From Kiss to Queen (9 page)

Not really shy by nature, and especially comfortable around groups of men she could be one of the guys with, Jane finally stood up, picked up her plate, and casually limped to one of the occupied tables. “Would you gentlemen mind if I sat with you? The other table is lonely.”

Every man in the entire room quickly scrambled to his feet and every head quickly nodded agreement. Men pushed men aside and made her a place, and the moment she sat down, so did everyone else.

“Are all of you from Shelkova?” she asked, sweeping her smile over the nearby sailors.

Every man at the table nodded.

“Have you all been at sea long on this voyage?”

Everyone nodded again.

Jane sighed. She was going to have to ask questions that needed more than a yes or no answer. “What's Shelkova like?”

Nobody said anything.

“Have any of you met Mark's father?”

They all frantically shook their heads.

Well, heck. This was like pulling teeth. She finally singled out one sailor and smiled at him, causing his Adam's apple to bob. “Mark told me Shelkova is a lot like Maine. That's where I'm from, by the way. Is your coast rugged and rocky?”

“Y-yes, ma'am,” the nervous man answered.

She was on a roll here. “Is the water too cold for swimming? It's right frigid in Maine.”

“Y-yes, ma'am.”

Maybe she should find an older sailor to talk to. This one looked barely old enough to shave. Eyeing each of the fidgeting men at her table, Jane homed in on one with touches of gray in his hair. “What do you do on this ship?” she asked.

“I run catapult.”

Well, he was steadier than his shipmate, but looked just as uncomfortable. “And the catapult is . . . What?”

“That is what shoot jets off deck.”

Jane sighed again. She noticed they'd all stopped eating, and took a bite of her own eggs, then motioned for them to do the same. Heavens, they were acting as if she were an alien from outer space or something. “What do you guys do for fun?” she asked, trying again.

Every fork in every hand silently returned to their trays.

“Oh, for Pete's sakes!” she sputtered on a laugh. “Mark isn't here. You don't have to be so formal. Eat your food. Old Ace can't have you keelhauled for
talking
to me.”

Every face at the table paled.

“His . . . His Highness give order you receive much respect from us,” one daring sailor stammered.

“His Highness? As in a king or something?”

Everyone nodded.

“Shelkova has a king?”

“We call him czar,” another sailor offered, puffing up proudly.

“But there are no more czars.”

“Yes, now. People bring back old family to rule,” the same sailor informed her.

“Really? And His Highness said you have to be nice to me? But how does he even know I'm on this ship?”

“He bring you.”

“What?”

“Czarevitch Markov bring you aboard last day,” the now-sweating sailor told her.

“Markov? You mean Mark? What's a czarevitch?'

“You say . . . heir apparent, I think. Or prince.”

“No. No,” another sailor added. “Czar Reynard decide he is too ill to rule. Markov Lakeland soon be our czar.”

Jane knew her mouth was hanging open, but couldn't help it. Mark was a prince? He was a darned prince! Oh, heavens. Oh, shoot. She'd had sex with a prince!

“Well dammit to hell!” Jane slapped a hand over her mouth. “I'm sorry,” she cried through her fingers. “I didn't mean to say that.”

All the men at the table, and the next table, and the next, were staring at her. She jumped up, causing every man in the room to jump up with her. Staring at them, Jane didn't know whether to burst into laughter or tears.

Both, probably—right after she catapulted Markov Lakeland off the deck
without
a jet.

“Oh, sit down!” she shouted.

Every man in the room instantly sat.

Holy heavens, this being the guest of a prince was dangerous stuff. Jane didn't doubt if she asked them all to jump off the boat, they would—if only to be in Mark's good graces.

Well, he sure as heck wasn't in
her
good graces. Oh, she'd heard of Markov Lakeland. She simply hadn't
connected the dots. No wonder he was
just Mark
; the man was a prince from some country (which she now knew was Shelkova) who had come to America a month ago looking for an American bride. Heck, it had even made the
Pine Lake Weekly Gazette
, it was such titillating news. Some rich, playboy prince was supposedly romancing American women in hopes of furthering his country's ties to almighty America.

And she'd made love to that prince last night? Her? Jane Abbot?

The man was a rat. He'd taken the pathetic cripple from Maine to bed to thank her for saving his life. She'd given her virginity to a womanizing,
royal
rat who had just been . . . what? Toying with her? Or amusing himself on his latest odyssey?

No wonder he'd shouted when she'd told him she hoped she'd gotten pregnant. What soon-to-be king wanted an un-pedigreed, crippled orphan from nowhere to be the mother of his child?
Queens
had king's children, not plain Janes. The lying, deceiving rat was probably laughing his socks off with the captain right now.

Realizing the room had gone deathly silent, Jane turned to see Mark leaning against the head table, his arms folded over his chest. “How long have you been standing there, you rat?!”

“Not long. Mingling with the men, Jane?”

“Getting civic lessons!” she snapped.

“Learn anything interesting?”

“You're a damned
prince
.”

“Tsk-tsk. Such language from an angel.”

That was it. He'd made her swear again. Jane grabbed
a mug off the table and hurled it at Mark's insolent face. He straightened and ducked, letting the metal mug bounce off the wall behind him. The cook came running out of the kitchen, his eyes bugged out, just as Jane picked up another mug and hurled it. Having killed more than one partridge with a rock, she'd anticipated Mark's move and hit him square on the chest. “You lying, low-life pond scum!” she shouted, reaching for another mug.

The men at her table scrambled to their feet. One of them grabbed her, but Jane rounded on him. “Don't you dare try to protect that pompous goat!” she shouted at the sailor, poking him in the stomach when he tried to pull her back.

“He's trying to protect
you
,” Mark said from right behind her.

Jane whirled and came nose to coffee-soaked chest with him. “From who?!”

“From me.”

“Oh yeah? You and whose army, Ace? I might be small, but I fight dirty!”

“My own army, angel.”

She kicked him. He was so close, and she was wearing boots, so she kicked him.

And then she wisely ran.

—right into an officer who was blocking the door and wouldn't let her pass. She thought about kicking him, too, but he was basically innocent. It was only Mark she wanted to pummel. Jane took a calming breath and walked back to the table—going around Mark—and faced the man she'd poked in the stomach. “I'm sorry I hit you,” she whispered. “You're innocent. And it was nice of you to try to protect me.”

His face blistering red, the man mutely nodded.

“Our plane is ready, Jane. Come. I've already gathered your things,” Mark said from near the door.

“I'm not going anywhere,
Your Highness
. I'm staying right here.”

“Here is in the middle of the ocean, witch.”

She lifted her chin. “Then they're going to have to drop me off at the next port, because I'm not getting on a plane with you.”

“It's a fast plane.”

She lifted her chin higher.

Mark sighed. “Your stubbornness always makes things difficult,” he muttered, walking toward her. “And always makes me the villain.”

With that ominous declaration, he picked her up and hefted her over his shoulder like a sack of grain. Ignoring her growl of outrage and her pinching him on the back, he grabbed her pack and shotgun off the table on his way to the door, then stopped and turned. In a loud voice, Mark addressed the dining hall of stunned sailors in Shelkovan, then carried her away to the boisterous roar of cheering.

He stood her on her feet once they were topside, and all Jane could do was glare at him as he dragged her toward a waiting plane. It wasn't a fighter; it was a transport jet, with a pilot and copilot waiting in the cockpit. Frantic now, desperate, confused, angry, Jane broke away while swiping her shotgun in the process, then whirled and pointed it at him. “I'm not going with you! You're a prince!”

His face drained of color. “For the love of God, Jane, drop the gun. Now.”

“No. Just leave me here.”

“Dammit, you don't understand,” he said hoarsely. He suddenly raised his arms and looked up past her head, then frantically shouted something in Shelkovan at the top of his lungs. Even though her back was to the men, Jane didn't dare turn around, and instead raised the shotgun to her shoulder.

“Jane. Drop the gun.”

“D-don't you tell them to jump me. Just get in your plane and go away. I never want to see you again,” she whispered, fighting the urge to wipe her blurring eyes on her sleeve. “I-I just want to go back to Maine, where . . . where I belong.”

“Please set down the gun, Jane,” he rasped thickly, his own eyes misting.

Jane remembered pointing her gun at him on the first boat, and he hadn't paled, hadn't backed away, and hadn't pleaded with her. She was suddenly scared. “Mark?” she whispered, watching him look behind her and hold up his hands again. “P-please, just let me go home.”

“Walk toward me, Jane,” he said calmly. “Keep your gun raised and slowly walk to me. Understand? Don't turn your head. Don't take your eyes off me. Just walk into my embrace.”

She lowered the barrel of her gun, her eyes now running sightless with tears. “M-Mark?”

“NO!”

She felt the impact before she heard the accompanying crack of a rifle. Jane was slammed onto the deck, the force of the blow taking her breath, the sharp, searing pain in her back nearly rendering her unconscious. Strong arms
lifted her on an anguished roar. Booted feet rushed forward, and her shotgun was kicked aside as forceful hands pulled at her, trying to tug her away from Mark. He roared again, the sound echoing through every cell of her body, and Jane flinched on a gasp and let her head fall back.

*   *   *

G
oddammit! He couldn't believe she'd pulled a gun on him in front of an entire warship of sailors. It was a fatal mistake that Mark knew Jane never realized she was making.

She was just mad. And Lord knew when Jane Abbot got mad, things happened. Hell, she'd fired at his assassins. And she'd pulled that damn gun on him once before. But Mark knew she never would have pulled the trigger.

Only the sailors didn't know that.

They'd shot her—protecting him.

And now she was bleeding to death in his arms. Oh Christ, what a mess. He wouldn't lose her. He'd just found this amazing creature. He'd fallen into her lap and she'd kissed the breath of life into him.

“Sire.”

“Don't talk. Save her, dammit!”

“You must let her go, Sire. We have to take her to the infirmary. Let go.”

“No! I'll carry her.”

“Sire . . . Markov, let me tend her,” the white-haired man softly beseeched. “Let me stop the bleeding. Then you may carry her down.”

Carefully handing her into the doctor's care, Mark
looked at Jane's ashen face, her eyes closed and flinching as the life drained out of her. “Speak English!” he snapped to the attending men. “She may be able to hear you. Speak English so she won't be frightened.”

“We will, Sire. Please. Let us work.”

Mark had to walk away. The crowd parted for him, and he walked over to the shotgun someone had kicked under the waiting jet. He picked it up with bloodied hands and stared at it, wishing he could fling it into the sea.

But it was Jane's; a serviceable weapon, the old etching on the stock worn smooth from being carried many miles on many hunts.

In Maine.

Where she belonged, she'd said. She felt she only belonged in the woods, where she could limp without eyes following her. Where she could love a drunken old Yankee who would loan her his truck without question. Where she had no family but the one she intended to build by any means possible, be it through her one time making love to a rat-prince or artificial insemination.

But she could just as easily belong to Shelkova. His people would fall in love with her on sight. Her limp would not disgust them or garner their pity; it would endear Jane in their hearts. And her spirit, her goodness, and her lectures on manners would complement an emerging nation that had so much to give the world by way of people and resources and courage.

Jane Abbot could match the courage of Shelkova. Hell, she could enhance it.

And she would.

Mark worked the action on the shotgun, opening the breach and confirming it was empty. It had been empty since before he'd taken it aboard the
Previa
. Which he was sure Jane had known when she'd pointed it at him this morning. Even in Stonington, Mark had known she wouldn't have pulled the trigger—even when she'd thought him a criminal who'd betrayed her.

Well, hadn't he? She was lying in a pool of that evidence right now.

“Sire. Do you wish to carry her?”

“In English!”

“I'm sorry, Your Highness.”

Mark handed the gun to a sailor with orders to see it was returned to Jane's cabin. He had to shove it into the obviously shaken man's hands, then he walked over to Jane, whose shirt had been ripped away, her upper torso wrapped with pressure bandages.