From Kiss to Queen (22 page)

“Dammit, Jane,” Katy whispered. “I'm not going to let you make me cry.”

“Then come.”

“I . . . I can't,” she said thickly. “I had to pass up a trip to Quebec just a few days ago when I discovered my passport was expired.”

“Mark can get you in Shelkova without one,” Jane drawled. Oh, yeah, she was definitely winning this one.

“But
Uncle Sam
won't let me back in America when I try to come home. And besides,” she rushed on in a growl—Jane assumed to cover up a sob—“I'm committed to covering for a full-time paramedic who's out on maternity leave for the next six weeks. Oh, honey, I'm sorry,” Katy added when Jane went silent. “You know I'd give my right arm to be there with you.”

“I know. And . . . and I understand.”

“How about if I promise to be there when you have the baby?”

“If there even is one.”

That got her a weak laugh. “If there isn't one now, there will be soon. And you know why? Because I'm not sending that
box of condoms
,” she finished in a shout over the blare of an alarm.
“Gotta go, kiddo. Duty calls. I love you!”

M
ark was sitting in the chair that for the last three years he'd teasingly called his father's throne, which was on the verge of becoming his. He was leaning back with his feet propped on the desk, quietly sipping a glass of Jack Daniel's whiskey. He'd discovered the stuff on his sojourn to America and promptly had five cases of it shipped home. At the moment, however, he was worried five weren't going to meet his immediate needs.

It was bad enough the whole palace was in an uproar over the coming ceremonies with carpenters and caterers and people running in every direction, but he also had a security staff on the verge of a nervous breakdown over all the strangers in the house. Yet here he was only three days shy of his coronation—and hopefully his wedding—dealing with familial complaints.

And again, Jane was the topic of discussion.

“I found her in my library, sitting in my chair, smoking one of my cigars,” Reynard said. “Smoking! A cigar, for God's sake!”

Mark set his drink on the desk and scrubbed at his face with both hands, then looked at his father. “When?”

“This afternoon.”

“At around three? The time you usually hole up in your library?”

“Well, yes. You have to do something, Markov. We can't have a cigar-smoking queen!”

Mark picked up his drink again to hide his grin at the picture of a cigar-smoking angel.

“And yesterday,” Sergei said in turn, “I found her behind the barns teaching half the house staff how to play something called horseshoes. She was filthier than any of them and waving her hands like a madwoman trying to explain the game.”

“Did you try this game?” Mark asked before taking another sip of whiskey. “Is it fun?”

“That's not the point. She can't go around wallowing in the dirt and yelling her head off like a fishwife.”

“I see.”

“And every morning she goes to visit those women who caused her to be thrown in jail,” Dmitri spoke up, pacing to the front of the desk. “Some of them are still practicing their old . . . profession.”

“Does she go alone?”

“No. She has her bodyguards trailing behind her. But that's not the point. The future queen of Shelkova can't be associating with prostitutes.”

“I see.”

“And Markov,” Aunt Irina added softly, “all she wants to wear are her jeans and boots. Our staff dresses better than she does.”

Mark smiled at his aunt and took another sip of whiskey.

“Do something,” Reynard ordered. “If you can't control her, then—”

“Let me get this straight,” Mark said quietly, cutting him off. “After saying just last week that she was a breath of fresh air, you're now asking me to make Jane stop being Jane?”

His face darkening with his scowl, Reynard strode to Mark's stock of whiskey. “Her antics may be endearing to
us
, but our people might not feel the same way about their
queen
. We're only asking that you persuade her to be more . . . circumspect.”

Mark set his feet on the floor, set down his drink and stood up, then placed his hands on the desk, palms flat, and looked at Alexi. “Any complaints about my future bride?”

Alexi shrugged. “She takes that old horse for a walk each day down Main Street.”

Mark slowly looked from one family member to the next, all of them staring back with righteous indignation mixed with the hope he would fix their future queen. He shook his head. “You haven't realized, have you?” he asked, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Realized what?”

“We're being tested. And from the sound of things, we're failing.”

“What in the hell do you mean, tested?” Sergei asked.

“Jane's been acting outrageous on purpose to see if we
truly accept her.” He straightened and crossed his arms over his chest. “And from what I'm hearing, we don't.”

“Bullshit,” Dmitri snarled.

Mark shook his head again. “Tell me, have any of you tried to curb her behavior?”

“I've lectured her repeatedly about going into that part of the city,” Dmitri said.

“And I'm guilty of scolding her for smoking cigars,” Reynard confessed, frowning sadly and shaking his own head. “And so I failed, didn't I?”

“Well, we'll know tonight,” Mark told him.

“We will? How?” Alexi asked, suddenly looking hopeful again.

“I'm going to ask Jane to marry me.”

“You've already done that,” Dmitri said.

“No, I haven't. I've told Jane I'm going to marry her, but I've never asked.”

“Really?” Aunt Irina said in surprise. She stood up and started shaking her head like the rest of them. “Oh, Markov, every woman dreams of receiving a proper proposal. You must ask.”

“I realize that, Aunt. I may have momentarily forgotten that truth, but hopefully I've come to my senses in time.”

Reynard sat down with a loud sigh of relief. Dmitri and Alexi did the same. Aunt Irina shot Mark a wink and then left.

Sergei, however, continued staring at him, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. “And once she's your wife, she'll settle down?”

“No,” Mark drawled. “I imagine she'll test us all the way to our graves.”

Sergei groaned and headed to the bar. He didn't pour American whiskey, but good Shelkovan vodka. “You've apparently also forgotten how to tell the difference between an angel and a witch,” he muttered just before lifting the glass to his grinning mouth.

Mark lifted his own glass in salute. “It doesn't matter what she is, so long as she's mine.”

*   *   *

W
alk with me.”

“I . . . ah . . . I can't.”

“Why not?”

“I just can't.”

“I've been watching you this week. Been enjoying yourself?”

“I don't know what you mean.”

“Come down to the ocean with me.”

“It's cold out.”

“Then take me to the kitchen and make me cocoa.”

“Cook said she'll cut off your fingers if she catches you in her kitchen again.”

“Cook doesn't speak English, Jane.”

“She doesn't need to. She gets her point across.”

“While watching your antics this week, I've noticed you walking like an old woman.”

Silence.

“You're in pain now.”

“It's nothing.”

Mark tucked a finger under her chin and raised her gaze to his. “Tell me.”

“You'll think I'm vain. That's a sin, you know.”

“What I think?”

“No, vanity.”

“Sister Roberta's teachings?”

“The Bible says so.”

“What vanity causes you such pain?”

“My limp. I'm wearing a new brace in my shoe to make my legs the same length. Dr. Daveed gave it to me.”

“How does this new brace make walking painful? And why wear it if it does?”

“Daveed said I have to retrain my muscles.” She scrunched up her nose. “And they're protesting.”

Mark smiled, finally understanding—some of it, anyway. “So how is a new brace vain?”

“It's supposed to make my limp less pronounced.”

“Ah. And this is important to you?”

“Of course.”

“I see.”

And he did see—probably better than Jane did. She may have been acting outrageous all week, even while trying to lessen her limp to make herself more acceptable.

“I could carry you to the kitchens.”

“You still couldn't go inside.”

“I'm not afraid of Cook.”

“Yes, you are. I've figured you out, Markov Lakeland. You're all bluster.”

“You think so? And do you think I'll be blustering when I vow my love to you in three days in front of God, my family, and my people?”

Silence again.

Mark took her hand and led her over to the library chair he'd found her reading in a few minutes before.
She'd jumped up when he'd entered, looking as guilty as sin and just as tempting. She probably thought he was here to scold her after Reynard tattled on her for smoking. Mark knew she'd timed his father's arrival in the library down to the minute.

She was dressed in jeans like she had been all week, her hair escaping its bonds and her cheeks pink with guilt and the glow of the fire she'd set in the hearth.

And he loved her.

Mark eased her down in the chair, then knelt in front of her. Pleased she no longer needed her sling, he took both her hands in his and smiled into questioning eyes now level with his own. “I didn't fail your test, angel.”

Those deep pewter eyes went from questioning to innocent. “What test?”

“There is nothing you can do that is outrageous enough to make me stop loving you, Jane.”

“Oh, Mark.”

He let go of her hand to reach in his back pocket and pulled out a small fir bough. He held it up to show her the small, simply set diamond ring dangling from it on a silver ribbon. And then he smiled when he saw that innocence turn to worry. “I wish to ask you, Jane Doe Abbot, to be my wife.”

“Mark,” she repeated on a whisper.

“You can wear jeans to our wedding if you wish, instead of the dress Irina is having made for you. You can invite your friends from jail to the ceremony, and come to me riding Arthur. And you can teach our children how to shoot a gun and curse like a nun. But Jane?”

“Y-yes?”

“The only thing you may never do is leave me. Please marry me in three days and make me the most important man in your life.”

“Are you sure? How can you be sure?”

“I've never been more sure of anything. I love you, Jane.”

“Can . . . can I think about it?”

Mark inwardly frowned while outwardly smiling. “I've given you since that night on the
Katrina
to get used to the idea. And I haven't slept a peaceful night since.”

Jane, it seemed, had no qualms with outwardly frowning. But when she looked down at the ring dangling from the fir bough, her eyes misted again. She started to reach for it, but stopped and looked up at him. “You . . . you believe?”

“In us. I believe in us, Jane. Marry me.”

She reached out again with shaking hands and untied the ribbon, then carefully placed the ring in his waiting hand. Shaking almost as much as she was, Mark slowly slid the ring onto her finger, then raised her hand to his lips. “Thank you, Jane. I promise you this is right for us. Together we will make it right.”

“You know, I . . . I actually believe you.”

He stood up and brought her with him, then carefully pulled her into his arms and hugged her. “You'll give me the words back? Soon?” he asked, kissing the top of her head. “I love you, Jane.”

She buried her nose in his shirt and mumbled something to his chest.

Mark touched her chin and lifted her gaze to his. “Again.”

“I love you.”

He nodded, then pressed her face back to his chest to hide his grin.

Ah, thank the good Lord, but he'd just captured an angel.

*   *   *

A
nd a shy angel she was the next morning at breakfast. Jane was still walking like an old woman, but her face shone with the realization that love had come to her with simple acceptance. And her own love was radiating back at her new family in the form of a blush.

“I . . . I've accepted Mark's proposal,” she told them. “And agreed to be his wife.”

The table erupted, everyone jumping up and pouncing on the startled woman with hugs and kisses of welcome. Reynard couldn't seem to stop squeezing her, calling her daughter over and over again. They were all careful of her shoulder, but Mark finally had to rescue the poor overwhelmed woman. It took him three tugs to get her away from Reynard in order to return Jane to her chair, but the almost ex-king let go only to steal Alexi's seat on the other side of her.

“We're sorry, you know,” Reynard whispered to her.

“What for?” she asked in both surprise and confusion.

“You can smoke all the cigars you want. I promise not to scold.”

Jane's flush turned crimson.

“And you look nice in jeans,” Sergei offered from across the table.

Jane looked down at her plate.

“And I've been thinking,” Dmitri broke in, “that maybe we should pay more attention to all Shelkovans. Even—or rather, especially—your women friends.” He gave her a sheepish look. “We are guilty of forgetting some of our people. It took your eyes to make us see them.”

Jane peeked at Mark and then quickly went back to studying her breakfast.

“Will you teach me to play horseshoes?” Alexi asked.

“Yes.”

“Can I see your ring?” Aunt Irina softly petitioned, leaning forward.

Jane held her hand out over the table to oohs and aahs and compliments from everyone but Sergei.

He just lifted a brow at Mark. “Rather tightfisted in the jewelry department, aren't you?” he drawled, nodding toward the simple ring.