From Kiss to Queen (3 page)

She blinked again.

“The food can wait until you're dry and warm.”

“But—”

“I am not a man noted for my patience,” he warned her. “Nor am I used to having my orders ignored.”

“Orders?”

He started to rise and Jane Abbot hastily scrambled to her feet, dropping the pack on the ground. “Are you threatening me?”

Mark nodded.

Able to see more clearly with the light of the fire, he watched her start to bristle, then saw the moment she suddenly thought better of it—likely because he was standing now, completely naked except for the blanket anchored around his waist. Mark knew he was a formidable sight, especially to women the size of Jane. She couldn't seem to keep her eyes off his chest. Finally, after thirty silent seconds, she reached down and grabbed her pack, then carefully approached the bed of boughs. Mark stepped aside and sat down, leaving her plenty of room to sit beside him.

“I don't think you should be giving me orders,” she whispered while staring at the fire, her pack cradled to her chest. “Is your ego bruised or something?” she asked, turning her head to look at him. “And you suddenly feel the need to assert yourself?”

What he felt was the twitch return to his cheek. “I am
going to kiss that insolence out of you,” he very softly threatened.

With much satisfaction, Mark saw her tense. Then she laughed nervously and turned back to the fire, which pleased him even more. The woman was wary, and well she should be.

What she didn't need to know was that he intended to kiss her whether she was insolent or not—he vividly remembered the feel of her life-giving lips earlier when she'd come to him out of nowhere, literally saving him with her breath. And he wanted to kiss her for it, long and slow and passionately; to share with her his joy of just being alive, to taste and savor the bravado and strength of will she possessed.

“You really must be blind,” she said, still looking at the fire. “Even when I'm cleaned up, I'm not a woman men want to kiss,” she told him somewhat self-consciously. “And tonight . . . well, I look like a drowned rat.”

Mark turned to her in surprise, trying to focus on her face. She was serious!

She believed she wasn't kissable? Hell, he wanted to sink himself into her very soul. “Who in the hell said you weren't kissable?”

The woman blinked in surprise, then suddenly rolled her eyes and started laughing. Not nervously, but with deep-bellied mirth. “What a conversation we're having. We're both freezing and hiding in the forest like frightened rabbits, and you're threatening to kiss me.” She snorted. “One or both of us is crazy.”

This time Mark had to forcibly pry his jaw loose before he cracked a tooth. One of them was crazy, all right. He
may be the one with the bump on his head, but she was daring to pull a tiger's tail. “Hand me your soup and canteen and foil, and while you're undressing I'll start supper,” he offered, forcing himself not to pounce.

Jane sobered and started rummaging through her pack again.

Mark looked around the makeshift camp she'd thrown together in a few short minutes, then looked at that amazing backpack. “Lady, I'm expecting you to pull out the kitchen sink next. Is there anything you
don't
have in there?”

She smiled up at him, laughter still lingering in her large eyes. Lord, she was pretty. And quite kissable.

“I don't have any M&M's. I ate the last of them this morning.”

“Peanut or plain?”

Her smile intensified. “Plain.”

Mark shook his head, dispelling the last of his anger.

“Will you settle for”—she dug through the pack again and pulled out a small tin—“some more butterscotch?”

“I've grown partial to butterscotch,” he whispered, taking the tin.

She blushed again. “I'll go find some water.”

Mark caught her jacket sleeve. “Undress,” he said, softening his order with a grin.

She grabbed still
another
blanket, raised her nose in the air as she stood up, and went around behind the blanket she'd suspended on the rope. To hide, Mark guessed. Well, once the woman got her clothes off, she wouldn't be so sassy.

As soon as she disappeared, he popped the butterscotch into his mouth, then grabbed her pack and dumped
its entire contents onto the blanket. Then he just stared, still a little blurry-eyed, in amazement.

Then he snorted.

“What are you doing?” she asked two minutes later as she limped past the makeshift reflector with the regal air of a queen, her blanket draped around her like a royal mantle.

“I'm just checking to see if you have any land-to-air missiles,” he drawled, poking his finger through the eclectic mess he'd made. “Lady, you give new meaning to the idea of always being prepared.”

“I grew up in these woods,” she said haughtily, coming over and sitting down beside the mess. “I like to be ready for anything. I've seen some strange things happen in these woods.”

“Like?”

“Like people suddenly falling out of the sky,” she drawled, trying to mimic his accent.

Mark waved a hand to encompass their camp. “Who taught you all this?”

“I'm a Yankee,” she said, as if that explained everything.

“Yankee?”

“Never heard of Yankee ingenuity, Ace?”

“No.”

She cocked her head on a mischievous smile. “Well, with a little common sense and plenty of imagination, a good Yankee can turn anything available into whatever he needs.”

“Which means you can survive in the wilderness with just the contents of a day pack,” Mark speculated.

“And survive comfortably.”

“Like I said, I am fortunate for falling in your vicinity.”

“Yes, you are,” she shot back, lifting her chin on a smirk.

Mark silently sighed. Being naked, with only a thin slip of material to cover her, hadn't made her any less sassy—only more enchanting. He grabbed the foil and began fashioning a pot, filled it with water from the canteen, and set it beside the fire.

Jane spread both his and her clothes over the rope behind them, then began repacking her pack. “What nationality is your accent?” she asked, her attention on her task.

“Shelkovan.”

She looked up. “Excuse me?”

“Shelkova is a small country just across the Bering Sea from Alaska.”

“I thought Russia was across from Alaska.”

“Nearly the size of the whole of your New England states, Shelkova only reemerged when the former USSR broke up. Our climate is cold, but the forests are beautiful and productive. We export lumber mostly, although we are also fishermen and farmers—and thankful to be under our own rule again.” Mark grinned at her frown. “You would love my country, Jane. The forests are similar to Maine's, only with older growth. And our ocean is beautiful and stormy, our coast rugged.”

“Heavens, you sound like a travel bureau. And yes, I think I would like your country. I like wildness and nature and storms.”

“I was going home when I . . . fell on you.”

“You were?” she asked, sounding startled. “But that's
halfway around the world. You were going to fly a floatplane to Shelkova?”

“No. My destination was Bangor International Airport. I was going to fly in a slightly larger, faster aircraft for the rest of the journey.”

“Oh. Yes. That makes sense,” she agreed with a cough. “Why were you going home?”

“Word came to me this morning that my father is ill. I must return as quickly as I can.”

“I'm sorry. We'll start out at first light tomorrow and should reach a phone by noon.”

“Noon? You said twenty miles.”

“Most of it by water. With both of us paddling, we'll make good time.”

“Then we should eat and rest. We've both had a rather trying day.” Mark grinned when her eyebrow suddenly arched at his orders.

Lord, he could almost see her clearly now. She had an expressive face and an impertinent little nose she was fond of raising, her light brown hair curled in tangles around her cheeks and down her back, and her eyes appeared to be a stormy gray in the waning daylight as the small fire reflected their luster. Her face, when it wasn't scowling or frowning, was oval, set over a long, delicate neck that beckoned a man to feel her life-pulse when he kissed her.

Which he intended to do . . . eventually. Certainly before noon tomorrow. And maybe more than once. Oh, yes. Jane Abbot was most kissable. Either the men of Maine were idiots or the woman wouldn't recognize male interest if it hit her on the head.

Mark was beginning to suspect it was the latter. Except for staring at his chest, Jane treated him no differently than she would a child or a man of ninety, almost as though she thought
herself
sexless.

So was she naive? Or just shy?

She'd hung her clothes over the rope, but he'd noticed her wrapping something in her jacket as she'd limped around the blanket. When she'd gone to answer a call of nature later, her limp noticeably more pronounced, Mark had peeked. What he'd found was a leg brace that appeared to fit over her right foot, inside her boot, that would come up to just below her knee. It was light and inflexible, with an innovative hinge at the ankle that would stop all lateral movement but still allow her to walk almost unimpeded.

A permanent limp, she'd stated simply. But she'd blushed, which was telling. Jane Abbot was self-conscious about her limp, thought she was un-kissable—even when she was cleaned up—and treated him like a brother.

Actually, she treated him like a gelding.

So instead of shy, maybe she was merely . . . inexperienced.

No, that couldn't be it. She appeared to be close to thirty years old, so even if she had spent most of her life in the wilderness, she couldn't have lived like a nun.

“Our clothes are dry enough, I think,” she said, pulling his shirt and pants down from the rope. “The sun's gone and it's going to get chilly really fast.”

“Using that blanket as a reflector works wonders,” he said, taking his offered clothes. “Both my front and back are warm.”

She took her own clothes behind the reflector, but Mark
noticed she left her brace under her jacket. “How far did you say it was to the canoe?” he asked through the barrier.

“Two or three miles. But it's on a lake with a navigable stream that will take us almost directly to Twelve Mile Camp. It's just a store and some rental cabins, but there's a phone,” she added, limping around the blanket and sitting down, then tucking her socked feet beneath her.

Mark's eyesight was sharp enough to see that her right foot curled inward slightly, her ankle appearing skinnier than normal.

“We can call the police from there and report what happened,” she continued. “And also notify the FAA and Inland Fisheries about your crash. I think Inland Fisheries gives you a week or something to get the plane out of the pond.”

Mark looked at the dying fire. “I don't wish to notify anyone of what happened.”

“What?”

“It would be better if the incident is forgotten. I will quietly have the plane removed.”

“You can't mean that. Someone tried to kill you.”

He turned to settle himself facing her, ducking his head to look her level in the eyes. “It would accomplish nothing. Like me, the men in the other plane are not Americans. Reporting what happened would only delay my returning home to my father.”

“But—”

He reached out and took hold of her hands. “Try to understand my reasoning, Jane. If I report this, I will be held for questioning, the police will never find a trace of
the other plane or the men who were in it, and I will be delayed for days. I must return home immediately.”

“But—”

“I would ask that you trust me on this. I know what is best.”

“Are you in this country illegally? Were you telling the truth about not carrying drugs?”

Mark shook his head. “I'm not a criminal. Today's attack was against my family.” He squeezed her hands. “It's important you believe me, Jane. You saved my life, and I don't want you regretting it.”

She silently looked at him, apparently wondering if it was wise to question him further, considering she was in the middle of nowhere with a complete stranger, then hesitantly nodded.

Using his grip on her hands, Mark slowly leaned forward and lowered his mouth to hers.

She didn't move. And she stopped breathing. Her lips were soft and pliable but unresponsive—likely surprised he was kissing such an un-kissable woman.

Mark applied more pressure, using his tongue to tease her lips. She sighed and finally opened her mouth, letting Mark delve deeper into her sweetness before he pulled back to find her eyes looking more confused than wary.

“Thank you, Jane Abbot,” he whispered, leaning close enough to give her another kiss, this one fleeting and chaste. “For saving my life today and for believing me now. Thank you.”

“You . . . you're welcome,” she whispered in return, staring at his mouth.

Mark leaned back, stretching out on the makeshift bed and wiggling into a comfortable position before he drew Jane down next to him, ignoring her startled squeak. “For warmth,” he murmured as he wrapped an arm around her waist to anchor her while placing his other arm beneath her head. “Sleep,” he softly commanded as he closed his own eyes on what had to have been the strangest day of his life. He'd nearly been killed by assassins, had crashed his plane, and had been rescued by a guardian angel he was tempted to keep.

Not completely understanding the sentiment, Mark only knew he had powerful feelings for Jane Abbot. Not only was he in awe of the woman—he found himself wanting to possess her with such an overwhelming passion that he was in awe of himself.

Which might seem strange to some, but not to the men in his family, who had a history of stumbling onto their life-mates—usually at the damnedest times and in the damnedest places. And whenever they gave in to the tug on their hearts, they were blessed with happiness, love, and lots of male children. Always males. If the Lakelands wanted a female, they basically had to import one into the family through marriage.