From Kiss to Queen

by Janet Chapman

  “What?” she whispered, a little wary herself.

  “A kiss from an angel,” he said softly, moving around the worshipful pups and over to her, his eyes now alight with mischief. “A long, passionate, promising kiss.”

  “Wh-what kind of promise?”

  “A promise of things to come. Tomorrow night, to be exact. Kiss me, Jane, and give me your promise of passion.”

  She snapped her eyes to his chest. “I . . . I don’t know how to promise passion,” she told his shirt buttons. “You’re the only man I’ve ever even wanted to be intimate with, so I’m not really sure I know how.” She leaned closer as she rose on her tiptoes and stopped just short of kissing him. “You . . . you’ll teach me? How to please you?”

  “Oh, yes, angel.” He wrapped his arms around her waist, then straightened and brought her with him. “We’ll teach each other.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  It was the night of the Coronation Ball—which they were having before the event, since Czar Markov Lakeland and his new queen would be otherwise . . . occupied the following night. Jane was in her room with Irina and a small army of maids. The entire room smelled of wildflowers and the scent of the ocean coming in through the open windows. It was mid-autumn in Shelkova, but the weather had turned out beautifully for the occasion.

  And right now Jane needed the fresh air.

  “Do stop squirming, Jane. I can’t get your hair done if you don’t sit still,” Irina softly scolded. She looked at Jane in the mirror. “You needn’t be nervous. You look beautiful, and you’ll do well tonight.”

  “I don’t dance.”

  Irina winked at her reflection. “You did just fine during practice.”

  “I stepped on Alexi’s feet.”

  “Then you can step on Markov’s.”

  “What if someone else asks me to dance?”

  Irina smiled. “Then lift your nose in the air and regally tell them no.”

  “I couldn’t do that.”

  “Sure you can. You’re the queen.”

  “Not yet.”

  “Soon enough.”

  Jane sighed. “I’m not going to make a good queen.”

  “And just what makes a good queen?” Irina asked, lifting one perfectly arched eyebrow.

  “Someone who knows how to dance with ambassadors, how to converse about worldly things, and who doesn’t have shaking knees at just the thought of tonight.”

  “There is no such woman,” Irina said. “I’ve attended many of these functions since the Lakelands took the throne, and my knees still weaken at the prospect.”

  Jane turned on her seat to face her in person. “You’re nervous? But why?”

  “Because I step on toes, too.”

  “No!” Jane exclaimed in mock horror.

  Irina pushed her back around. “And I have embarrassed myself in conversation more times than I care to remember.”

  “I can’t picture that,” Jane said, frowning at her in the mirror. “You’re always so calm.”

  A knock on the door forestalled Irina’s answer. One of the maids looked at her in question, and Irina nodded at the woman to open it.

  “Jane Abbot. What sort of calamity have you gotten yourself into this time?” a stern, well-remembered voice boomed from the doorway.

  “Sister Roberta!”

  The nun glided into the room, her long black habit billowing around her as she headed to Jane, who was now standing. The nun placed her hands on her hips and stood in silence, using the time to give her former charge a thorough inspection from her toes to her nose. She suddenly smiled and opened her arms.

  Jane ran into them. “Oh, Sister.”

  “My, my, child. How you do clean up.”

  “Sister.”

  “But then, having dealt with and now finally meeting Markov Lakeland, I can understand why you made the effort.”

  “Oh, Sister.”

  She couldn’t say anything other than that. All she could do was hug the nun, her nose buried in an aging, loving bosom. Sister Roberta hugged her back, rocking Jane as she used to do half a world away and nearly two decades ago.

  Sister Roberta finally pulled back and looked at her again. And then she sighed. “You still haven’t tamed that hair.”

  Jane pulled some tresses over her shoulder and clutched them protectively, knowing what was coming next.

  “Why don’t you just cut it?” Sister Roberta asked.

  “Because then it sticks straight out,” Jane reminded her. “Remember the one time you tried. I looked like a poodle for over a year.”

  The nun rolled her eyes. “I remember. Sister Patricia brought it to my attention often enough while we waited for it to grow back.”

  “What are you doing here, Sister?”

  “Your man invited me—and I’m being generous calling it that. He basically hunted me down, told me who he was, and said he was sending a plane and some men to fetch me.” Sister Roberta gave Jane a dignified sniff. “He didn’t even ask if I wished to come. He just told me to be ready.”

  Jane looked at Irina, only to gasp. “Oh, my manners. Sister Roberta, this is Irina, Mark’s aunt. Irina, if you haven’t guessed, this is Sister Roberta.”

  “I’m so pleased to finally meet you, Sister Roberta. Jane’s told us all about you and her time at Saint Xavier’s.”

  “Yes. Well. I assume she left out the better parts.”

  “I would say, Sister, that’s probably the biggest reason Markov brought you here. He will tell us he wanted you to be here for Jane’s wedding, but I suspect his ultimate motive was to get you to explain his new wife to him.”

  “Explain what?” Jane asked, alarmed.

  “Why, your charm, dear,” Irina responded innocently.

  Sister Roberta sniffed again. “Charm, indeed.” She walked over to a chair and slowly sat down. “I declare, I feel like I’ve been on a plane for three days. You would think that I’d be tired of sitting, but God’s truth, I’m just tired.”

  “Oh, Sister. I’m sorry,” Jane apologized, instantly contrite at seeing the aging woman heave a weary sigh.

  “That’s fine, dear. I just need to get my bearings.” She looked at Jane with awe. “We flew right over the North Pole. Imagine, me flying over the North Pole. I’ve never even left New England before, and here I am on the other side of the world.”

  “I bet some tea and sweets will gain you back some energy,” Irina quickly offered, calling to one of the maids and giving her instructions in Shelkovan before guiding Jane back to her seat in front of the mirror. “Now, let’s do wonders with your beautiful hair, and then I can go get ready.”

  “Good luck,” both Jane and Sister Roberta piped up together.

  But within minutes, Irina had worked her magic again and Jane’s hair had been lifted up in intricate curls on top of her head, exposing her long neck and dainty ears.

  “You’re going to have to get your ears pierced,” Irina commented as Jane turned her head back and forth, awed at what she was seeing.

  “Wow. I don’t even look like me.”

  “Katrina didn’t have pierced ears,” Irina continued, smiling at Jane’s expression. “I’m sure Reynard would like for you to borrow some of her earrings. I’ll send a message to him.”

  “Oh, no. I couldn’t.”

  “You can’t go to the ball with naked ears.”

  “And why not?”

  “You’re a queen.”

  “Not yet.”

  “Soon enough. Now, don’t argue.”

  Jane sighed and looked over at Sister Roberta to see the poor nun had her mouth hanging open. “A queen?” the old woman whispered.

  “Well. Yes. It would seem so,” Jane murmured. “Just what did Mark tell you, anyway? In order to get you to come.”

  Sister Roberta gathered
her wits. “He told me he was Markov Lakeland, king of Shelkova, and that he intended to make an honest woman of you. I guess I didn’t put two and two together to come up with your being a . . . a queen.”

  Jane turned red, both from embarrassment and from anger at Mark for implying to Sister Roberta they needed to get married. But as Jane tried to figure out how to explain that “honest woman” part, the maid returned with a huge tray of tea and fancy pastries and set it on the table next to Sister Roberta.

  Irina pulled up another chair and motioned Jane over. “I’ll go get ready and leave you to renew your friendship,” she explained as she urged Jane to sit down. “Reynard said he will come escort you down tonight. And you, too, Sister, if you’re up to it.”

  “I would like to see this ball,” the nun admitted. “Maybe I’ll stay just a short while.”

  “Then drink your tea and refresh yourself. Your room is just across the hall, and you can relax for a bit before you go down.” Irina’s eyes twinkled. “The real fun doesn’t begin for another three hours. It is mostly formalities and receiving lines at first. I can send one of the men to get you then?”

  “Alexi,” Jane suggested, her own eyes twinkling.

  “That will be fine,” Sister Roberta agreed. “Who is Alexi?”

  “Markov’s brother. A rascal, Sister,” Irina offered in way of explanation as she headed for the door. “Just tug the bellpull when you wish to go to your room,” she called back over her shoulder. “And welcome to Shelkova,” she told the nun just before she closed the door, taking all of the maids with her.

  Sister Roberta looked at Jane. “There’s really a bellpull? Like in the old movies?”

  Jane nodded and began pouring the tea. “Thank you for coming to my wedding,” she whispered to her old friend. “It means a lot to me, Sister. I’ve dreamed of being able to talk with you more than once these past few weeks.”

  “I was able to get a very sketchy picture of how you came to be here from the men who escorted me. Now,” the nun said with a sigh, leaning back in her chair and taking a sip of her tea. “I would like to hear your version of the story.”

  Jane sighed and then started at the beginning, at the lake in Maine, and ended with her preparing to attend the coronation ball that night, and the coronation and her wedding tomorrow. She spared nothing of her foolishness; not about getting shot in the shoulder, not about getting thrown in jail, and not even about smoking Reynard’s cigars. She did, however, omit the little incident on the Katrina.

  By the time the telling was done, Sister Roberta could only stare and shake her head, her cup of now-cold tea forgotten on her lap.

  “You rode in a submarine, an aircraft carrier, and a military jet?” Sister asked softly. And then she frowned. “And you tried to shoot a prince?”

  “The gun wasn’t loaded,” Jane reminded her.

  But the nun just kept shaking her head. “And you got thrown in jail. With . . . with . . .”

  “They were being evicted,” Jane explained again. She raised her chin. “And Mark has seen to it that they now have nice jobs,” she said proudly.

  “And you are about to become a queen,” Sister Roberta said, still with awe but also with pride. “You’re going to make a wonderful queen, you know. If you stop acting like a little heathen,” the nun tacked on, sounding like the Sister Roberta she remembered.

  “So I’ve been told,” Jane responded with a weary sigh.

  “You don’t think so?”

  “I always thought queens were important people.”

  “No one is more important than anyone else in God’s eyes.”

  “Um . . . they’re not Catholic, you know.”

  “The Lakelands?”

  Jane nodded.

  “I guessed as much. I may live in the woods, but I read. They are Russian Orthodox?”

  Jane nodded again.

  “Is this a problem for you, child?”

  “No. You raised me Catholic, but you also taught me about all religions. You . . . you don’t mind that I’m not marrying a Catholic?”

  “Are they good people?”

  “Oh, yes,” Jane answered honestly. “Even Alexi.”

  “I can’t wait to meet this rascal prince.”

  “Why are you wearing your old habit? You’d begun wearing the less strict habits years ago, and I thought you switched to regular clothes when you retired.”

  Sister Roberta gave another airy sniff. “I dug this out of the closet just as soon as I finished talking to that man of yours. I decided I needed the . . . clout that goes with it,” the old nun explained with a little puffed-up importance of her own.

  Jane stood with a chuckle and refilled her tea. “Oh, yes, Sister. I’ve seen more than one man back away all but genuflecting when you’re trying to make a point wearing your uniform of God. Remember Silas?”

  “That man,” Sister spat with fond disgust. “He came with you to Saint Xavier’s one day reeking of whiskey and needing a bath.”

  “He still needs a bath,” Jane said, scrunching up her nose. “But he no longer smells of whiskey.”

  “Which is why you’re going to make a fine queen. You care. Now, are you pregnant?”

  Jane nearly spilled the tea she’d been about to take a sip of all over her dress. As it was, she dropped the cup on the floor. “Pregnant?” she squeaked, feeling her cheeks fill with fire.

  Sister Roberta nodded, her eyes silently saying Jane better be truthful.

  “I . . . ah . . .” Jane lowered her eyes. “It’s possible,” she confessed, watching the tea slowly seep into the beautiful, ancient, and probably priceless rug.

  “Look at me, child.”

  Jane lifted her gaze.

  “Do you love him?”

  “Yes.”

  The old nun suddenly smiled. “That’s good. A wife should love her husband.”

  Jane frowned. “Aren’t you going to ask if he loves me back?”

  Sister Roberta gave a wave of dismissal, then awkwardly pushed herself up from her chair. “Oh, the man loves you, all right.”

  “How do you know that?” Jane asked, disgruntled.

  Sister’s eyes widened in mock horror. “Only a man blindly in love would ever call you an angel,” she said, as if stating the obvious. “Now show me to my room, so I can rest up before I have to meet Alexi the rascal.”

  “Maybe it’s him I should warn,” Jane muttered under her breath, taking Sister’s arm and leading her to the door.

  * * *

  You’ve been crying again,” Mark said quietly as they glided—thanks to his strong arms and stalwart toes—across the ballroom floor.

  The room was nearly the size of a football field and had once been the throne room. Hell, there was still a throne sitting at the far end, raised up on a dais and looking imperial and intimidating. The room was also near to overflowing with people, all of them turned out in formal attire, all of them diplomats and businessmen who’d come to pay court on the new king.

  And his new nearly-queen.

  “Answer me,” he demanded, squeezing her waist. “Why have you been crying?”

  “Your father gave me these earrings.”

  Mark danced them over to the nearest wall and stopped, then smiled when she finally looked at him, only to sigh when he noticed her tearing up again. “You’re killing me, angel. Why would that make you cry?”

  “He gave them to me. To keep forever. They were his wife’s,” she explained as she reached up and fingered one of the earrings. “He gave me your mother’s diamond earrings.”

  Mark sighed again.

  “He told me they were from Katrina and him. And then he kissed me and hugged me and called me daughter. And then he . . . he cried.”

  Mark drew her wet face down to his chest. “Ah, baby. What am I going to do with you?” he whispered t
o her hair.

  He didn’t really want an answer, so he ignored her mumbling into his shirt, reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, then carefully dabbed her eyes.

  “I—I was afraid he was going to have a real stroke,” she said between sniffles. “He looked so sad and happy at the same time that I started crying with him.”

  Mark instantly picked up on the one thing that would dry her sentimental tears. “What do you mean, a real stroke?”

  It worked. She blew her nose, frowned up at him, then rolled her eyes. “I know a man on the make for attention when I see one. Your father shamelessly let me believe he has been gravely ill.” Her dry eyes narrowed. “Come to think of it, you’ve all been letting me believe he was sick.”

  Mark knew better than to answer that accusation. “When did you find out?”

  “Not long after I arrived. One day I saw him walking his horse away from the house, then saw him gallop that same horse down a wooded path. He didn’t ride like a man recovering from near death.”

  “Then why have you allowed him to keep up his charade?”

  “Because he’s enjoying it so much,” she said, sounding exasperated.

  “And all the hours you spend with him taking therapeutic walks? And all the times you’ve scolded him to rest? You were just playing along?”

  “No. The orders to rest were to tease him. He always turned a dull red whenever I worried so long and loud about his illness.”

  Not caring where they were or who was watching, Mark kissed her right on her surprised lips. And then he hugged her again and closed his eyes, turning enough to shield her when everyone suddenly stopped dancing and started clapping. He shot a smile over his shoulder, then swept Jane out onto the balcony before she started crying again—this time with embarrassment.

  “I hope Sister Roberta didn’t see that,” she muttered into his soggy shirt—just before she hit him. “Don’t you dare do that again.”

  “You like my kisses,” he said, kissing her again, this time on her forehead. “Admit it.”

  “Not in front of half the world.”

  “Nor your Sister Roberta.”