From Kiss to Queen

by Janet Chapman

  She slapped her hands over the horse’s ears and glared at Mark as if he’d just run up and hit the poor beast. The poor beast didn’t even flinch. Maybe it was dead.

  “What a terrible thing to say,” she scolded, her chin tilting in what he recognized as her stubborn mode. “He is too beautiful,” she went on, moving her hand lovingly over the horse’s neck. “He’s just old. And tired.” She suddenly beamed a brilliant smile. “I bought him.”

  For the life of him, Mark couldn’t think of a thing to say. She sounded so proud of herself. And expectant; like she expected him to praise her.

  “May I ask what you bought him with?”

  Her chin instantly lowered along with her eyes. “I signed a voucher for him. The guy who sold him to me will be coming here tomorrow to get his money from . . . you.”

  “How much money?”

  She cocked her head. “I’m not sure.” She named a figure and Mark merely closed his eyes again. “But you can take the money from my backpack—there’s seventy-five dollars in there—and exchange it for Shelkovan money.”

  “Jane,” he said calmly, “you just paid the equivalent of nine hundred American dollars.”

  “Oh.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest. “So how do you intend to pay for this . . . ah, horse?”

  She frowned. She bit her lip. And she pondered. Suddenly she smiled. “I’ll get a job.”

  Mark dropped his arms and stepped toward her. “You will not.” He suddenly grinned. “Besides, where would you work?”

  “I saw all sorts of neat little shops in town. I’ll get a job at one of them.”

  His grin just as quickly vanished. “You can’t. Or have you forgotten the men who tried to kill me?”

  “You brought me here claiming I’d be safe, and now you’re saying I won’t?”

  “Only in the palace,” he growled, trying to rein in his temper. “Not traipsing the streets of Previa alone.” He suddenly grinned. “And how can you work if you don’t speak Shelkovan?”

  She shrugged. “A dishwasher wouldn’t have to speak at all. And I’ll find a restaurant that’s close by.”

  “You only have the use of one hand.”

  She shrugged again, turning back and crooning to her new, expensive pet. “I’ll be able to take off the sling in another day or two.”

  Mark reached out and grabbed her good arm. “You will not wash dishes,” he said, leading her from the barn and waving to a gawking stableman to tend the horse.

  “Wait!”

  He stopped and looked down at her.

  “Tell the man the horse’s name is Arthur. Tell him to take good care of him. He’s hungry and his feet need trimming.”

  “Arthur?”

  “I named him after King Arthur of the Round Table. Don’t you think he looks like a majestic warhorse that would have carried such a noble knight?”

  “I think,” Mark had muttered as he walked back in the stables, “that if King Arthur rode such a horse, it’s no wonder there’s no trace of his kingdom today.”

  Mark rubbed his aching temple again and opened his eyes to the star-filled night, remembering the battle of wills that had followed the scene in the stables. For the last two days Arthur had been eating his ancient head off and Jane Abbot was anything but contrite.

  She’d simply sat through a long, frustrating evening of five Lakelands trying to drill it into her head that she couldn’t go roaming around town alone. And she couldn’t drag home pathetic creatures. Jane had smiled and nodded, said she was sorry for worrying them, then simply gone to bed.

  The next morning she hadn’t even appeared at breakfast. It was learned, some two hours later, that she’d left the palace grounds and gone in search of a job.

  She’d taken a young maid with her.

  For translation, Jane had told Mark when he’d found her trying to bargain with the proprietor of a small inn, conning the poor, besotted fellow out of a job. She’d not ventured out alone, she’d pointed out, pointing to the poor maid quietly sitting in the corner of the inn’s kitchen. At that imbecilic excuse, Mark had dragged her home and up to her room, where he threatened to lock her if she stepped foot off the grounds again.

  Growls and threats, apparently, weren’t enough to deter her. The next morning Mark learned from Alexi that Jane was gone again. This time she’d cajoled one of the gardeners into joining her.

  “The gardener?” Mark had whispered so he wouldn’t shout.

  Alexi nodded. “She’s assuming because he’s male that you would approve, is my guess.”

  “Which gardener did she take?” Mark asked, closing his eyes and praying for patience.

  “Duncan.”

  Mark didn’t shout; he bellowed. “He’s nearly eighty years old!”

  Alexi shrugged. “He’s also as soft as butter when it comes to pretty women. Don’t glower, brother. Sergei, Dmitri, and I will go bring her back,” he offered with a resigned sigh. “They can’t have gotten far. Duncan is as slow as cold molasses running uphill in winter. We’ll find them.”

  But all they’d found was Duncan at the gates, out of breath and frantic, wringing his hands and nearly in tears. There had been a street scuffle involving something to do with several women—of questionable morals—being kicked out of their apartments, and the police had been called. Jane, it seemed, had waded into the foray and started yelling at the authorities. In English, Duncan told them as he trembled with worry. The last the old man saw of Jane was when the police were lifting her into the back of their van. He’d tried to intervene, but had been knocked down by the mob that had gathered.

  Mark listened from the front steps of the palace, until he let out a roar loud enough to make the guards at the front gates flinch. And then he took off, on foot, for the police station, which was a good five blocks away. Sergei, Dmitri, and Alexi followed, their mouths slackened and their eyes full of worry. It had been years since any of them had seen Mark in a blazing rage. All three brothers were thankful, on Jane’s behalf, that he’d chosen to walk, figuring it might buy the angel enough time for her rescuer to calm down enough not to throttle her.

  Which Mark was seriously contemplating doing to her for blatantly disobeying him. If she’d been looking for work again, he would definitely throttle her. If she’d been looking for adventure, well, by God, she’d found it, hadn’t she. And if she’d been looking to test his patience, she’d finally found his limit.

  What he did, however, was go weak in the knees when he saw her.

  She was a bedraggled mess, sitting forlornly in the corner of a cell, several women crammed together on an opposite wall, all of them bickering in Shelkovan. Jane’s shirtsleeve was torn, her hair was back in knots, and one cheek was smudged with dirt. Her knees were muddy and she was cradling her tender arm to her chest, her sling nowhere to be seen.

  At Mark’s roar, silence fell in the overcrowded jail and several police officers scurried back, bumping into the confining walls. Mark swung around and pointed at one of them. Sweat broke out on the poor fellow’s forehead as he listened to a scorching tirade from his future king. With shaking hands, the man finally fumbled his keys free and unlocked the cell.

  Mark stood in the opened door of Jane’s prison and counted to ten, breathing as deeply and as slowly as he could. He didn’t say a word; he didn’t dare. He simply walked in the cell and carefully led an also-silent Jane out to one of the policeman’s cars. Sergei drove. Alexi and Dmitri elected to walk home. After, they promised Mark, they looked into the inciting incident that had caused their angel’s halo to slip a bit.

  The ride back to the palace was silent. The trip to Jane’s room was silent. And in silence, Mark had left her in the care of Aunt Irina.

  Now being reasonable men, tonight Mark, his father, and his three brothers had ganged up on Jane again and tried to explain to her that the Lak
elands had enemies. That a maid or an aging gardener couldn’t help if those enemies found her.

  “Then give me my handgun,” she’d countered.

  Two Lakeland men had choked on their drinks, Sergei had gotten up and walked out of the room, and Reynard had clutched his chest. Mark had simply snorted. “You can’t go running around the city with a .357 Magnum in your pocket.”

  “But I have to work. I owe you eight hundred and twenty-five dollars for Arthur.”

  “I will pay for Arthur,” Mark had gritted. “Consider him a wedding present.”

  She hadn’t liked his mentioning the wedding. That much had been evident in her scowl. Jane had simply gotten up and followed Sergei out of the room.

  All of which was why Mark was hiding down on the beach—what little of it there was before the tide came back in. Shelkova was not known for its beaches. It was known for its rugged coast, fine timber, and hardy people. Soon, Mark was afraid, it would be known for its outrageous queen.

  He’d paid for Arthur when the man had come to the palace today looking more pathetic than his horse, which is why Mark had paid him the full amount.

  And he’d gotten to the bottom of the police confrontation in the streets. Three aging prostitutes had been evicted from their home by a landlord who wanted to bring in younger tenants. Mark had threatened to have the landlord evicted. The women were back in their apartments and now had jobs at parliament. They weren’t very high-level jobs, but would give the women a satisfying living. And they were perfect jobs, Mark had cynically decided, figuring the women would probably be running into plenty of their old acquaintances at work.

  Maybe he should take the nine hundred dollars for Arthur out of Jane’s cute little hide. And a little extra for the trouble and worry she’d caused him over the riot he didn’t doubt she’d started. Now there was a thought. Maybe he’d just sneak up to her room tonight and get his due, at the same time restating his claim. And maybe he’d also give her the baby she wanted so badly. After all, what woman would be so cruel as to separate a man from his child? Surely he could talk a pregnant Jane into marrying him.

  Maybe.

  She was such an independent creature, headstrong and stubborn. She refused to need anyone by hiding behind the facade of being nobody. Mark suspected that when those men had asked Jane to be their mistress, not their wife, she’d been deeply wounded.

  And when he’d backed down four nights ago in the library, asking her only to stay until his coronation, he’d wounded her again by not fighting for her hand in marriage. Maybe he shouldn’t have capitulated so quickly. But in truth, he hadn’t conceded defeat; he’d merely wanted to buy enough time to talk her into marriage.

  Only it was going to take more than words to bring the lady around, apparently. More like a little trickery and a lot of patience.

  Then again, a good dose of passion probably couldn’t hurt, either.

  Chapter Thirteen

  For the fourth night in a row, Jane was crying herself to sleep. During the day she was usually okay, the adventure of seeing a new country and people keeping her occupied. It was only at night, alone, in the dark, that the yearnings came. And the tears.

  Disgusted with her self-pity, her shoulder throbbing and her heart breaking, Jane rolled over and buried her face in her pillow. Darn, what a mess she’d made of things these last three days. Mark still hadn’t spoken to her about finding her in jail, or about getting in a fight over some women who were down on their luck. Jane knew what they did for a living. She may have been brought up in the woods, but she wasn’t ignorant. She was, however, very pleased with Mark. Irina had told her, in whispers, what he’d done for the women.

  Which was another reason why she’d gone and fallen in love with the infuriating man. If that wasn’t bad enough, she’d fallen hard for his family, too. Even Alexi, the rascal. But especially Reynard, who was fast becoming the father she’d always wanted.

  They were so concerned about her. Their endless lectures gave her that idea. They actually seemed worried about her safety. She would laugh if she could quit crying. Imagine, five men worried about her. Nobody had worried about her safety since before she was twelve years old. That was when she’d gone to live with the Johnsons. Being old people and never having had children of their own, they’d simply treated her as an adult. For the first time in her life, Jane had been free of restraints—especially the rules that had been necessary for the nuns to control the number of children in their care. Living with the Johnsons, she’d been able to run wild in the woods surrounding her new home and not only explore nature, but herself; who she was and who she could be. And by the age of sixteen, Jane had arrived at the independent and admittedly self-contained person she was today.

  Mark had ruined all that; first by literally falling into her life, then by turning out to be the first man she’d ever really been attracted to, and then by being attracted to her in return.

  And sometime when she hadn’t been looking, the rat had firmly entrenched himself in her heart.

  It was unacceptable. She had no business falling in love with a king, much less expecting him to ever love her back. She didn’t belong sleeping in this beautiful bed, being fawned over by staff, any more than she belonged sitting at a table full of important, worldly people. Looking back, Jane figured she should have let Mark drown two weeks ago instead of pulling him from that plane. It certainly would have saved her from getting her heart broken.

  Darn, what a mess.

  Jane was just about to sink into another deep sob of self-pity when she heard the noise. It sounded like a snarl of outrage followed by male snickering. And it seemed to be coming from the hall. Jane instantly stopped crying and held her breath to listen.

  Voices carried then, of men right outside her door having a heated discussion in whispers. Unable to stop herself, Jane crawled out of bed, tiptoed to the door, and listened.

  “Get out of here, Sergei.”

  “Now, Markov, you don’t really want to go in there.”

  Jane heard Mark growl.

  “Think, brother. You’re going to ruin your chances with the lady.”

  “I’m going to improve them,” Mark ground out. Jane fought back a grin, picturing him scowling. “I’m going to start clipping some angel wings,” he continued. “Now move.”

  Sergei must have shaken his head. And he must have grinned. Because the next thing she heard was the door rattling with the impact of poor Sergei being shoved against it.

  “Shhh!”

  “Hell, if the woman’s not awake now, she will be in two minutes. I need to talk with her,” Mark said, sounding really close to the door, his nose probably only inches away from his brother’s face.

  “Talk?” Sergei barked, sounding incredulous.

  “Our interfering father set you here as sentry, didn’t he?”

  Sergei, the fool, must have nodded. And probably grinned again. Jane now had her ear pressed up against the door and was nearly knocked to the floor when the man was slammed against it again.

  “Dammit, Markov, cut it out! I’m trying to help you.”

  “Then leave!”

  Jane opened the door.

  Two men fell into the room. Sergei grunted when he hit the floor, and grunted again when Mark landed on top of him. Both men muttered something when Jane started laughing.

  Then she simply walked out of the room and down the hall, ignoring their calls to come back echoing after her. She also ignored the trudging of feet that began to follow.

  “Where are you going?” Mark asked from behind her.

  “To get a cup of hot cocoa,” she said, not breaking stride.

  She had to stop, though, when he caught hold of her good arm and turned her around. His eyes were narrowed, his hair was mussed, and he had flecks of sand caught in the crinkled corners of his scowl.

  Darn, she loved him.<
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  “I’ll have someone bring you chocolate. You can’t go into the kitchens.”

  “I’m not going to let you wake people up just to make me a cup of cocoa. That’s rude. Besides, I’ve been going to the kitchens every night for the last week.”

  His eyes widened. “Holy shit.”

  Jane frowned at him. “You shouldn’t swear.”

  His eyes narrowed again at her chastisement. Suddenly he smiled. “I’ll come with you, then. I’ve never seen the kitchens.”

  “What?” she asked incredulously, which caused Sergei to laugh. Jane looked at him and then at Mark again, only to grow more incredulous. “You guys really are afraid of Cook?”

  Both towering giants nodded. Then Mark started dragging her back to her room.

  “I want my cocoa,” she persisted, trying to plant her feet.

  “After you get on a robe and slippers. And your sling,” Mark ordered, still tugging.

  Jane gave a small gasp, realizing she was standing in the hall in her nightgown. She lifted her left arm higher, cradling it over her bosom, and meekly followed. Heavens, she was parading around the palace half dressed!

  Once in her room, which suddenly shrank with the presence of the two men (Sergei had pushed the door open when Mark had tried to slam it in his face), Jane hurried to find her robe. Mark snatched it from her and carefully worked it over her sore arm and around to her good shoulder, then picked up her sling and carefully fitted it to her arm.

  Sergei got down and tried to dress her feet. Jane quickly grabbed the slippers and threw them on the bed. “I have on thick socks. I don’t need slippers,” she told him through a blush, not wanting him anywhere near her deformed ankle. He frowned at her actions, but finally stood up and stepped away.

  Jane was suddenly amused. They were acting like big brothers. Well, Sergei was. The look in Mark’s eyes as he knotted the sling around her neck, his face close to hers, was anything but brotherly.

  “You’ve really been going into the kitchen and making yourself cocoa?” Sergei asked in awe, shoving Mark out of the way and grabbing her good arm to tuck it in the crook of his. He started leading her back out to the hall. “And Cook hasn’t caught you?”