From Kiss to Queen

by Janet Chapman

  “You stayed because you thought I was dying?” she asked, clearly surprised.

  But when he saw her eyes darken, he caught her chin when she tried to turn away. “Not from guilt. Not like you think. I am guilty of your being hurt, but I’m still here because I care.”

  Her face went blank beneath his stare, and she tried closing her eyes against him.

  Mark gently squeezed her chin. “You have got to be the most stubborn woman I’ve ever met. What is it going to take for you to believe me?”

  “Absolutely nothing,” she said, pulling away and turning to the wall, only to flinch.

  “I will get the doctor. He will want to see you, now that you’re finally awake.”

  He went to find the doctor, then followed him back to Jane’s room, but stood off to the side, out of her line of vision.

  “Now, Miss . . . Abbot, is it?” the doctor asked, his expression tender. “How do you feel?”

  Mark listened as Jane politely said she was just fine. Until she sneezed. Then she cried out in pain. Mark flinched but didn’t move. The doctor immediately repositioned the bed until she was in a semi-sitting position.

  “There, that will take a little pressure off your shoulder and hopefully help that head of yours,” the doctor continued. “Your cold is much better, but you may have to cough or sneeze some, and that will be painful.”

  “What did the bullet do to me?” she asked, obviously thinking they were alone.

  “I removed it from your shoulder,” he answered truthfully. “You’re going to be immobile in that arm for a while. And very tender. But you should heal quickly and will have full use of it eventually.”

  “Eventually?”

  “Many months for complete muscle recovery,” he explained. “But within a week or two, you will be able to use your left hand for small tasks, just not raise your arm very high.”

  Mark watched Jane think about that.

  “Thank you. Ah . . . may I ask you a question?” she whispered to the man’s chest.

  “Certainly, Miss Abbot,” the doctor replied, smiling at her blush.

  “First, call me Jane. Or can you?” She looked up, wrinkling her nose. “Or has His Highness forbidden it?”

  The doctor coughed, looking in Mark’s direction. Mark smiled and nodded.

  “Okay, Jane, what did you want to know?”

  “Can I . . . If I were to have . . . Well, if I might be . . . pregnant,” she stammered. “I mean, if I were just barely pregnant from, say, the night before, could my being shot have harmed the baby?” she finished in a blazing blush, her eyes back on the doctor’s chest.

  The man coughed again, his own cheeks darkening slightly. “Well,” he stalled, this time looking everywhere but at Mark, who was feeling a little flushed himself.

  Jane Abbot’s mind worked in a most incomprehensible way. She was obviously quite serious in her quest for a baby, and quite hopeful her one time in a man’s bed had gotten her with child—probably because she never wanted to have to go through that debacle again.

  “Well,” the doctor tried again, his chin resting in his palm as he tried to find an answer to her question. “If conception were possible, the trauma of your injury would probably prevent it. Your body has had quite a shock, what with the injury itself and then the operation.”

  “Oh.”

  “But,” the doctor added, touching her hand at her obvious disappointment, “stranger things have happened. If a child is promised to be born, it will be. It’s still possible, Jane, that you could have conceived, as the fertile egg is floating freely for the first week or two. It may not even know you’ve been shot,” he finished, smiling at the hope in her eyes.

  “Thank you.”

  “Is it a possibility? This pregnancy?” he asked.

  Mark could only see the tip of her nose now, but it was bright red, and not from a lingering cold, either.

  “Ah . . . yes. Yes, it is,” she said more firmly.

  “Then we will treat you as such,” the doctor told her, petting her hand. “I will see that you are given nothing to harm your baby, Jane, how about that? And no more X-rays.”

  “Yes. Yes, I think that would be good. If I’m pregnant,” she said, smiling through her blush, “then I want to do everything right. I really want a baby. It will be my family,” she added. “And I’m sure the sisters of Saint Xavier’s will understand why I didn’t wait until I had a husband first, don’t you?”

  Clearly confused, the doctor could only nod. “I am sure they would.”

  Mark knew the poor man had absolutely no idea who the sisters of Saint Xavier’s were. To that, neither did he. But he suspected. And he finally, slowly began to understand.

  “You will sleep now,” the doctor told her.

  “But how long do I have to stay here? Mark—I mean His Highness—has to get home to his father. And it looks like the man won’t go until I can go with him,” she ended on a mutter.

  Eyebrows raised, the doctor glanced in Mark’s direction, then looked back at Jane. “I would like you to stay in that bed for two weeks,” he said, smiling at her unladylike snort. “But we can comfortably transport you in a day or two. The departure from this carrier pulls a lot of g-forces, and I would like you to be further healed first.”

  “You speak English well. Do you have a name?” Jane asked, the smile in her voice giving Mark hope his mischievous angel was back.

  “Daveed.”

  “Oh, that’s lovely.”

  “And now you will sleep?”

  “Yes. I am tired.”

  “Do you hurt very much? I would like to keep the medicine at a minimum, in case there is a baby, but you needn’t be in pain. I have safe drugs that will help,” Daveed quickly added, noticing at once his mistake.

  Jane would put the probably nonexistent baby before her pain.

  “I . . . My shoulder does hurt some,” she hedged. “But aspirin will probably work.”

  Like hell, Mark thought. If it hurt enough for her to mention, then it hurt like hell. Mark firmly shook his head, giving the doctor a speaking look.

  “I will give you something intravenously,” Daveed told her, quickly injecting the waiting medicine he’d anticipated she would need upon awakening. “It’s safe, Jane.”

  “O-okay. And thank you, Dr. Daveed,” she whispered, yawning and then flinching at the movement. “Tell Mark—I mean, tell His Highness to get some sleep himself, if he comes back here. He looked like he did when I pulled him out of the lake,” she finished on a sigh, finally closing her eyes.

  The good doctor nodded agreement despite the fact that Jane didn’t see him, clearly not knowing what she was talking about. Well, he would soon, along with everyone on this ship. Mark wanted all of them to know she’d saved his life four days ago. And when he got her home, all of Shelkova was going to hear about it, too.

  Mark rubbed his hands over his tired eyes, nodded his thanks to Daveed, and quietly walked from the room. He looked like hell because he hadn’t left her for two days, not even to shower. He’d held her hand and prayed, and cursed the events that had brought Jane to the infirmary in the first place.

  He’d talked to the man who’d shot her, intending to have him drawn and quartered, then flogged, then thrown over the side of the ship. But after ten minutes with the clearly distraught and nearly suicidal sailor, Mark had simply walked away.

  He’d had more important things to think about. Like one stubborn angel who wouldn’t die because he would not allow it. He headed for the captain’s quarters that had been Jane’s but were now his. He just wanted to sleep in the same bed he’d made love to her in; to close his eyes and thank God she’d be all right—eventually—even if she did hate him. He could live with that. And he would cure her little “I’m nobody” problem once he got her home.

  * * *

  She wa
s halfway into her second day (not counting the two she’d slept through), and Mark was still coming to visit her even though she was actively—okay, nastily—trying to discourage him. But he would come anyway, and always leave with a clenched jaw and a small, persistent twitch in his cheek.

  Jane knew she was being spiteful, snotty, and petty, not to mention disrespectful to an almost-king. But heck, the guy was letting her. Because he felt guilty and pitied her, he was taking her abuse. Yeah, well, he should; not only for kidnapping her with every intention of dragging her halfway around the world, but for making her feel special by making love to her and then crushing her newfound confidence. But his worse sin was lying by continually insisting she was special. So her only defense was sarcasm and sometimes indifference, or anything else that induced that little twitch in his cheek.

  She’d had another persistent visitor for the last day and a half, but he stayed in the hall. In his hand he always had his seaman’s cap, which was now a mangled blob of wool, and he would stand just outside her door and peek in her room when he thought she was asleep, the lines of his face distraught and his eyes usually tearful.

  Jane had a pretty good idea who he was.

  The guy was fifty years old if he was a day. He was tall, strong, and capable-looking, with shoulders that had once stood broad with pride but were now stooped with . . . shame, maybe. And Jane had noticed (through her half-closed lashes) that his eyes, when they weren’t misted, were bright and clear and sharp. Sometimes he’d just stand there for over an hour before he heard someone coming and would quietly disappear.

  This time, he was caught.

  Two crewmen came upon him and pushed the startled man up against the far wall in Jane’s line of sight, got their noses real close to his, and said something nasty-sounding in Shelkovan.

  With her good but uncoordinated right hand, Jane picked up the carafe of water on the table by the bed and flung it with all her might at the men. She missed by a mile, but the clatter and splattering water was enough to gain their attention. “You better let him go, guys, or I’m gonna come over there and teach you some manners,” she threatened, trying to sound forceful.

  All three men stared in shock, their jaws falling nearly to their chests.

  “I’m a guest of Prince Markov, so you better do as I say,” she reminded them.

  The two men immediately released their victim, who nearly slumped to the floor before he caught himself.

  “So now you find my being a prince useful?” Mark drawled from right behind the men.

  Jane shrugged her good shoulder, smiling sweetly. “Whatever works, Ace. I want to talk to that man,” she rushed on, trying to sit up as she pointed at the deathly pale sailor frantically shaking his head.

  Mark clapped him on the shoulder and drew him into the room, skirting around the fallen water jug, then lifting a brow at her. She just smiled again. Mark turned and dismissed the two sheepish assailants.

  “Could you please come here?” she asked the man, waving him over.

  Mark had to give him a push to start him on his way. The sailor’s poor hat was now being twisted into oblivion, and his eyes were looking at the floor.

  “What’s your name?” she asked.

  “D-Dorjan,” he whispered to the floor.

  “Well, Dorjan, could you come closer, please, and give me your hand?”

  He gave her his hat. He quickly stuffed it in his pocket, then reached toward her again, holding out his shaking hand for her to take.

  She squeezed it. “Thank you,” she told him simply.

  His head snapped up, and Jane gasped when she saw the bruise on his cheek. She turned and glared at Mark. “Did you hit him?”

  “No,” Mark replied, shaking his head and grinning.

  She looked back at Dorjan, who was giving her an incredulous look. “Wh-why you thank me, lady? I . . . I am one who shoot you,” he finally got out in broken, heavily accented English.

  “I’m thanking you for not killing me,” she said, squeezing his hand again. “I would bet you’re an excellent shot, aren’t you?”

  He nodded stiffly, his face reddening.

  “And you wished to save your prince, but you didn’t wish to shoot me, did you?”

  He nodded again.

  “And so you placed your shot accordingly. Thank you. I appreciate your . . . aim.”

  The poor man dropped to his knees by the bed and kissed her hand, which was still holding his. “I am sorry, lady, for hurting you. I was told by first officer to protect Czarevitch. I am best shot. But I not want to shoot you.”

  “Well, it was a good compromise, Dorjan. I’m glad it was you they asked, and I’m glad you hit what you’re aiming at. You were aiming for my shoulder, weren’t you?” she asked with a small laugh.

  “Yes, lady,” he confirmed, nodding frantically.

  “Well, a small wound is better than dead. Now tell me how you got that bruise.”

  He lowered his eyes again.

  Jane squeezed his hand. “It’s okay, I’ve got a fair notion where it came from.”

  She turned and glared at Mark again, who was looking at her with gleaming eyes, then looked back to Dorjan.

  “When I go to the plane this afternoon, I won’t be able to walk very well, because my ankle . . . well, it seems I twisted it as I was falling when you shot— Yes, well, I can’t imagine what an ordeal it will be to maneuver a wheelchair over all those hatch-like doors in all the hallways, and I was wondering if you would maybe carry me up to the flight deck. If it’s not too much trouble for you,” she quickly tacked on.

  Dorjan’s mouth fell open again as he looked up at her and then darted a frantic look at Mark, who slowly nodded.

  “I would appreciate it,” she told Dorjan, squeezing his hand again.

  Those broad shoulders suddenly straightened, and Dorjan finally found a smile. “I will be honored, lady.”

  “Good.” She let go of his hand and tugged on his sleeve. “Will you get up now? You make me feel like some queen at court or something.” She rolled her eyes. “You understand, right? I want you to realize that I appreciate your position, and what you had to do. But mostly I appreciate you were thoughtful enough to put my shoulder in your sights and not my head.”

  Dorjan nodded, flushing again, only to flinch when Mark clapped him on the shoulder and then talked to him for several minutes—in Shelkovan. At first Jane was disgruntled, but when she noticed Dorjan’s shoulders going back even more and his eyes filling with pride, she forgave Mark his rudeness. With a final clap on his shoulder, Mark sent Dorjan away. The man turned and bowed at Jane, smiled shyly, then finally left.

  Mark walked over, bent down, and firmly planted his lips on her startled mouth. And he left them there for the longest time—nearly making her eyes cross.

  “Wh-what did you do that for?” she squeaked once she got her mouth back. “And don’t do it again,” she snapped once she got her wits back.

  “I did it because I am in awe of you. Of your perception of your sniper, your insight into his bruise, and your solution to a very delicate problem,” he said, spoiling his speech by bending down and kissing her again.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she muttered.

  Mark cocked his head. “Maybe you don’t. You’re not a calculating woman; just natural.”

  She didn’t know what that meant, either. “When are we leaving for your imperial home?”

  “One hour. Do you feel well enough to travel?”

  “And if I say no?”

  “Then we will wait.”

  “Really? Why can’t I just follow you later?”

  “Because,” he whispered, getting close to her face again, “the minute I left, you would have every man on this ship under your spell, and would end up getting someone to fly you back to Maine.”

  Well,
it had been worth trying. “I don’t want to go home with you.”

  “Why?” Mark asked with an exasperated growl, straightening and running a hand through his hair. “What is so terrifying about coming home with me?”

  “I bet you live in a grand house, don’t you? Or a castle or palace or something. I’d stand out like a sore thumb. I don’t belong there.”

  “You belong wherever you happen to be. You hide in your woods.”

  “It’s my home. Living where I was brought up doesn’t mean I’m hiding.”

  “Why haven’t you married?” he asked. “Why were you still a virgin at your age?”

  “Because I didn’t want to be a mistress!” she all but shouted, only to clamp a hand over her mouth.

  “Whose mistress? What man asked you to be his mistress?”

  “None of your darn business.”

  They stared at each other, both refusing to back down. Dr. Daveed walked in and practically had to pry them apart. Shaking his head, he spoke to Mark in Shelkovan.

  “In English,” Jane snapped, only to cover her mouth again. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound like . . . like . . . I didn’t mean to sound bossy,” she finished on a contrite whisper.

  “It is I who should ask forgiveness, Jane. I was being rude. I was just saying that I wished to get you ready for your journey.”

  “How long will that be? Shelkova is on the other side of the world and we’re still in the Atlantic, aren’t we?”

  “It’s a short distance if we fly over the North Pole,” Mark answered for him. “Not many hours. We will be in a transport, but it will be fast. Although not Mach two,” he told her with a smile. “Next time, okay?”

  Jane snorted. “I’m not traveling with you again, Ace. Not even to walk to the store.”

  Mark pivoted on his heel and walked out muttering something. Jane couldn’t tell if it was in English or Shelkovan, only that it had sounded . . . ominous.

  * * *

  Mark stood out of the way like a spare wheel. Jane, it seemed, was going to run this show. She had the doctor, the captain of the Katrina, several stupidly smiling officers, and Dorjan in the infirmary, all tripping over themselves to help her.