From Kiss to Queen (2 page)

“You're welcome.”

“We have to get out of here. They will be back.”

Jane looked in the direction the Cessna had disappeared. “They're going to eventually run out of fuel.”

“Is there a place near here where they could land?”

Jane shrugged, then remembered he couldn't see her. “The closest airport is thirty miles to the south, but some of the tote roads might be wide and straight enough in places. Do you think they'd risk landing and come after you—us—on foot?”

“I think it likely. Do you have a vehicle nearby?”

Jane nodded, then sighed, again forgetting he was blind. “It's a couple of miles away.”

The man cocked his head. “Is it parked out in the open? Could the plane spot it?”

“Ah . . . yes.”

“Thanks to your shooting at them, they know I'm no longer alone. Your car is not a safe destination. How far to the nearest town?”

“About twenty miles in any direction.”

He stopped mid-sigh and suddenly perked up. “Do you have a cell phone?”

Jane finished sighing for him. “It's in my car. And even if I had it with me, it would take me several hours to climb a mountain to get a signal.”

The man said that nasty word again. And even though she was tempted to ask what it meant and what language it was in, Jane decided the less she knew about him, the better. She was already more involved than she cared to be, and figured that once she got him to safety, the authorities could deal with him.

“What do you have for ammunition?” he asked as he slowly stood up. He staggered, then steadied himself by leaning against the giant pine and looked at her through still blinking eyes.

“I have a shotgun with maybe ten rounds of bird shot
and now seven slugs. And I have a handgun with a box of twenty bullets.”

“How big a handgun?” he asked, taking a step toward her.

“A .357 Magnum.”

He stopped, one side of his mouth lifting slightly. “Loaded for bear, aren't you?”

Jane bristled, taking her own step toward him. “Only an idiot would come out here alone without being prepared.”

He detected her movement and held his hands up in supplication. “I'm not complaining.” He cocked his head again. “You seem to be able to take care of yourself just fine. Where did you learn that trick of feeding me air while I was trapped in the plane?”

“I didn't learn it anyplace. I just thought it might help.”

“Well, you are most resourceful. And your lips were most welcome. You tasted of butterscotch,” he added with a grin as he ran his tongue over his teeth.

Jane was glad the man was nearly blind when she felt her face heat up. “Come on. You said we've got to get out of here.”

He bowed. “I am in your care, madam.”

“The name's Jane Abbot.”

“And my name is Mark.”

“Mark what?”

“So which way, Jane?” he asked instead of answering.

Jane frowned in the direction of her vehicle. “My car is still the quickest way out of here. You need to see a doctor. Are you hurt anyplace else?”

He shrugged, then winced. “Everyplace. But your vehicle is not a safe destination.”

“You think you can walk twenty miles?” she asked, thinking the hike to her car would be a stretch for him.

“If I have to. And you? Are you hurt anyplace? You said a bullet grazed you.”

Jane lifted her left arm. “It's only scratched. It's not even bleeding now.” She looked at the man named
just Mark
, and then she looked at the floats out in the center of the pond. “Is there anything in your plane you might need? Medicine or anything?”

Rubbing his eyes again and looking at the pond himself, Mark seemed to think about that. Finally he sighed. “I have some things I would like to retrieve, but it's too cold to get them.”

“I could get them,” she offered, repressing a shiver.

Mark looked in her direction again. “It's too cold,” he repeated.

“What's in the plane?” She gasped when he hesitated. “It's not full of drugs, is it? I'm not standing in the middle of a drug war, am I?”

Mark stilled, then barked out in laughter—only to quickly cradle his ribs. “I'm not a drug runner. Leave the plane. I will find a way to retrieve my belongings later.”

For some reason, probably stupidity, Jane believed him. “Well, come on, then. We've got a two-mile hike ahead of us, because
driving
is our only viable option of getting out of—”

A long burst of distant gunfire suddenly shattered the air, immediately followed by a muted explosion forceful enough to scatter the already disgruntled birds from the nearby trees. Mark moved with surprising speed and gathered Jane into his arms, pressing her head to his chest as he looked in the direction of the blast.

“What was that?” she whispered, closing her eyes as
she wondered if the plane had crashed trying to land—not that that explained the gunfire.

“I would guess your car.”

She snapped her head up to look at him. “They blew up my car?”

He stepped back. “We are like sitting ducks. Do you know these woods, Jane Abbot? Can you lead us to safety without leaving a conspicuous trail?”

“Oh, yes. I've spent nearly my whole life in these woods.”

He suddenly shot her a warm, genuine smile. “I have the damnedest luck. I've crashed into the arms of a guardian angel, have I not?”

“And don't I just have the darnedest luck,” Jane shot back. “I was minding my own business one minute and dodging bullets the next.” She picked up her jacket and backpack and shotgun. “Come on, Ace, the sooner we start walking, the sooner I can get rid of you,” she muttered, grabbing his hand and heading in the opposite direction from her destroyed car.

They'd blown up her car!

“Would you happen to have any more butterscotch, Jane?”

M
ark blindly followed his little heroine, even as he wondered what else she had in her backpack besides a rather lethal handgun, plenty of ammunition, a Band-Aid (which she'd gently put on his forehead), a spare hat (which she'd motheringly put on his head), and butterscotch candy (which she'd plopped into his mouth with a sigh). He also wondered who Jane Abbot was, what she was doing out in the wilderness all alone, and where she got her bravado.

He didn't know many women who would have remained as calm through such a ruthless attack, only to jump up and start shooting back like an avenging angel. Hell, he didn't know
any
. And all after braving the cold waters of a lake to rescue a complete stranger.

She definitely was courageous. She was also quite
resourceful, as he'd likely be dead if not for the slightly used but welcome air she'd given him. And now the woman was leading him to safety as calmly as a mother taking her child on a woodland adventure, seemingly determined to continue rescuing him. All of which didn't exactly sit well, as he was afraid Jane would endanger her own life again to save his, should the men in the plane catch up with them.

Not a hundred yards into the trees, Mark suddenly came out of his musings and planted his feet. “You lied about being hurt. You're limping.”

She didn't say anything for the longest time. But he could see well enough to know she was staring up at him. He could also see a telltale blush creep into her cheeks.

“I didn't lie,” she whispered, her gaze dropping to his chest. “I have a permanent limp.”

Mark stared down in silence, waiting for her to elaborate.

“It's nothing,” she added, shrugging.

“You can walk twenty miles through the woods with this limp?” he asked gently.

She looked up. “As well as you can, Ace.”

Mark wished he could see her features more clearly. She was a short guardian angel, not coming up to his chin, and he could make out that she had long, dark wet hair that was trying to curl. The hand holding his was small, but her grip was strong and sure. She was as soaked as he was and had put on her jacket for warmth, but she looked more like a drowned puppy in need of care than the brave little terrier she was trying to portray.

“We have to get our clothes dried,” he felt compelled
to point out, despite this being her rescue mission. “But first we must put some distance between us and the lake. Are we leaving a blaring trail?”

“Not really. And if we move east for a while, we'll come to some hard ground and can turn north to throw them off. Do you really think they'll follow us?”

“We must assume so,” he answered honestly, straining to see her expression. His eyes stung like hell, but his vision was slowly getting better. He reached up and carefully feathered a finger down her cheek. “You're remarkably calm. And I'm sorry for inadvertently bringing you into this mess. But please don't worry. I won't let anything happen to you.”

Mark didn't need to see her expression, as he could feel her frown against his finger. “You should be sorry,” she softly scolded with a sudden smile. “I was just minding my own business when you fell out of the sky practically in my lap.”

“And I'll buy you a new car,” he promised, dropping his hand.

She went back to frowning, then suddenly gasped. “Everything I own was in that car!”

“Everything? Why?”

“I was headed for the coast. I was hunting one last time before moving to Bar Harbor.”

“Are there people in Bar Harbor expecting you tonight?”

“No.”

She'd answered him rather bluntly, without hesitation or emotion. “No family? Parents? Husband? Boyfriend?” he persisted.

“No.”

Mark sighed. Now was not the time to be finding out about Jane Abbot. Tonight would be soon enough. “Let's go, then. I'm freezing.”

“Zip up your coat,” she ordered—only to do it herself, as if he were a five-year-old. She then patted his chest in a motherly fashion. “Even wet, the leather will hold in your heat. I know a place about an hour from here where we can stop and build a small fire that won't be seen from the air. We should have just enough time to dry our clothes before the sun sets.” She smiled up at him. “Be thankful it's Indian summer.”

Mark let her take his hand again as she started off through the dense trees, even as he hoped she had matches in her backpack—which she'd refused to let him carry. It might have been Indian summer, but he would bet the nights were frosty nonetheless.

For the next hour Mark walked, tripped, cursed, and shivered. His angel, he knew, was also shivering and sometimes cursing. But her expletives were rather civil. No damns or hells or taking God's name in vain; she cursed like a nun, with holy this and holy that, and darns, shoots, and hecks. And even those mutterings were quiet, as if she didn't want him to hear.

She led him up over gullies that could be classified as small gorges, around boulders the size of cars, and across a couple of streams. She never hesitated, always seeming to know where she wanted to go, and Mark uncharacteristically resigned himself to her care while being curiously charmed and utterly enchanted.

She had literally saved his life. Hell, she was still saving it.

Jane Abbot was an enigma; he'd seen her scared, courageous, calm, angry, and blushing. He'd felt her worry, her compassion, and her confidence. Even despite her limping gait, she was holding her own on the rugged terrain, often helping him over some of the rougher spots. But for all of her abilities and bravado, she was still a feminine little thing. The hand he was gripping was contrastingly smooth against his, her bones fine, her body petite. When he'd been so angry at her for shooting at the plane that he'd shaken her, Mark had felt a delicate neck he could have easily snapped with a mere flick of his wrist.

Only she hadn't seemed to notice that fact. She'd gotten angry and threatened to throw him back in the lake, even though he outweighed her by nearly a hundred pounds.

She hadn't seemed to notice that fact, either.

“We're here,” she said on a sigh of relief, suddenly stopping.

“Where is here?” Mark asked, looking around the dark, dense forest.

“Here is about three miles from the pond. The trees are tall and thick enough to disperse any smoke a fire will create, and we definitely can't be seen from the air. This is . . . um, it's probably a good place to spend the night,” she hesitantly offered.

The first hesitation Mark had heard from Jane today. He squinted down at her and grinned. “It sounds as if you've chosen well. And we can both use the warmth and rest. We should be able to make it to safety tomorrow, do you think?”

“Yes.” She shrugged out of her pack and leaned her
gun against a tree. “There's a small settlement about twenty miles from here that has a phone.”

“Twenty more?” Mark asked, gingerly lowering himself to the forest floor.

“I kind of led us out of our way to cover our tracks,” she admitted. “But I know where there's a canoe stashed not far from here,” she rushed to explain. “We can do most of those miles by water.”

“A canoe? Stashed?”

“Sporting camps leave canoes on various lakes every spring so they can fly clients in for a day of fishing and then pick them up that night.”

“And you know where one of these canoes is stashed?”

“One of the camps I used to work for always kept one on a large pond not far from here.”

“You work for a sporting camp?”

“Used to. Actually, over the years, I've worked for several.”

“Doing what?”

“Cook. Chambermaid. Fishing guide. General gofer and bottle-washer.”

Mark just stared at her. That certainly explained her being comfortable in these woods. But it only brought more questions to mind. “What would you like me to do?” he asked when he saw her start gathering wood. He went to rise, but her words stopped him.

“You can take off your clothes.”

“Excuse me?”

She straightened with a stick in her hand and looked at him. “I mean you could . . . you should probably get out of your wet clothes.”

Mark would bet she was blushing again. “Got any fig leaves handy?” he asked dryly.

She chuckled nervously and all but ran to her pack. “No. But I've got a Mylar blanket you can wrap around yourself while your clothes dry,” she said, rummaging around in the pack and then tossing a small packet toward him.

“I'll get out of my wet clothes when you do,” he said, fingering the packet and watching her face. He wished he could see well enough to see her blush, but his eyes were still blurry and the trees had darkened the day to a cave-like dimness.

“I will just as soon as I get a fire going.”

“I'm not helpless,” Mark shot back, tired of being treated like an invalid.

She set her hands on her hips and looked at him, her head cocked to the side. “I know that,” she said, her tone placating—which angered him even more. “But this will only take me a minute. You can . . . you can brush the spruce needles away in a circle for the fire,” she offered—as if he were a child in need of busywork.

Mark threw down the blanket and got on his knees and started brushing the ground clean of flammable debris,
his
soft muttering more heated and in Shelkovan.

True to her word, the little wonder woman had a small but lively fire going within minutes. Then, with the blurry eyes of an amazed man, Mark watched her run a rope between two nearby trees and drape another blanket—which she'd pulled from her magical pack—across it with the reflective side toward the fire. After that she snapped off several pine and spruce boughs and placed them on
the ground in front of the hanging blanket, then pulled out
another
blanket and spread it over the boughs.

Then she waved him over. “You'll be warm in no time. Get out of those clothes and I'll hang them near the fire. It won't take them long to dry. Then we can eat.”

Mark could only stare, dumbfounded, at the woman.

Until she put her hands on her hips again and scowled at him. “Is your brain addled from the crash? You have to do as I say or you're going to catch pneumonia. Strip off, Ace.”

Mark felt a twitch come into his cheek just below his left eye. He slowly reached down and unlaced his boots, pulled them off, and carefully set them on the ground near the fire. Next he worked off his damp socks, then raised his hands and slowly unbuttoned his shirt, never once taking his narrowed, blurry gaze off Jane Abbot.

She suddenly became very busy rummaging through the contents of her pack.

He would get undressed, and then he would undress her if she didn't soon do it herself. She was as wet and cold as he was, and she didn't have his body mass to fight the chill. Nor did she have his stamina—although she seemed to think she did.

But he could tell she was tiring; not just from their walk, which had been hard with her limp, but from the entire day's events. The woman had taken a swim in frigid waters, been shot at and forced into running for her life, and was now taking care of him as if he were a helpless kitten. Well, this particular kitten was going to become a tiger the next time she tried to order him around.

Mark gave orders. He did not take them well. He'd been giving orders all of his adult life and didn't intend to stop now—which Miss Abbot would learn the very next time she opened her bossy, angelic mouth.

“I have some granola bars and powdered soup,” she offered, her head nearly buried in her pack again. “And some hot chocolate. Ah, here it is,” she said, pulling out a square of tinfoil.

“Jane.”

“I can mold this into a pot to heat water.” She looked around and found a small canteen that she'd pulled from the amazing pack from Oz. “I need to find a spring before dark.”

“Jane.”

“And I've got some salve I can put around your eyes,” she went on, pulling out a small, square container that must be a first-aid kit.

“Jane.”

Mark didn't shout; he merely made sure his quiet voice reached her this time. He'd moved over to the bed of boughs and sat with the blanket wrapped around his hips, leaving his chest bared to the warmth of the fire. Jane Abbot stilled at the third sound of her name.

He smiled. She was getting the picture. More than the picture, if the way she was looking at his chest was any indication. “Jane, come here.”

Her mouth opened but nothing came out, and she suddenly buried her nose in her pack again.

“I've got some dry socks in here someplace,” she whispered into the bag.

“If I have to come get you, you won't like it.”

Her head popped up and she blinked at him. “Wh-what?”

Mark sighed. “Do you happen to have another brain in that pack, Miss Abbot? I suggest you come over here and warm up,” he softly . . . suggested.