for something to do. “I love building fires,” she explained by way of apology at his surprised look.

He leaned back on a sigh. “I suppose you do. Will you tell me about yourself, Jane?”

*   *   *

K
neeling in front of the large hearth, she turned and gave him a wary look, Reynard noticed. She was shy and perceptive and compassionate, just as Mark had told him. And she was beautiful, her cheeks rosy from her walk and maybe a little blushing. Her hair was a mess of windblown knots, and she was self-conscious, running her fingers through the tangles while trying to be discreet about it. The clothes fit, although they were outdated by several years. They had been Katrina's, and Jane was just her size. And just as beautiful, and as alive with a zest and innocence that rendered a man helpless to her charm. Lord, he wished Katrina could be here to see how well her son had chosen. She would approve.

Reynard watched with amusement and no little amazement as Jane awkwardly but confidently assembled a log tower of kindling over paper, lit a match to it, then leaned
several logs against it. With only one hand available, the woman was still able to make the task a simple undertaking. Her face awash with the glow of the flames, she dusted her hand on her pants and leaned back, putting her weight on her good leg.

As Mark had said—repeatedly—she was a capable woman, comfortable with what she knew. But she was not comfortable with him or with praise or with her position here. It was obvious in the way she surreptitiously looked around the room, her eyes filling with awe whenever she spied something strange or opulent.

“You have a beautiful home,” she said, looking back over her shoulder.

“It belongs to Shelkova, not to us. They have kept it intact and beautiful, hoping for the day it would be lived in again as it should be.”

“Your family has been a part of Shelkova's history for centuries?”

“Yes. And now we will be again.”

“It's an awesome undertaking, isn't it, being responsible for an entire nation?”

“It can be. But it is also rewarding. The people take care of themselves for the most part. We have a parliament and the people all have a voice. It was their voice that put us back in this house. Shelkova is a sotto-democracy in many ways, but unlike in England, there is a need for a figurehead who can have the recognition and clout to establish our country as an economic part of the world. As king I was able to make trade agreements and pacts, using only my word for collateral. And soon, Markov will be making those decisions.”

“Heavens! I've been sitting here like a dead stump. I haven't asked how you're feeling. Mark said you had a small stroke,” she finished on a shy whisper.