From Kiss to Queen

by Janet Chapman

“I see.”

  The woman’s hair was neatly tucked into an intricate bun at the back of her head, and she wasn’t any taller than Jane, her figure trim and her eyes blue and intense. She didn’t look like a Lakeland, although she spoke with an air of authority, her mannerism and very aura suggesting a person sit up and listen to what she was saying. But having grown up with more than one formidable nun looking over her shoulder, Jane had learned a few tricks to pluck the thorns from such a woman’s mien.

  Jane turned her smile to full power. “I’m Jane Abbot,” she said, offering her hand.

  “Aunt Irina,” the woman said, seemingly startled as she held out her hand holding the shoes. Irina flushed, setting the shoes on the floor and the dress on the bed. “You have to hurry. His Highness will be arriving soon to escort you to dinner,” she instructed as she walked over and opened the wardrobe.

  “It’s very nice of you to bring me the dress,” Jane said, still smiling warmly. “But I’m afraid I can’t wear it. Or the shoes.”

  “Can’t?” Irina asked, obviously surprised by the calmly given refusal. “But you must. You can’t wear pants to dinner. It’s not done.”

  “Then I will have to miss dinner,” Jane said, still smiling and still calm.

  “But you must,” Irina repeated, her voice rising. “Reynard said you would.” Her eyes suddenly narrowed. “You are American, so it is understandable you don’t realize the honor you’ve been given.”

  Jane’s smile began to falter. “I realize the honor,” she softly told the instructing woman. “But if you don’t wish Reynard to be embarrassed, then I’ll either wear pants or not go at all.”

  “You mean ‘His Majesty,’ don’t you?” Irina corrected.

  “Whatever,” Jane shot back, her smile completely gone. “Whatever you want to call the man, I’m not going to dinner wearing a dress. Look,” she said on a sigh. “I wear a brace on my right leg that reaches from my knee to my heel. I don’t wear dresses because it’s not a pretty brace, and I can’t wear those shoes because they won’t fit over it.”

  The woman slowly nodded as her gaze traveled to Jane’s right foot. “Oh. I see. Well, then, we’ll just have to . . .” Irina walked to the chair by the window and sat down, absently staring at Jane’s leg. But her mind was obviously somewhere else—in some closet, likely. So Jane sat on the bed and patiently waited.

  “I have a pair of shoes that would be fashionable,” Irina offered, still vacantly looking at Jane. “They would go better with those slacks.” She sighed. “But you will be the first woman since Katrina to come to the table wearing pants.” Her eyes turned distant. “Reynard’s wife. My sister. She died five years ago.”

  “I’m sorry. I would have liked to meet Mark’s mother.”

  “You mean ‘His Highness’?” Irina corrected.

  Jane waved her hand in the air. “Whatever.”

  Irina looked directly at Jane, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Kat would have liked you, I believe. But enough. We’ve got to get you dressed for dinner,” she went on, standing up and pulling on a long, embroidered ribbon of cloth.

  “Is that a bellpull?” Jane asked excitedly. She already knew the answer, since one of the maids had told her how to get their attention, but Jane was determined to win over this woman. Aunt Irina would be much better as a friend than an enemy. “A real one? There’s a bell ringing someplace in this building right now?”

  “Yes. Of course,” Irina said absently as she returned to the wardrobe and rummaged through the clothes. Jane had seen the dresses in it days ago, but had pushed them to the side. Irina pulled them out and placed them on the bed with the dress she’d brought, then fondly patted the garments. “These were Katrina’s clothes,” she said, to herself more than to Jane.

  “Really? I’m borrowing a queen’s clothes?” Jane asked, disconcerted. “But surely there are some others I could use. I don’t wish to borrow from your sister.”

  Irina gave her a small smile. “She died a year and a half before Shelkova reemerged, so she was never a queen. And before you even arrived, Reynard asked me to put some of her clothes in here for you, since Markov told him you had none.”

  “Oh,” was all Jane could say, feeling a flush climb into her cheeks. “I . . . All mine were destroyed.” She made a face. “And I wasn’t given much notice that I’d be taking a trip.”

  Someone knocked on the door and Irina answered it, spoke in Shelkovan to a maid, then came and sat down beside Jane on the bed, sighing again. “It’s not going to matter, anyway. Whatever you wear is going to clash with that awful sling. You need it?”

  “If I don’t use it, the weight and movement of my arm pulls on my shoulder.”

  Cocking her head, Irina studied her arm, then suddenly got up and went to the wardrobe again. Getting on her knees, she rummaged in the lower drawers and came up with a large, beautiful scarf. Beaming now, she returned and carefully undid Jane’s sling.

  “Your blouse is cream-colored, and this scarf would look nice over it, don’t you think?”

  Jane didn’t think anything, never having paid much attention to fashion. Wool pants came in gray and green, that was it. Flannel shirts and fleece were colorful, but more practical than fashionable.

  “And the colors go nicely with your eyes,” Irina continued, holding up the scarf and trying to arrange it into a sling.

  “My eyes?” Jane repeated, never having thought much about them, either. They were just a plain gray—as plain as the rest of her.

  “You have beautiful, expressive eyes, Miss Abbot, such a light, warm pewter.”

  Her eyes were pewter? Starting to like this woman, Jane smiled in appreciation. “Please, can you call me Jane?”

  “Certainly,” Irina agreed with a warm, returning smile. “And I am known in this house as Aunt Irina. To everybody, it seems,” she said with a sigh.

  “Irina’s a pretty name. Would you mind terribly if I left off the ‘Aunt’?” Jane asked, realizing the woman would like to be thought of as just herself.

  “I’d like that,” Irina returned. “I came to the Lakelands just before Katrina’s passing and ended up staying when Reynard asked me to. He said this family needed a woman to counter all the . . . the . . .”

  “Male arrogance?”

  Irina giggled. “Yes, they can be a little high-handed, can they not? But they are good men. Even Alexi. And since we have moved to the palace, I’ve seen to the running of things. I don’t know what I will do after Markov marries,” she said softly, more to herself than to Jane.

  “I’m sure his wife would value your help,” Jane assured her, placing her good hand on Irina’s arm. “And I’m sure you two will become great friends. You could probably use the female companionship right about now, I would bet.”

  Giving her a startled look, Irina stopped fiddling with the scarf. “You would not mind my staying?”

  Jane snorted. “If I had to be a queen, I’d latch on to your friendship with both hands. I can’t imagine a worse fate. A good friend will be a saving grace for his wife. Truthfully, I pity the poor woman.”

  The strangest look came into Irina’s eyes just then, and not one Jane could read for the life of her. Then a grin slowly tugged at the corner of the woman’s mouth again before she gently turned Jane around and resumed tying the scarf. She wasn’t sure, but she thought Irina murmured something about pitying her.

  * * *

  Confidence carried her down the hall on the arm of an almost-former king less than thirty minutes later. Well, she was confident she’d cleaned up well this time. Irina had magic fingers when it came to working with unruly hair, and Jane had stared in awe when she’d looked in the mirror after Irina had finished fussing with her.

  Familiar, startled, pewter eyes had stared back at her.

  The clothes brought about most of the difference; the silk, the bri
ghtly colored shawl posing as a sling, dressy shoes, and shapely slacks. Jane had never seen herself dressed up before. And her hair? It waved down her back in shining coils of lively curls dangling from a gorgeous clip she was afraid contained real diamonds—which made her carry her head high and most carefully, and, unbeknownst to her, regally. She smiled at her escort with lips softly painted a blushing pink by Irina’s hand. The lips were complemented by slightly rouged cheeks and discreetly shadow-brushed eyes that emphasized their sparkle of pewter, making her feel confident.

  Jane was actually quite familiar with the feeling. She had mountains of confidence when she was walking her woods back home. She never hesitated or questioned herself, but simply listened to instincts gained from growing up surrounded by nature and many, many hours of aloneness. A person not only had to be confident but comfortable with themselves if all they had was themselves to rely on. In Maine, in her woods, Jane was comfortable with her lot in life.

  She was not comfortable sitting at a table in a palace with an almost-king who’d taken her to bed, or that king’s father, or three devilish princes. But Jane was confident she’d survive, and even live to laugh at this one day.

  The clothes helped. The makeup helped. Reynard’s warm, encouraging smile, which he graced her with as they walked arm and arm, helped.

  “Your lips are smiling, Jane,” Reynard said as he led her through the maze of halls, “but your eyes are not. Which worries me. I realize you may be nervous, but I think your eyes are darkened with distress more than fear. Or maybe anger? So now I am the one who is nervous.”

  “Oh no. Please don’t worry, Your Majesty. I promise not to embarrass you.” She shot him a frown. “Somebody else, though, I wouldn’t mind embarrassing.”

  “Not Markov,” Reynard said on a groan, stopping at the top of the stairs and turning her to look at him. “What has he done now?”

  She laughed at his expression. “Not your son. To tell you the truth, I haven’t even seen Mark today.” She suddenly snorted. “He did leave me a note, though.” And then she gasped. “Your note! Oh, how could I have forgotten? Thank you for the flowers and lovely note, Your Majesty. Both were beautiful.” She rolled her eyes. “Your son could take lessons from you in letter writing.”

  Reynard sighed. “But I have not achieved my purpose, apparently. You’re not calling me Reynard. Am I going to have to call you Miss Abbot to make my point?”

  “I’m not calling you Reynard in front of people.”

  “Why not? It’s my name.”

  He was sounding perturbed, Jane decided. “I don’t wish to be thought of as impolite; as a backwoods American with no respect for you.” She placed her hand on his arm. “If I promise to call you Reynard in private, will you allow me my manners in public? I’ll let you call me daughter when you want,” she offered, giving him a cajoling smile.

  His laughter startled her, echoing down to the foyer below. Carefully, mindful of her injury, the almost-ex-king wrapped her up in a hug, his lingering chuckles vibrating her entire body. “Miss Jane Abbot, I will give you this boon. And I certainly will call you daughter. With or without your permission,” he added, his eyes sparkling mischievously.

  “Careful. You’re sounding like a king.”

  He barked in laughter again and kissed her on the forehead before releasing her. “I apologize, daughter. It is in the genes, I’m afraid.”

  “Which you have obviously passed on to each and every one of your sons.”

  He rolled his eyes at her and started them down the stairs. “Now, come. Tell my why you were frowning so ferociously when you opened your door to me earlier. And who it is that you wish to put in their place.”

  Jane looked at him from the corner of her eye, her good hand tucked in his arm for support as they carefully made their way down the steps. “Well, I remembered you mentioned something about your having a European businessman visiting right now, and I think he might be the man I saw from my bedroom window just before you came to get me, since he was dressed rather formally. He was down in the courtyard with a woman and a young man who also looked to be dressed for dinner. His children, maybe?”

  “Yes. He brought both his son and daughter with him.”

  “Well, the three of them seemed to be having a heated discussion. Or rather, the two men were heated. The daughter just looked . . . cowed, I guess I would say.”

  “And?”

  “And the father struck his daughter,” Jane whispered tightly. “Right on the face. I doubt the poor girl will be at dinner tonight. She’ll probably be in her room with ice on her cheek.”

  Reynard said nothing as they gained the foyer, then stopped once more and turned to her, a small, sad smile on his face. “I would expect as much from Oswald. I believe he rules his employees with an equally heavy hand.” He silently stared at her again, then asked very softly, “And so you are an avenging angel tonight?”

  Jane shook her head. “I won’t make a scene. I won’t even open my mouth. It just made me mad. Like I said before, weak men use their fists, and I have no respect for those who do.”

  “And neither do I,” Reynard agreed. “And I wouldn’t dream of asking you to keep your opinions to yourself. You have my approval to say anything you wish to Oswald.”

  “I won’t make a scene,” Jane repeated. “But if he talks to me, I shall . . . snub him? Is that acceptable?”

  Reynard laughed again. “It’s going to take more than that. Oswald will merely assume you’re worried about his daughter winning the race.”

  “What race?”

  “Why, to the altar, my dear Jane. Oswald will think you’re jealous and being spiteful because you want Markov to marry you, not his daughter.”

  It was Jane’s turn to laugh. “Then maybe I’d better wait until after dinner to give him my opinions. So there won’t be any misunderstanding.”

  “Not alone. Is that understood?” Reynard said rather firmly.

  Jane sobered. “I’m not afraid of him.”

  He started walking again. “No. And that’s the problem,” he muttered.

  They finally made it to the dining room and it was Jane’s turn to halt their progress. She stopped just inside the door, stared at the room full of people, then pinched her escort on the arm. “There are over twenty people here,” she hissed. “I thought it was just your family and this businessman and his daughter.” She took a determined step back. “I’m not staying. I’ll eat in my room,” she said, shooting daggers at him. “You set me up.”

  “I did not. This is a normal dinner,” Reynard calmly countered, tugging on her good arm. He finally just grabbed her elbow, towed her into the room, and led her to the foot of the table. “We must entertain ambassadors and our own countrymen regularly. It comes with the job,” he whispered, pulling out her chair with one hand while still holding her securely with the other. “And you will embarrass me if you run off now,” he added, grinning at her glare that told him she knew just how low he was hitting.

  “Do you happen to know, Your Highness, how to sleep with one eye open?” Jane asked sweetly, sitting down.

  Reynard Lakeland boomed with laughter again, leaning down and kissing her forehead right in front of the twenty people all staring at them.

  Jane wondered how embarrassed he’d be if she crawled under the table.

  “Pants! She’s wearing pants,” Alexi blurted out, smiling devilishly. “No one has worn pants to dinner since Mother.”

  Jane looked halfway down the table and glared at him through her reddening face. “I believe, Your Highness,” she told the rascal prince, lifting her chin, “that it’s impolite to mention a woman’s dress, inappropriate or not, unless it’s to compliment her.”

  Alexi looked momentarily startled, then gave her an unrepentant grin. “My apologies, angel. I am duly chastised,” he said, bowing formally.

  Jane wanted to ru
n up and kick him in that bent-over position. Instead she smiled sweetly, making sure she didn’t look at anyone else at the table. She could tell only the Lakelands were laughing.

  “I’m not your angel,” she muttered. What in heaven was she doing here, making an ex-king sit at the foot of the table beside her and reprimanding royalty like Mother Superior?

  “No, you are not. You are merely a woman who likes to fly out windows,” the cad growled, obviously having heard her. Which meant everyone else probably had, too. Alexi suddenly gave her a whimsical smile. “But if I throw myself into the sea, will you fly to my rescue and give me the kiss of life?”

  “No, I believe I would give you a rock.”

  Shocked silence and then laughter erupted around the table. Jane placed her napkin on her lap while smiling down at her plate for putting the now-frowning prince in his place. No matter that she’d embarrassed herself, Reynard, and probably Mark in the process. But she made the mistake of glancing at Mark, sitting at the opposite end of the table, causing her smile to vanish.

  “I believe it’s also bad manners to point out bad manners, is it not, Miss Abbot?” Mark asked, his eyes gleaming with amusement.

  Jane lifted her chin. “I believe you’re right, Your Highness. I, too, am duly chastised,” she agreed, widening her smile. “And good day to you,” she tacked on to cover her blush.

  “Good day, Miss Abbot. I’m sorry to have missed you earlier. You went for a walk, I gather. After, that is, escaping my brothers. Feeling back to your old self?”

  “Oh yes. I’ve discovered the less time I spend with you, the healthier I feel.”

  Several gasps followed that salvo. Mark merely looked at his father and arched a brow.

  She probably shouldn’t have spoken that way, especially in front of these strangers, but she refused to let any of these Lakelands make her feel inferior, especially Mark. And the sooner he realized that, the better. Still, Jane politely stayed mute after that embarrassing opening and concentrated on enjoying the wonderful food and committing everything to memory. Because really—when was she ever going to sit at such an elegant table again?