From Kiss to Queen (14 page)

“Yes, minor,” Reynard agreed with a chuckle. “Enough to make me give up my throne.”

“And you're better now?”

“Yes. I am better.”

“I'm glad. Mark was worried and in a hurry to get home to you.”

“He is a most dutiful son. And a very special man.”

Reynard wasn't sure, but he thought she gave a little snort under her breath. She set more logs on the crackling fire, then finally got up and came back to her seat.

“Now, I believe you were going to tell me about yourself,” he reminded her, smiling at her frown.

“I believe you would be bored, Your—Reynard. I grew up in the woods of Maine, which isn't all that exciting, and worked for sporting camps most of my adult life. And then one day while I was out hunting partridge, your son fell out of the sky and into a pond I happened to be passing. That's it.”

In a nutshell, Reynard decided; a very guarded nutshell that would take a great deal of effort to crack. And patience and cunning and trust. “How is your shoulder healing?”

“Fine,” she said, blushing again through a sheepish smile. “I did a very foolish thing.”

“And then you did a wondrous thing by forgiving the man who shot you, making him a hero in the eyes of his shipmates. That was a very noble thing to do.”

“Noble? Dorjan was just following orders to protect your son. I'm fortunate the man is good with a gun.”

“And you, Jane? Are you good with a gun?”

Her blush deepened. “I usually hit what I'm aiming at.”

“And you know when a gun is loaded or not?” he prodded.

“I've carried that particular shotgun over many miles in the last twelve years. It was a gift to me from my foster parents. I can tell if it is loaded just by the weight of it.”

Reynard noted the mention of the people who had raised her. Not her blood parents. He also noted her little chin rising defensively as she obviously wondered where this conversation was leading. And he noted she was tiring from her first journey from her bed. “You were never taught not to threaten what you can't back up?” he asked. “That pointing an empty gun is a dangerous bluff?”

That chin rose higher. “I was angry and wanted to make a point. Your son was dragging me from one ship to the next and halfway across the world.”

“Mark just snatched you away without explaining why?” Reynard persisted. “Without explaining the danger to you if you stayed in Maine?”

Her chin lowered slightly. “He said something about not wanting to leave me, that he felt . . . guilty.” She raised her chin again. “I can take care of myself. I don't need his guilt or pity.”

“Pity! You think Markov pities you?” Reynard choked out, only to laugh at her scowl. “My daughter, the last thing my son feels for you is pity. In fact, I believe he'd like to throttle you most of the time.” He cocked his head at her startled look. “What surprises you more—that Markov would like to throttle you, or that I called you daughter?”

She snorted. “I know what your son would like to do to me, since he threatens it enough.” She suddenly smiled. “Not that he ever would—or could.” She shook her head. “Only weak men use their strength against women, and your son definitely isn't weak. He's all bluster.” Then she frowned. “And I'm no one's daughter.”

Well, that was telling. More than she realized, Reynard guessed. He smiled warmly. “But I have always wanted to say the word. I have always wished for a daughter.”

“You have only sons?”

“Four,” he confirmed, nodding. “Lakeland men are destined to only have sons.”

Reynard watched Jane's good hand slide to her stomach, his claim apparently making her wonder about the child she hoped to be carrying. And she appeared pleased with the idea of having a son, if the small upward curve of her lips was any indication. Lord, she'd really blush if she knew he was aware of that possibility. “You are tired. Why don't you go have a rest, and I'll come get you in a couple of hours and escort you to dinner,” he suggested, standing up and reaching for her good hand.

“Thank you, but I should eat in my room.”

“No. You are well enough to sit with us tonight. We have some guests from Europe; a businessman has brought his daughter to visit in hopes of catching the eye of the new king of Shelkova,” he explained, looking for some reaction—which he certainly got. Jane Abbot exposed her thoughts in a telling, ferocious scowl.

“I . . . I don't think I should be there,” she hedged, patting her tangled hair with her good hand. “I would be out of place. Mark will want to give a good impression to this
businessman. And his daughter,” she tacked on in a mutter. “I should eat in my room like I've been doing.”

“Nonsense,” he shot back, realizing everything Markov had told him about Jane's self-esteem was sadly true. “I'll sit beside you,” he cajoled. “We can watch the proceedings from the foot of the table and whisper behind our hands.”

“You would sit at the foot of the table? But you're still king.”

“Who in two weeks will be a mere man again, Jane, so why not take advantage of my position now to sit wherever I please?”

“We would be a long way from Mark and his . . . guests?”

“Yes.”

“I did see something rather pretty in my wardrobe. Do you suppose I should wear it?”

“That is why the clothes are there. Mark told me yours . . . blew up.”

Her smile widened. “Trust me, it wasn't a great loss. I was planning on buying new clothes for my new life, anyway.”

“New life?”

“I mean for when I got a new job down on the Maine coast, which was where I was heading when I met your son.”

“I see,” Reynard murmured, indeed seeing a lot. Mark had told him of his suspicion that Jane was running from something. It would have to be something big to make her leave her woods. “Then dress in the pretty clothes after you rest, and I will be at your door in two hours,” he said, leading her out into the hall.

“Ah, can you tell me how to get to my room? I'm liable to end up in the kitchens.”

“Wait here,” Reynard told her, going back in the library and coming out with a book. “This is a history of the palace. You'll find several maps in it,” he informed her, tucking the book under her good arm and then placing his hand at her back. “Come. I will show you the way today, so you won't end up in the kitchens, as Cook is liable to toss you a dishcloth and put you to work. Not that you look the part,” he quickly added when he saw her frown and realized he'd just insulted the woman by telling her she looked like a dishwasher. Lord, the poor girl's ego was fragile, if even existent. “Cook would put me to work if I dared venture in. And don't ever try to steal any tarts, or you'll find yourself missing some fingers.”

Still looking skeptical, Jane stopped and turned to him. “You shouldn't be walking the stairs, should you? You've been ill. Just tell me the way and I'll be fine.”

“I most certainly can and will take you to your room. I'm supposed to exercise,” he quickly added, feeling his neck heat to a dull red. “But thank you for your concern.”

And that was that, the retired king decided. Now he had to go find Irina and tell her the new seating arrangements for dinner tonight, as he wanted a good seat for the fireworks.

J
ane's bedroom door opened and a woman who definitely wasn't staff walked in. “I've brought you a dress, Miss Abbot,” the fiftyish woman said. “And shoes. We dress for dinner,” she continued, her gaze settling on Jane's old boots peeking out from beneath her slacks. “And I brought some stockings.”

“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
.

*   *   *

C
onfidence 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 brightly 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.”