Well, she remained mute until the businessman made some stupid remark about women in his family being meek and seldom heard from as he darted a glance in Jane’s direction.
Jane set her fork down.
Reynard did, too. Then he gave her a wink and addressed his son’s guest. “Just today, a very smart angel told me that only weak men rule by domination. I believe this angel is right,” he softly added, disgust apparent in his voice.
Oswald glanced at Jane then back at Reynard. “This angel was a woman, I gather?”
Jane raised her chin and decided to speak for herself. “I was told I would get to meet your daughter this evening,” she said, making a point of looking at the empty chair beside him. “Was she not feeling well?” She narrowed her eyes at the red-faced man. “And I agree that any man who strikes a woman is a coward,” she said softly. “I wonder if he’d be so quick to strike someone equal to him in strength?”
Jane continued glaring at the now obviously angry businessman through the long, stunned silence, not even looking to see if Mark was equally angry at her for speaking so bluntly in front of his guests. It was Oswald’s son who broke the tension when he jumped up from his chair.
“Are you calling us cowards?”
Feeling secure sitting at a table full of Lakeland men, Jane simply nodded.
“In our family you would be beaten for your insolence,” the young man snarled, ignoring his father tugging on his arm.
“You could try,” she whispered, giving him a nasty smile.
Jane suspected the young man was sorely tempted to do just that. But his father forcibly tugged him into his seat when Mark slowly started to rise from his chair. The father, however, was no more willing to let the insult pass than his son and glared at the again-seated prince.
“Who is this woman that you let her speak so freely at your dinner table?”
“My fiancée,” Mark said softly but quite distinctly.
Jane certainly heard him. And so did every single person in the room. She would have gasped if she could have found her voice. And Reynard Lakeland, bless the unholy Majesty, was suddenly squeezing her hand—which she took as a sign she wasn’t supposed to dispute the host in front of his guests.
Well, by heaven, she intended to dispute him later.
Fiancée. Hah! She’d dig ditches before she’d marry Markov Lakeland. Jane tried without success to pull her hand free from Reynard’s grasp.
“Your fiancée?” Oswald sputtered, his eyes bugged out as he gaped at Mark.
Mark nodded.
“But . . . but I thought . . .”
“Shelkova has no desire—or need—to align itself with a manufacturing dynasty, Mr. Oswald,” Mark quietly told him, “as we are quite capable of turning our timber into finished product ourselves. And I happen to agree with the lady’s opinion of brutes.”
Looking ready to explode, Oswald pushed back his chair and stood, roughly grabbed his also-angry son, and left—his exit leaving a silence so complete the bubbles could be heard rising in the champagne flutes sitting in front of all the stunned guests.
Sergei clapped Mark on the shoulder, stood up and walked to the foot of the table, then leaned down and kissed Jane on her mortified cheek. “Welcome to the Lakeland tribe, sister,” he whispered. “I can’t wait to see what you have in store for us in the future.”
Jane managed to shake off her shock enough to give him a good glare. He simply chuckled and kissed her again before returning to his seat.
Alexi picked up his champagne and waved it at the people at the table. “A toast, then, to my brother’s wisdom,” he said. “And his choice of a bride.”
Finally coming out of their own shock, all the guests grabbed their glasses and raised them in salute, then drained them to the bottom.
Jane still hadn’t gotten her hand back. Reynard was holding it hostage, apparently afraid she’d throw her champagne at his smugly smiling son. Wow; it would appear His Majesty had come to know her quite well in a very short time.
Chapter Eleven
Are you insane?” Jane shouted at Mark as he negligently leaned against the mantel in the library, a drink in his hand and a satisfied smile on his face.
“No, I don’t believe so,” he answered calmly. “But then, I did suffer a blow to the head a couple of weeks ago.” He sighed, pushing himself away from the hearth. “And I haven’t been the same since.” He smiled tightly. “I’ve been seeing angels, even in my sleep.”
Jane tried to cross her arms, found her sling was in the way of doing so effectively, and contented herself with placing her free hand on her hip. She glared at Mark, then turned her glare on the four other Lakeland men, all of whom were calmly sipping drinks. She’d been offered one, too; an after-the-meal-from-purgatory drink, but had refused on the chance she might be pregnant. Not that she needed it anyway, as she was more than ready for battle.
She turned her attention to Mark again. “I am not marrying you.”
“Yes, you are.” Mark moved to stand by the glass doors leading onto the terrace, his back to her. “In two weeks.” He turned at her gasp. “The day of my coronation. I will be crowned king of Shelkova, we will be married, and then I shall crown you queen of Shelkova.”
Jane lifted her hand and let it fall back against her thigh. “Do I look like a queen to you?”
“Yes.”
Her mouth opened but nothing came out. She took a deep breath and gathered her thoughts, then suddenly smiled. “Even your father knows I’m nobody.”
“What!” Reynard shouted.
She looked at him and then at Mark. “Your father had me sit at the foot of the table, because he knew that’s where I belonged.”
Alexi, Dmitri, and Sergei broke into laughter. Reynard gaped in shock.
Mark nodded agreement. “He did know. You sat at the second most honorable place, Jane; the hostess’s seat. It is where my mother would have sat had she lived to see the reinstatement of the Lakelands to this house. The queen’s seat.”
Jane felt her own jaw slacken and snapped it shut. And then she sighed. “You don’t know who I am,” she whispered. “You don’t know what I am.”
“And what is that, daughter?” Reynard asked.
She turned to him. “I’m an orphan with less of a pedigree than the horses in your stables. I don’t even have a real name.”
“Jane Abbot sounds real to me,” Mark said, drawing her attention as he stepped toward her. “And you are standing before us now; therefore you must be somebody. You’re alive and breathing the same air we are.”
She dropped her gaze from the intensity in his. “My full name is Jane Doe Abbot.” She looked at the obviously confused men sitting around the room. “In America, when a person is found and nobody knows who they are, they’re given the name Jane or John Doe. And Abbot is the name of the town where I was left on a hospital’s steps.”
A thoughtful silence greeted that revelation. Until Mark started cursing—in both English and Shelkovan—about the evils of unfeeling social workers. He was soon joined by four disgruntled Lakeland men.
Jane squared her shoulders and glared at the five of them. “Stop looking at me with pity. I have a good life in Maine. And I’m going back there and getting myself a baby, and then I’m going to keep on walking the next time a plane falls out of the sky.”
Reynard stood up. “Jane,” he said thickly, going to her. “No place is it written that you must have a . . . pedigree to be a queen. All you need to be is the woman my son wants to marry. And that, Jane Doe Abbot, is good enough. Your history made you the person you are today; the courageous, charming, beautiful, compassionate, intelligent, mischievous angel that I want for a daughter in a very bad way.”
Try as she might, Jane couldn’t keep a grin from tugging at the corner of her mouth. “All that?” she whispered to the golden eyes gleaming a
t her. “No more? Not troublesome, foolish, impertinent, opinionated, and stubborn?”
“Mischievous covered most of those, I think.”
“It’s settled, then,” Mark interjected, walking over and grabbing her right hand, then dragging her toward the doors leading outside.
“It is not settled,” she hissed, pulling free. “I’m not marrying you. You’re a rat.”
“Ah, yes. I seem to remember being likened to a rat after our first night on the Katrina.”
“You crawled into my bed.” She poked him in the chest. “You took advantage of my being sick and confused and tired,” she continued, gathering steam and poking him again. “Didn’t you, just Mark?” She tucked her right arm under her trussed-up left arm, her toe tapping the floor. “What do you have to say for yourself?”
“That I can’t wait to do it again?” he asked back, crossing his own arms over his chest and spreading his feet in a challenging stance. “And that I intend to do it again very soon?” He bent down at her gasp and looked her directly in the eyes. “You gave yourself to me, Jane Doe Abbot. And you were a virgin. Now you’re mine.”
She took a step back, feeling her face heat up as she glanced at the other Lakelands to find them all grinning, all nodding agreement.
“I’m twenty-seven years old,” she whispered tightly, glaring at Mark and lifting her chin. “I’m not . . . I’m . . . I was not a virgin.”
* * *
Completely stunned, Mark could only stare at her. She was actually lying to him about her virginity! He would have laughed had he not realized she was serious. “I was there, Jane, and I distinctly remember taking your innocence.”
“No, either you were mistaken or it grew back.”
Mark halted his glass halfway to his mouth. “Excuse me?”
A chorus of chuckles rose from the couch, and Jane spun around and stepped toward them, her eyes sparking and her hand reaching for her empty glass on a nearby table. Mark threw his own drink first, hitting the wall behind his brothers and making them instantly sober.
Jane stopped in mid-throw and blinked at the mess he’d made.
Mark gave his brothers a look that sent them scrambling to their feet and out of the room. Reynard regally followed, his shoulders shaking.
“Virginity, Jane, does not grow back.”
Obviously knowing her outrageous claim wasn’t going to work, the woman apparently decided to change tactics. “Do you think you’re the first man to ever want to have sex with me?”
Mark suddenly understood and instantly relaxed. “What I think is that I’m the first man you wanted to have sex with.” He grinned. “And I hope that, like me, you’re looking forward to doing it again—also very soon.”
“Don’t hold your breath,” she snapped, apparently back to being angry. “I merely decided it was time I found out what all the men who asked me to be their mistress claimed I was missing.”
Mark’s amusement just as suddenly vanished. “All the men?” He stiffened. “How recently? Is that why you were running off to the coast?”
“That’s not important. What’s important is that you don’t have to marry me just because we had sex. Even though you crawled into my bed, I take full responsibility for my own actions that night.”
“Does that not contradict what your nuns taught you?” Mark drawled, walking over and fixing himself another drink. It was either that or throttle the woman.
“What nuns?”
“Those dear sisters in the orphanage who so lovingly named you.”
“They were good to me! And the hospital staff are the ones who called me baby Jane Doe. I didn’t actually go to Saint Xavier’s until I was a month old, because of my ankle.”
“And did the nuns not tell you what happens to people who lie?”
“They told me what happens to people who swear,” she countered.
Lord, as long as he lived he would thank the Lord for dropping him into this woman’s lap. “And were you ever tempted to become any man’s mistress, Jane?”
She avoided looking at him by glaring down at her toes instead, and mumbled something unintelligible.
“Excuse me?”
“I said that’s none of your business.”
“I see.” And he did. Jane was embarrassed to be caught a virgin at the ancient age of twenty-seven. He sighed dramatically. “Too bad,” he said, turning to her in time to catch her worrying her lower lip. “Because I prefer an experienced bride in my bed.”
She lifted her chin. “Then I hope you find one.”
“Why not you?”
“Because I don’t belong here,” she said, now sounding exasperated as she waved a hand to encompass the palace.
Mark closed his eyes to gather his patience. They’d come full circle and were back to belonging. He was beginning to hate that word. “Jane,” he said, his eyes still closed.
“I’m going home tomorrow.”
That certainly opened them.
“I shouldn’t stay here any longer,” she whispered. “I won’t go back to the mountains,” she quickly assured him. “Or even to Bar Harbor. I’ll head south to Portland or something. Those men will never find me, assuming they’re still around. It has been eleven days, after all.” She gave him an encouraging smile. “And I really am good at taking care of myself.”
“And if you’re pregnant?” he asked, trying to think quickly.
“Then I’ll write and let you know what I had, a boy or a girl. I . . . I won’t ask for anything from you, Mark.”
“Would you give me until the coronation in two weeks?” He forced himself to smile. “At least stay and watch me become king.”
She had to think about that, apparently. Mark turned to the window, but instead of looking out, he studied her reflection in the glass. And then he very nearly fell to his knees at the look of yearning on Jane’s face as she stared at his back. “Just two weeks,” he got out hoarsely, still facing the window.
“O-okay,” she whispered, her shoulders slumping as she slowly walked out of the room.
Mark opened the door and stepped onto the terrace. He walked to the stone rail and looked out over the sea, then lifted his arm and threw his drink for the second time that night.
Chapter Twelve
Mark flopped back on the small patch of sand at the base of the cliff and rubbed the sockets of his eyes until they burned, then ran his hands repeatedly through his hair until it hurt, and then slowly beat his head in the sand in rhythm to the throbbing pulse causing his headache. Three days; the woman had given her word to stay a mere three days ago, and Mark figured he’d aged two decades. At this rate he wouldn’t live long enough to wear the crown, much less get married.
She was going to kill him first.
It was as if Jane Abbot had folded her angel wings and packed them away that night in the library. The next morning a mischief-making little witch with Jane’s beautiful, shining gray eyes had been sitting beside him at breakfast; not from the foot of the table and not halfway down. Beside him. All warm and smiling and confident. A woman on an adventure who’d decided she was safe now. A woman on a two-week vacation to a foreign country.
In truth, she was the Jane Abbot who had pulled him from the lake, fired her gun at his assassins, then threatened to throw him back into the water. That woman had returned with a vengeance, apparently determined not to miss a thing.
The confident set of her shoulders all through breakfast should have warned him. Her questions to his brothers and father about Shelkova should have warned him. That sparkle in her eyes should have warned him.
But he’d simply been too besotted to care.
Mark worried his father was in danger of having a real stroke. If he hadn’t just walked out of breakfast and gone about his duties, he would have noticed when Jane had walked out of the palace to explore the city of Previa—alon
e. Sighing, rubbing his temple to relieve the persistent pressure, Mark pictured the last three days in his mind . . .
First had been the panic when Aunt Irina had come to him around ten that first morning after searching the palace high and low and asked if he knew where Jane was. Hell, she told him she’d even dared venture into the kitchens looking for Jane. Irina’s alarm had in turn alarmed him, since his aunt rarely panicked. Mark had calmed her, promised to find Jane, then gone on his own search.
He’d finally ended up at the gates. “What in hell do you mean, she left two hours ago? You just let her walk out of here alone?” he’d shouted at the sentries.
They’d paled and shaken their heads, and then offered him those heads on a platter.
Mark had walked back into the palace and gone in search of his brothers.
Sergei, Dmitri, and Alexi had returned home four hours later, their shoulders slumped and their tongues wagging with amazing tales of a foreign woman who had been seen everywhere in the city but was nowhere to be found. Mark had just picked up the phone to call out the army when he’d spotted his future bride calmly strolling in through the gates, leading the sorriest-looking horse he’d ever seen.
He’d met her at the stables . . .
“Jane.”
“Oh, there you are, Mark. Come see. Look what I’ve brought you.”
Mark looked at her, wondering why she wasn’t dead from his glare. But she was still standing, still smiling, and still patting the pathetic excuse of a horse.
“Isn’t he beautiful?”
Mark forced himself to look away from the blissfully unaware Jane to the . . . horse. His eyes focused and widened in horror. The beast was thirty years old if it was a day. It was obviously a work horse. Maybe. Once. When it was still alive. Right now it looked like it was barely breathing. Its eyes were closed and its head was hanging down to its knees. The poor horse’s back was so swayed it was a wonder it didn’t snap beneath its own weight.
“Jane. That horse isn’t beautiful, it’s pathetic,” he whispered.
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