From Kiss to Queen

by Janet Chapman

  Jane lunged for her shotgun.

  Mark lunged for her, but suddenly stopped at the business end of the shotgun barrel.

  “You Judas! I’m not letting you kill me.”

  “What!” he shouted, his face going from red to purple. “What are you talking about?”

  “You’re not dumping me in the ocean,” she hissed, poking his chest with the gun barrel for emphasis.

  “Dump you in the—” He took a deep breath. “Jane.”

  “You’re a criminal. You used me to get away, and now you’ve got to get rid of me.”

  His jaw snapped shut and his cheek started twitching.

  She stepped away and raised the gun to her shoulder when he reached out. “I . . . I trusted you,” she whispered, her eyes stinging as she blinked back tears.

  And then she sneezed again.

  Jane was jerked forward, there was a shotgun blast, and she was flat on her back on the bed with a very angry giant glaring down at her. One of his large hands reached for her throat, and Jane closed her eyes, letting her tears escape.

  Only the hand settled under her chin and lifted her face. “Jane,” he said hoarsely, using his other hand to gently brush the hair from her face. “I’m not going to hurt you, angel. And you can trust me. I’m trying to keep you safe.”

  He slowly pulled away when she said nothing, then stood up and turned to the man standing on the cabin step holding a handgun. Mark said something to him in Shelkovan, and they both looked at the damage to the boat. Jane swiped at her eyes to also look, and saw a hole the size of a softball in the hull just above the water line. The man smiled crookedly at Mark, then picked up the shotgun and left. Mark turned and picked up Jane’s backpack and the paper bag just as the boat lurched away from the dock.

  Jane bolted for the steps.

  Mark dropped his load with a snarled curse and grabbed her around the waist, tossed her back on the bed, and came down on top of her again. They glared at each other in silence, then Mark gathered her hands, clasped them in front of her, and bound them back up with the length of cloth she’d worked so frantically to untie. Only this time he took off his belt and slipped it through her bound hands and then around her waist, buckling it at her back. His jaw tight and his eyes hard, he bound her feet in silence.

  She also remained silent, her glare accusing. That is, until she suddenly sneezed and her eyes started watering again.

  Mark grabbed the paper bag that had ripped in their scuffle, held it up for her to see, and dumped its contents on top of her. “If I intended to kill you, would I have bought you all of these?” he said ever so softly, gesturing at the bags and bags of candy strewn over and around her. Some were opened, spilling M&M’s on her, the bed, and the floor.

  Jane watched the man she’d pulled from the lake turn and walk out of the cabin, then further spilled the candy when she rolled over, buried her face in the bed, and burst into tears.

  It was a good hour before he returned. The powerful boat they were in was speeding through the waves of the Gulf of Maine, headed for only the devil knew where. Her stomach rebelling at the sometimes rolling, sometimes jarring ride, Jane didn’t even look up when she felt his weight come to rest beside her hip. And she didn’t open her eyes, which were swollen shut from crying and a raging fever, when he cradled her head with one large, gentle hand.

  All she did was moan.

  “You must drink something. You’re still burning up,” he softly petitioned, brushing her tangled hair away from her flushed face. “Come on, sweetheart. I’ve got cold Pepsi. Don’t go stubborn on me,” he said gruffly when she tried to roll away. “You need liquids.”

  He wasn’t going to leave until she drank. And she was parched. So Jane finally opened her eyes and tried to sit up. Mark helped, then had to hold her, since she couldn’t seem to stop shaking. Heaven help her, right now she wished he would throw her in the sea so she could die quickly instead of slowly burning to death—even as she wondered if this wasn’t what Sister Roberta’s purgatory would feel like.

  The boat lurched into a wave, spilling Pepsi over her face and chest and bed.

  “It’s okay, I’ve got you. Drink what’s left.”

  It might have been easier if her hands were free, but she refused to ask the jerk for that concession. She didn’t trust him, and she didn’t believe his tender act now.

  But he bought you M&M’s, her befuddled mind whispered.

  He likes them, too. It’s an act. He’s a criminal. You’re in trouble, Jane Abbot. Big, gonna-die trouble.

  I don’t care. I’m dying anyway.

  Jane tried to wipe her nose on her sleeve, but had to use her shoulder instead because her hands were bound.

  “Christ, I’ll be glad when I can get you to a doctor. If I untie you, will you behave?”

  She shook her head. If he untied her, she was throwing herself off the boat and taking him with her just on principle.

  Mark swore again, in English, for her benefit, she guessed. “I’ll cure your stubbornness someday, witch.” He cradled her head again, making her look at him. “Not long now. We’re almost there, Jane. Just try to hold on a little longer,” he added, gently lowering her down.

  Jane closed her eyes in exhaustion.

  * * *

  Basically, the submarine she was looking at blew her drug-runner theory to smithereens. Criminals didn’t have subs, did they? A person couldn’t just go out and buy one, could they? So how had Mark-with-no-last-name gotten hold of such a large, deadly boat?

  Jane watched the underwater craft break the surface of the night-shrouded ocean like a giant, lumbering beast rising from the bowels of the deep. If it weren’t for the frothing waves lapping against the hull, she wouldn’t have been able to discern it from the ocean, it blended in so well. The engine of the boat they were on had stopped ten minutes ago, and the sudden silence had awakened her. Now she was sitting on the deck in an undignified heap, watching a sight she was pretty sure few civilians ever witnessed.

  Which made her ask her still-befuddled mind—again—who Mark was. A spy or secret agent? Russia had those. Did Shelkova? Or was he just a very wealthy, successful criminal? Maybe Russia had sold off some of their subs to raise a little capital after the breakup. Jane was sure she remembered seeing ads of Russian military surplus for sale; boots, binoculars, jeeps, even field rations. She’d never seen any subs advertised, though. And wouldn’t Uncle Sam have something to say about foreign countries selling private citizens submarines?

  Probably. Which brought her back to her spy theory.

  She preferred Mark-the-drug-runner, because spies were . . . well, they definitely were below criminals on the bad-guy scale.

  The devil himself broke into her thoughts, bending down to pick her up. “Come on, sweetheart. It’s time to go.”

  Jane recoiled and tried to scurry away, even though her hands and feet were still bound.

  Mark hesitated in mid-reach and frowned at her. “We need to move quickly. They can’t stay on the surface for long, as we’re still in American waters.” It was pitch-black out, but she could see the flash of his grin. “And I doubt your government would appreciate finding a foreign submarine not fifty miles from shore.”

  Oh, heavens. He was a spy.

  * * *

  Mark finished picking up his wide-eyed, wilted angel, ignoring her struggles even as he wondered where she got the strength to continue fighting him. He lifted her to the railing and carefully lowered her to the waiting arms of two crewmen from the Previa, and, as careful as they all were, Mark, Jane, and the two men in the launch nearly ended up in the sea.

  “Enough!” he snapped. “Sick or not, I’m going to put you over my knee if you don’t settle down. This is hard enough without you fighting me every step of the way. Now cease!”

  Apparently undeterred by the edge in his voice, Mark had to scr
amble over the rail and save the crewmen from her kicking feet by wrapping his arms around her and giving her a good squeeze.

  “I’m not getting in that . . . that boat!” she screeched, nearly deafening him. “I’m not!”

  Well, hell. She was in a near panic. Mark was suddenly glad for her weakened state. If Jane were feeling any better, she’d have them all visiting Davy Jones despite her petite size. He ended up having to wrap his legs around hers so the crewmen could start the launch, and even then she struggled the entire way to the Previa, her hysteria seeming to grow the closer they got.

  She exploded completely when he carried her to the sail tower. Several other crewmen were standing aside as he hefted her—bucking and now hoarsely screaming—up onto the tower, then had to tell one of the men to untie her feet so he could stand her on the ladder. The man hesitated, clearly not wanting to get near her.

  His own temper finally exploding, Mark barked the order again in Shelkovan, causing several men to flinch and causing Jane to lurch violently. Two crewmen finally grabbed her feet and unfastened the restraint, then helped him lower her onto the ladder.

  “Stand up, Jane,” Mark ordered harshly.

  “No! I’m not getting in this death machine!” she screamed. “P-please,” she suddenly pleaded on a broken sob. “Please don’t put me in this hole.”

  Mark captured her head in his hands, bringing his mouth close to her ear. “There are no other choices, Jane. It’ll be okay. I’ll be right with you.”

  “You don’t understand! I can’t stand . . . I won’t be . . .”

  She was crying in earnest now, trembling all over while straining against his hold. Had she gone from believing he intended to kill her to thinking she might instead end up suffering a fate worse than death? Mark slid his hand to the back of her neck with a muttered curse, and softly pressed his finger to a nerve until she went completely limp.

  He barked another order, making several men scramble to help lower her to outstretched hands below, where she was carefully held until he could climb down and take her again. The men parted at his order, one of them leading Mark along a narrow, low corridor to a cabin that had a wide, single bunk. He gently laid Jane down and quickly freed her hands, brushed the hair from her face, then pressed his palms to her cheeks.

  Lord, she looked dead but for the flush of her fever. Because of her illness, he hadn’t wanted to take away her consciousness, but hadn’t had a choice. Sitting beside her waiting for the ship’s doctor to come and hearing the signal that they were diving, Mark began to pray for her health and forgiveness for what he was putting her through. She’d saved his life and he was slowly killing her in return. If she would only get better, he would gladly stand unmoving before her and take any abuse she wished to give him. He deserved it.

  Because angels deserved better.

  Many women had come and gone in his life, all of them actively vying for his attention, and Jane Abbot had firmly captured his heart without even trying.

  The doctor pointed out that the damp clothes were adding to her shivers as Mark helped him undress the fragile, vulnerable woman. The small, healing scratch on her arm—which he knew was from a bullet—made him wince. It was red, but the doctor assured him it was not the cause of her fever. Fatigue, a raging head cold, and possibly pneumonia were responsible for Jane’s fever, which was likely responsible for her being listless one minute and hysterical the next.

  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.

  * * *

  Well, 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.