From Kiss to Queen

by Janet Chapman

  It was a frustrating ten minutes before she found the stairs, which appeared wide enough to hold an entire orchestra; long and carpeted and impressive in that they opened up to a gigantic foyer that made the White House look like a log cabin. But across the foyer was the door to freedom, and Jane took the steps at a rushing pace despite her weak ankle, having developed a rhythm for stairs at an early age in order to keep up with the other children of Saint Xavier’s.

  She would have made it, too, if the three men hadn’t crossed her path just as she reached the bottom step. She ran headlong with a grunt into the first man, knocking him into the second and forcing him to grab her shoulders to steady her.

  Jane yelped as his hand wrapped over her wound. He immediately let her go, only to grab her waist when she started to fall. He saved her by smashing her nose to his chest, pinning her sling-covered arm between them and wrapping his arms around her.

  “Ho, what is this I’ve caught?” he chuckled, giving her a squeeze. “Could it be an angel that’s flown into our midst?” he asked over the top of her head.

  “This angel is going to bite you if you don’t let me go,” she said into his shirt.

  That got her a chuckle. “Ah, Sergei, an angel with teeth.”

  Deciding the bite threat was a little risky, Jane instead pinched him right on the fat of his side, only to feel solid flesh—she was suddenly glad she hadn’t bit him. He did release her, though. She took a step back and looked up into Mark’s eyes but not Mark’s face. This face was younger, far less serious, and almost as handsome.

  The man wrapped his hands around his waist and bowed deeply. “My apologies, angel, for bumping into you,” he said, still bowed.

  “Th-that’s okay.” Jane looked at the two men accompanying him, and they smiled and bowed. But not until she’d seen their eyes, which were also exact duplicates of Mark’s.

  “Please,” the first man entreated as he straightened. “Let me introduce myself. I am Alexi, youngest brother to Markov. And this smiling fool is my brother Dmitri, the next youngest. And Sergei here has the privileged distinction of being Reynard’s second son.”

  Jane could only stare at the three obvious devils acting like civilized men. And they were all Lakelands!

  Dmitri picked up the flower that had fallen from her hair, and, smiling like the devil himself, carefully tucked it back in her hair. “And you must be Mark’s beautiful angel, Jane Abbot of Maine, giver of life and owner of that wondrous pack we have heard about,” he said, giving her a mischievous wink.

  Still stupidly staring, Jane blushed to the roots of her unbraided hair.

  “I am sorry I hurt you,” Alexi apologized. “I did not stop to think.”

  “That’s okay,” Jane repeated to his chest. His physically fit chest. She could see now that there was no fat anyplace—on any of them.

  “Where is it that you were going in such a hurry?” Sergei asked.

  “Just outside.”

  “May we escort you someplace?”

  Not in this lifetime. Not you three devils. “I think I’ll . . . ah . . . I was looking for a bathroom first.”

  “I will show you,” Sergei offered, gesturing in the direction away from freedom.

  Just wanting to get any door between herself and these gorgeous specimens of manhood, Jane rushed ahead, nearly tripping when her ankle faltered. Sergei quickly took her right arm and tucked it in his, then led her down another hall as the others followed.

  Jane was mortified. Three men were escorting her to the bathroom as if they were taking her to high tea. And she was facing another stupid, endless hall. But at least this one was on the ground floor. Heck, she could jump to freedom.

  Which is exactly what she did just as soon as she closed the door on their smiling faces. Jane ran over and threw open the window. It was only a five-foot drop, no worse than most boulders she scaled in the course of a hike. Not feeling the least bit guilty, and wishing she could be a fly on the wall when the men realized she wasn’t coming back out, Jane slid a leg over the ledge and, with one-armed awkwardness, jumped to freedom.

  * * *

  Jane spent a good hour walking the cliffs and watching the sea churn up foam against the rocks below. Seagulls, birds of the world, soared on the wind and gave her a spectacular aerial show, their soothing caws slowly un-frazzling the tension of the last eleven days.

  But the horizon finally darkened with the encroaching night, forcing Jane to return to her gilded sanctuary. She reentered by way of a door set into the side of the house. No, palace. But it did seem to be a home, with a father and at least four sons. Jane was pretty sure the Lakelands could live in a shack and still be a strong, close family, and she envied them that gift.

  Her first mistake was not looking to see what room she was entering. Her second was not checking to see if it was occupied. It was; by an older man with white hair, broad shoulders, and the eyes of his sons.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize this was . . . That you were . . . I’m sorry. I’ll just go out and try again.”

  “Please don’t run away, Miss Abbot,” Reynard Lakeland said. He set down the book he’d been reading and stood, extending his hand. “Come sit and talk to this old man.” His eyes took on a shine. “Or are you anxious to face my four disgruntled sons?”

  “You’re not old. Your Highness,” she tacked on. “And your disgruntled sons don’t scare me.” She frowned. “Four?”

  Reynard Lakeland laughed. “Once those poor, unsuspecting boys decided you weren’t coming out, they ran to Mark with tales of an angel who had flown away on ungrateful wings.”

  Jane could picture the three princes running and complaining like pouting children.

  “So come sit with me, child, that I may thank you for letting me keep my eldest son,” Reynard entreated, motioning to two chairs facing each other beside a large, marbled hearth.

  Jane felt herself turning red. “I didn’t really do anything,” she said, conceding to the slight plea in his voice and taking a seat across from him. As soon as she sat, so did he. Jane had been around a lot of men, but none with manners like the Lakelands. They had a way of making a woman feel . . . special. And her uncomfortable.

  “According to my son, you dove into the cold water of a pond and pulled him free of his wrecked plane. Is this a frequent habit of yours?”

  “No. I mean no, Your Highness.”

  “I am no longer a ‘Highness,’” the man told her. “In two weeks, I will be just Reynard.”

  “You don’t even get an honorary title? After being a king?”

  “Well, maybe,” he admitted. “But I have been king for only three years. I’m more used to Reynard. Will you accommodate me on this, Miss Abbot?”

  She gave him a smile, letting him know she knew what he was doing. “Okay, Reynard. If you call me Jane.”

  “I’ve been told you’re a perceptive woman.” He suddenly scowled. “You are chilled. Shall I call for a fire to be set? We have a couple of hours before dinner.”

  “Oh, I can do it.” Jane jumped up, glad for something to do. “I love building fires,” she explained by way of apology at his surprised look.

  He leaned back on a sigh. “I suppose you do. Will you tell me about yourself, Jane?”

  * * *

  Kneeling in front of the large hearth, she turned and gave him a wary look, Reynard noticed. She was shy and perceptive and compassionate, just as Mark had told him. And she was beautiful, her cheeks rosy from her walk and maybe a little blushing. Her hair was a mess of windblown knots, and she was self-conscious, running her fingers through the tangles while trying to be discreet about it. The clothes fit, although they were outdated by several years. They had been Katrina’s, and Jane was just her size. And just as beautiful, and as alive with a zest and innocence that rendered a man helpless to her charm. Lord, he wished Katrina could be here to
see how well her son had chosen. She would approve.

  Reynard watched with amusement and no little amazement as Jane awkwardly but confidently assembled a log tower of kindling over paper, lit a match to it, then leaned several logs against it. With only one hand available, the woman was still able to make the task a simple undertaking. Her face awash with the glow of the flames, she dusted her hand on her pants and leaned back, putting her weight on her good leg.

  As Mark had said—repeatedly—she was a capable woman, comfortable with what she knew. But she was not comfortable with him or with praise or with her position here. It was obvious in the way she surreptitiously looked around the room, her eyes filling with awe whenever she spied something strange or opulent.

  “You have a beautiful home,” she said, looking back over her shoulder.

  “It belongs to Shelkova, not to us. They have kept it intact and beautiful, hoping for the day it would be lived in again as it should be.”

  “Your family has been a part of Shelkova’s history for centuries?”

  “Yes. And now we will be again.”

  “It’s an awesome undertaking, isn’t it, being responsible for an entire nation?”

  “It can be. But it is also rewarding. The people take care of themselves for the most part. We have a parliament and the people all have a voice. It was their voice that put us back in this house. Shelkova is a sotto-democracy in many ways, but unlike in England, there is a need for a figurehead who can have the recognition and clout to establish our country as an economic part of the world. As king I was able to make trade agreements and pacts, using only my word for collateral. And soon, Markov will be making those decisions.”

  “Heavens! I’ve been sitting here like a dead stump. I haven’t asked how you’re feeling. Mark said you had a small stroke,” she finished on a shy whisper.

  “Yes, minor,” Reynard agreed with a chuckle. “Enough to make me give up my throne.”

  “And you’re better now?”

  “Yes. I am better.”

  “I’m glad. Mark was worried and in a hurry to get home to you.”

  “He is a most dutiful son. And a very special man.”

  Reynard wasn’t sure, but he thought she gave a little snort under her breath. She set more logs on the crackling fire, then finally got up and came back to her seat.

  “Now, I believe you were going to tell me about yourself,” he reminded her, smiling at her frown.

  “I believe you would be bored, Your—Reynard. I grew up in the woods of Maine, which isn’t all that exciting, and worked for sporting camps most of my adult life. And then one day while I was out hunting partridge, your son fell out of the sky and into a pond I happened to be passing. That’s it.”

  In a nutshell, Reynard decided; a very guarded nutshell that would take a great deal of effort to crack. And patience and cunning and trust. “How is your shoulder healing?”

  “Fine,” she said, blushing again through a sheepish smile. “I did a very foolish thing.”

  “And then you did a wondrous thing by forgiving the man who shot you, making him a hero in the eyes of his shipmates. That was a very noble thing to do.”

  “Noble? Dorjan was just following orders to protect your son. I’m fortunate the man is good with a gun.”

  “And you, Jane? Are you good with a gun?”

  Her blush deepened. “I usually hit what I’m aiming at.”

  “And you know when a gun is loaded or not?” he prodded.

  “I’ve carried that particular shotgun over many miles in the last twelve years. It was a gift to me from my foster parents. I can tell if it is loaded just by the weight of it.”

  Reynard noted the mention of the people who had raised her. Not her blood parents. He also noted her little chin rising defensively as she obviously wondered where this conversation was leading. And he noted she was tiring from her first journey from her bed. “You were never taught not to threaten what you can’t back up?” he asked. “That pointing an empty gun is a dangerous bluff?”

  That chin rose higher. “I was angry and wanted to make a point. Your son was dragging me from one ship to the next and halfway across the world.”

  “Mark just snatched you away without explaining why?” Reynard persisted. “Without explaining the danger to you if you stayed in Maine?”

  Her chin lowered slightly. “He said something about not wanting to leave me, that he felt . . . guilty.” She raised her chin again. “I can take care of myself. I don’t need his guilt or pity.”

  “Pity! You think Markov pities you?” Reynard choked out, only to laugh at her scowl. “My daughter, the last thing my son feels for you is pity. In fact, I believe he’d like to throttle you most of the time.” He cocked his head at her startled look. “What surprises you more—that Markov would like to throttle you, or that I called you daughter?”

  She snorted. “I know what your son would like to do to me, since he threatens it enough.” She suddenly smiled. “Not that he ever would—or could.” She shook her head. “Only weak men use their strength against women, and your son definitely isn’t weak. He’s all bluster.” Then she frowned. “And I’m no one’s daughter.”

  Well, that was telling. More than she realized, Reynard guessed. He smiled warmly. “But I have always wanted to say the word. I have always wished for a daughter.”

  “You have only sons?”

  “Four,” he confirmed, nodding. “Lakeland men are destined to only have sons.”

  Reynard watched Jane’s good hand slide to her stomach, his claim apparently making her wonder about the child she hoped to be carrying. And she appeared pleased with the idea of having a son, if the small upward curve of her lips was any indication. Lord, she’d really blush if she knew he was aware of that possibility. “You are tired. Why don’t you go have a rest, and I’ll come get you in a couple of hours and escort you to dinner,” he suggested, standing up and reaching for her good hand.

  “Thank you, but I should eat in my room.”

  “No. You are well enough to sit with us tonight. We have some guests from Europe; a businessman has brought his daughter to visit in hopes of catching the eye of the new king of Shelkova,” he explained, looking for some reaction—which he certainly got. Jane Abbot exposed her thoughts in a telling, ferocious scowl.

  “I . . . I don’t think I should be there,” she hedged, patting her tangled hair with her good hand. “I would be out of place. Mark will want to give a good impression to this businessman. And his daughter,” she tacked on in a mutter. “I should eat in my room like I’ve been doing.”

  “Nonsense,” he shot back, realizing everything Markov had told him about Jane’s self-esteem was sadly true. “I’ll sit beside you,” he cajoled. “We can watch the proceedings from the foot of the table and whisper behind our hands.”

  “You would sit at the foot of the table? But you’re still king.”

  “Who in two weeks will be a mere man again, Jane, so why not take advantage of my position now to sit wherever I please?”

  “We would be a long way from Mark and his . . . guests?”

  “Yes.”

  “I did see something rather pretty in my wardrobe. Do you suppose I should wear it?”

  “That is why the clothes are there. Mark told me yours . . . blew up.”

  Her smile widened. “Trust me, it wasn’t a great loss. I was planning on buying new clothes for my new life, anyway.”

  “New life?”

  “I mean for when I got a new job down on the Maine coast, which was where I was heading when I met your son.”

  “I see,” Reynard murmured, indeed seeing a lot. Mark had told him of his suspicion that Jane was running from something. It would have to be something big to make her leave her woods. “Then dress in the pretty clothes after you rest, and I will be at your door in two hours,” he said,
leading her out into the hall.

  “Ah, can you tell me how to get to my room? I’m liable to end up in the kitchens.”

  “Wait here,” Reynard told her, going back in the library and coming out with a book. “This is a history of the palace. You’ll find several maps in it,” he informed her, tucking the book under her good arm and then placing his hand at her back. “Come. I will show you the way today, so you won’t end up in the kitchens, as Cook is liable to toss you a dishcloth and put you to work. Not that you look the part,” he quickly added when he saw her frown and realized he’d just insulted the woman by telling her she looked like a dishwasher. Lord, the poor girl’s ego was fragile, if even existent. “Cook would put me to work if I dared venture in. And don’t ever try to steal any tarts, or you’ll find yourself missing some fingers.”

  Still looking skeptical, Jane stopped and turned to him. “You shouldn’t be walking the stairs, should you? You’ve been ill. Just tell me the way and I’ll be fine.”

  “I most certainly can and will take you to your room. I’m supposed to exercise,” he quickly added, feeling his neck heat to a dull red. “But thank you for your concern.”

  And that was that, the retired king decided. Now he had to go find Irina and tell her the new seating arrangements for dinner tonight, as he wanted a good seat for the fireworks.

  Chapter Ten

  Jane’s bedroom door opened and a woman who definitely wasn’t staff walked in. “I’ve brought you a dress, Miss Abbot,” the fiftyish woman said. “And shoes. We dress for dinner,” she continued, her gaze settling on Jane’s old boots peeking out from beneath her slacks. “And I brought some stockings.”