Jane didn’t want to hit him anymore, she wanted to kiss him. So she did, throwing her arms around him and laughing and crying at the same time. “Thank you,” she whispered in his ear. “You can invade my privacy anytime you want.”
He covered his embarrassment with a cough. “Well, that’s good. Because I’m about to invade it again. Are you pregnant, Jane?”
Well, darn; talk about riding an emotional roller coaster. She was back to wanting to hit him. “I don’t know.”
“It’s still early yet. It would only be about two weeks since you could . . . you were . . .” He covered his mouth with his hand and coughed again.
Jane did the same.
“Yes. Well. When will I know for sure?” she asked in a squeak.
“Another week, perhaps. Unless you begin . . . unless you have your . . .” He gave a heavy sigh and shook his head. “I’m a military doctor, Jane, not a baby doctor.”
She patted his arm. “But I bet you still know more about this stuff than I do,” she said with a laugh. “I was brought up by nuns.”
Daveed laughed with her. Soon, he sobered. “If you suspect you’re pregnant, I want your promise you will tell me.”
“I will.”
“You may be carrying the next heir to the throne,” he reminded her.
And if Reynard hadn’t been fibbing when he’d told her Lakelands only fathered male children, she could be pregnant with a Shelkovan prince!
* * *
Shopping with Irina turned out to be a novel experience. It was nothing like her shopping trips to L.L.Bean in Freeport with Katy, when they usually came back with food and books and camping gadgets. In fact, Jane was pretty sure she’d just purchased more clothes today than she had over the course of her entire life.
To begin with, Mark had escorted them into the first shop, given Irina orders to outfit Jane completely even as he’d given Jane a good frown, and then left them. But not alone. No, there were two men conspicuously stationed by the door, both looking big and rugged and mean, which Jane guessed they had to be if they were bodyguards. One never took his eyes off the street and the other one never took his eyes off the two women in his charge.
“We should start from the inside and work out, I guess,” Irina suggested, holding up a satiny bra and panty set.
Jane grabbed the garments. “Good heavens, I can’t wear something like this.”
“Not naughty enough for you?” Irina drawled, taking the garments back.
“Not very serviceable,” Jane countered, going to a rack of simple, white, rugged-looking bras. “And stop waving that around. Mutt and Jeff will see.”
“Mutt and Jeff?” Irina repeated, giggling now.
“Those two men Mark left with us. And what’s wrong with this?” Jane asked, holding up (out of sight of the men) a white bra.
“I bet your Sister Roberta has one just like it,” Irina whispered out of the side of her mouth. She grabbed the bra and gave the straps a good snap. “Serviceable, but not very pretty.”
“No one’s going to see it.”
“You don’t think your husband will? You’re going to get dressed in the closet?”
“I’m certainly not going to get dressed in front of my husband.” Jane suddenly gasped, her eyes nearly crossing. “I’m not going to have a husband.”
Irina merely raised a brow.
And the shopping excursion went downhill from there. Mark rejoined them an hour later, and Jane was thankful she’d already talked Irina into letting her get some jeans, which were safely tucked in the trunk of the car thanks to Mutt. Or Jeff.
At Mark’s insistence and with Irina’s guidance, Jane tried on and bought not only comfortable slacks and blouses, but several evening dresses that came to the floor. She couldn’t even use her brace as an excuse, the dresses were so long. At the next shop Irina was able to find her a pair of low-heeled shoes to go with the dresses that would fit over her new brace. The silk stockings Irina insisted she buy, however, were alarming. Never having worn pantyhose, Jane held up a pair—out of sight of Mark—and asked how she was expected to fit into them, since she was pretty sure they wouldn’t fit a three-year-old. Irina assured her they stretched.
But it was the last shop that finally made Jane balk. “I don’t wear jewelry.”
“You need it to go with your evening wear,” Irina argued.
“We’re supposed to be replacing my blown-up wardrobe, not buying gowns and silk stockings and jewelry.”
“You can’t wear wool pants and flannel shirts to a ball,” Mark interjected.
“I’m not Cinderella.”
Mark bent at the waist, getting really close to her face. “No, you’re not. You’re Jane Doe Abbot, and you’re going to dance with me at my coronation ball.”
“Da— Did you say dance?”
Mark nodded. And then he gave her a quick kiss on the lips. When he pulled back, his smile was more nasty than nice. “And at our wedding.”
She couldn’t even think of anything to say, since she was beginning to believe—and fear—there really was going to be a wedding. “Then I want something simple,” she said, trying to ignore the sudden gleam in his eyes as she turned to the counter.
The jeweler, bless his Shelkovan heart, couldn’t be more excited to have royalty in his shop. His chest was puffed out like a drumming partridge and his brow was sweating. But the poor man’s face fell when Jane passed over his diamonds and chose a simple gold locket in the shape of a fir tree. “I like this,” she offered, holding it up for Mark to see.
And she did, as it reminded her of the Lakeland stationery.
“My people are going to think I’m miserly if all my bride wears is a simple locket.”
“You’re pushing, Your Highness,” Jane said sweetly.
“If I push hard enough, will you fall into my arms?”
“I’ll probably step to the side and let you fall on your face.”
“Witch.”
And on and on it went, until Jane finally made it back to the palace and up to her new room in the family wing. It took Mutt and Jeff four trips to bring in all her purchases, and she was both thrilled and ashamed. She was so excited to own such beautiful, colorful clothes, and so guilty of the sin of gluttony. She loved each and every piece, even the beautiful evening gowns. But she especially loved the frilly, not-so-serviceable underwear.
Sister Roberta would have her doing penance for a month. And then she’d make her give all the clothes back. Jane was darn glad she was twenty-seven instead of seven, and that Sister Roberta was half a world away.
The nun was retired now, but Jane kept in touch with her. She wrote regularly and drove to Bangor to visit her each summer and at Christmas. And instead of raising children, Sister Roberta now spent her time taking walks along the Penobscot River and reading late into the night. And she always told Jane during her visits that she was her most favorite orphan of all.
Jane had stopped believing that venial lie twelve years ago, but loved Sister Roberta for still attempting to make her feel special.
Just like Mark was always trying to do.
And that was just it. All the Lakelands were making her feel special by the simple act of treating her as though she were no different from themselves. They each sought her out at various times and talked with her as if she were an old friend. They hauled her into midnight meetings, cramming her onto their patriarch’s bed as if she were one of them. And each of the men had taken their turn scolding her, as if she were a real sister or daughter—just like Katy MacBain’s family did to Katy. Heck, even Irina had spoken plainly about Jane belonging if she wanted to. They weren’t trying to make her feel important or special, but like one of them.
The worry was they were succeeding.
Jane felt comfortable here, and darn it, she wanted to stay.
* * *
> If I were to tell you I’m going to marry Mark in six days,” Jane whispered the moment Katy said hello, “would you come be my maid of honor?”
There was a long, stark silence. “Are you pregnant?” Katy asked softly.
“I don’t know.”
“Do you love him?”
Jane sucked in a deep breath. “Yes,” she more exhaled than said.
“And is he in love with you?”
“I don’t . . . I’m not . . . Does it really matter?”
Another silence. “I’m pretty sure it does, Jane.” And then a sigh. “Did he happen to mention the word ‘love’ when he asked you to marry him?”
“Um . . . he never actually asked. He just announced to a room full of people at dinner one night that I was his fiancée. I didn’t tell you when I called a couple of days later because I figured Mark had only said it to stop some businessman from throwing his daughter at him. But since then, everyone—including Mark—has been acting like we really are engaged.”
“I don’t care if you do love him,” Katy said, still softly. “You can’t marry the man just to save him from a scheming businessman. Are you sure you’re not mistaking lust for love?” There was an equally soft snort. “Not that you have a whole lot of experience with either one.”
“If how much my heart aches when I even think about a future without Mark is any indication, I’m definitely more than in lust with him. I don’t want to leave after the coronation,” Jane admitted, closing her eyes against the pain merely saying it out loud elicited. “I want . . . His father and brothers and aunt treat me like I’m family.”
“But you wouldn’t be marrying his father and brothers and aunt,” Katy gently countered. “You’d be marrying a man who might only be in lust with you.”
“When I called you last week, you told me Robbie and Jack Stone gave Mark their blessing.”
“To keep you safe.” Another heavy sigh came over the line. “If you don’t even know if you’re pregnant, then what’s the rush?”
“Maybe so Mark will know I’m marrying him because I love him and not because I have to? And I’ll know he’s marrying me because he wants to and not out of obligation?”
Katy hesitated, then said, “I realize that sounds perfectly sensible, but it makes more sense to know he loves you before you make that kind of commitment.”
“Wouldn’t marrying me for no good reason mean he must love me?”
“Then why hasn’t he said it?”
Jane suddenly smiled. “I guess you’ll have to come to Shelkova and ask him,” she returned, mimicking her friend’s exasperation. “You’re only volunteering on the ambulance, and that mountain climbing and rescue school in Colorado doesn’t start for a couple of months, so come talk some sense into me in person. But you need to get here before Mark’s coronation,” she rushed on over Katy’s sputtering, “because the wedding is taking place the same day. And,” she added gruffly, turning serious, “I can’t imagine getting married without the closest thing I have to a sister standing beside me.”
“Dammit, Jane,” Katy whispered. “I’m not going to let you make me cry.”
“Then come.”
“I . . . I can’t,” she said thickly. “I had to pass up a trip to Quebec just a few days ago when I discovered my passport was expired.”
“Mark can get you in Shelkova without one,” Jane drawled. Oh, yeah, she was definitely winning this one.
“But Uncle Sam won’t let me back in America when I try to come home. And besides,” she rushed on in a growl—Jane assumed to cover up a sob—“I’m committed to covering for a full-time paramedic who’s out on maternity leave for the next six weeks. Oh, honey, I’m sorry,” Katy added when Jane went silent. “You know I’d give my right arm to be there with you.”
“I know. And . . . and I understand.”
“How about if I promise to be there when you have the baby?”
“If there even is one.”
That got her a weak laugh. “If there isn’t one now, there will be soon. And you know why? Because I’m not sending that box of condoms,” she finished in a shout over the blare of an alarm. “Gotta go, kiddo. Duty calls. I love you!”
Chapter Sixteen
Mark was sitting in the chair that for the last three years he’d teasingly called his father’s throne, which was on the verge of becoming his. He was leaning back with his feet propped on the desk, quietly sipping a glass of Jack Daniel’s whiskey. He’d discovered the stuff on his sojourn to America and promptly had five cases of it shipped home. At the moment, however, he was worried five weren’t going to meet his immediate needs.
It was bad enough the whole palace was in an uproar over the coming ceremonies with carpenters and caterers and people running in every direction, but he also had a security staff on the verge of a nervous breakdown over all the strangers in the house. Yet here he was only three days shy of his coronation—and hopefully his wedding—dealing with familial complaints.
And again, Jane was the topic of discussion.
“I found her in my library, sitting in my chair, smoking one of my cigars,” Reynard said. “Smoking! A cigar, for God’s sake!”
Mark set his drink on the desk and scrubbed at his face with both hands, then looked at his father. “When?”
“This afternoon.”
“At around three? The time you usually hole up in your library?”
“Well, yes. You have to do something, Markov. We can’t have a cigar-smoking queen!”
Mark picked up his drink again to hide his grin at the picture of a cigar-smoking angel.
“And yesterday,” Sergei said in turn, “I found her behind the barns teaching half the house staff how to play something called horseshoes. She was filthier than any of them and waving her hands like a madwoman trying to explain the game.”
“Did you try this game?” Mark asked before taking another sip of whiskey. “Is it fun?”
“That’s not the point. She can’t go around wallowing in the dirt and yelling her head off like a fishwife.”
“I see.”
“And every morning she goes to visit those women who caused her to be thrown in jail,” Dmitri spoke up, pacing to the front of the desk. “Some of them are still practicing their old . . . profession.”
“Does she go alone?”
“No. She has her bodyguards trailing behind her. But that’s not the point. The future queen of Shelkova can’t be associating with prostitutes.”
“I see.”
“And Markov,” Aunt Irina added softly, “all she wants to wear are her jeans and boots. Our staff dresses better than she does.”
Mark smiled at his aunt and took another sip of whiskey.
“Do something,” Reynard ordered. “If you can’t control her, then—”
“Let me get this straight,” Mark said quietly, cutting him off. “After saying just last week that she was a breath of fresh air, you’re now asking me to make Jane stop being Jane?”
His face darkening with his scowl, Reynard strode to Mark’s stock of whiskey. “Her antics may be endearing to us, but our people might not feel the same way about their queen. We’re only asking that you persuade her to be more . . . circumspect.”
Mark set his feet on the floor, set down his drink and stood up, then placed his hands on the desk, palms flat, and looked at Alexi. “Any complaints about my future bride?”
Alexi shrugged. “She takes that old horse for a walk each day down Main Street.”
Mark slowly looked from one family member to the next, all of them staring back with righteous indignation mixed with the hope he would fix their future queen. He shook his head. “You haven’t realized, have you?” he asked, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Realized what?”
“We’re being tested. And from the sound of things
, we’re failing.”
“What in the hell do you mean, tested?” Sergei asked.
“Jane’s been acting outrageous on purpose to see if we truly accept her.” He straightened and crossed his arms over his chest. “And from what I’m hearing, we don’t.”
“Bullshit,” Dmitri snarled.
Mark shook his head again. “Tell me, have any of you tried to curb her behavior?”
“I’ve lectured her repeatedly about going into that part of the city,” Dmitri said.
“And I’m guilty of scolding her for smoking cigars,” Reynard confessed, frowning sadly and shaking his own head. “And so I failed, didn’t I?”
“Well, we’ll know tonight,” Mark told him.
“We will? How?” Alexi asked, suddenly looking hopeful again.
“I’m going to ask Jane to marry me.”
“You’ve already done that,” Dmitri said.
“No, I haven’t. I’ve told Jane I’m going to marry her, but I’ve never asked.”
“Really?” Aunt Irina said in surprise. She stood up and started shaking her head like the rest of them. “Oh, Markov, every woman dreams of receiving a proper proposal. You must ask.”
“I realize that, Aunt. I may have momentarily forgotten that truth, but hopefully I’ve come to my senses in time.”
Reynard sat down with a loud sigh of relief. Dmitri and Alexi did the same. Aunt Irina shot Mark a wink and then left.
Sergei, however, continued staring at him, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. “And once she’s your wife, she’ll settle down?”
“No,” Mark drawled. “I imagine she’ll test us all the way to our graves.”
Sergei groaned and headed to the bar. He didn’t pour American whiskey, but good Shelkovan vodka. “You’ve apparently also forgotten how to tell the difference between an angel and a witch,” he muttered just before lifting the glass to his grinning mouth.
From Kiss to Queen Page 20