From Kiss to Queen (6 page)

Grinning like an expectant father, Silas sauntered over to the cabin with his thumbs in his suspenders. “Now this here is Manly,” he said, waving behind him. “And seeing how Jane ain't in no shape to drive, I want to tell you, young fellah, that you better be easy on my boy.”

Mark could only nod.

“And you tell Jane not to try driving back until she's well,” he instructed. “By the way, where'd her car break down?”

“It's back in the woods thirty miles. She hit a rock and
split open the oil pan,” Mark said, still staring at the large red monster. It looked like he was going to need a ladder to get in the thing. “Am I going to have to stop every fifty miles for gas?” he asked, getting his wits back. But not his eyes. He couldn't seem to stop staring at that incredible, indescribable truck.

“Maybe, young fellah,” Silas shot back just as dryly. “But most stations take Visa.”

Mark forced himself to look at Silas as he took out his wallet, then held out his Visa card. “Run this through your machine and I'll sign the slip.”

Silas shook his head. “Not for Jane. I owe that girl my life.”

“How so?” Mark asked, respectfully putting the card back in his wallet.

“I wouldn't have all this,” Silas said, gesturing at the store, “if'n it weren't for Jane. I was working at a set of sporting camps she was managing when she all of a sudden up and told me I was wasting my time working for someone else when I could be running my own camps.” Silas shook his head on a humorless chuckle. “She came storming in my room one night and found every damn one of my bottles of whiskey. Broke every one of them, she did. Then she dragged me outside and pushed me in the lake. Hellfire, she was in a blazing temper. She babysat me for two weeks, then brought me here and told me this place was for sale. She even went to the bank with me.” Silas shook his head again. “She weren't no more than a slip of a girl of twenty-two.”

Mark pictured his guardian angel rousting the old man out of his drunkenness and pushing him in the lake, even
as he remembered her threatening to do the same to him just yesterday.
Hellfire
was an accurate sentiment, he supposed, when a person was speaking of Jane Abbot. And right then Mark hoped he'd get to witness her blazing temper.

He held out his hand. “Thank you. I'll see that your truck is back within a few days.”

“Good enough. You tell Jane to take care. If'n you can tell me where her car is, I can have it fetched, fixed, and waiting for her when she gets back.”

“It's already being taken care of.”

“Good enough,” Silas repeated with a nod, giving Manly a fatherly pat on the fender as he sauntered back to his store.

Picking up his sick angel—and sending a prayer to his sick father in Shelkova—Mark carried Jane to the truck, made another trip carrying her backpack and shotgun, then drove through the star-laced night to his rendezvous.

*   *   *

J
ane woke up stretching and yawning just as they were reaching Bangor.

“Need anything?” Mark asked the red-nosed, blinking woman beside him. “A Pepsi? More medicine?” he offered as he pulled into a gas station. It was his second stop since leaving Twelve Mile Camp, as Manly apparently got one tank an hour for gas mileage—which explained Silas charging five dollars for two aspirin.

“A . . . I need to use the bathroom.”

“They have one here. You go in and I'll get you a soda. Wait!” Mark rushed on. “Let me help you out. You'll break
your neck if you try it alone.” He walked around to her door and helped her down. “Is this truck legal for the road?”

“I have no idea. Silas usually only goes to Greenville or Millinocket.” She shrugged. “Nobody bothers him.”

Once he was sure Jane was steady on her walk inside, Mark filled the truck with gas and then rushed through the store gathering up a few essentials. He came out carrying a large bag, which he was stuffing under his seat when Jane returned. The poor woman still looked like a rag doll; Mark remembered reaching over every ten minutes on the drive down to feel her forehead and growing more concerned.

“It won't be long now,” Jane said in a rasped whisper once they were through Bangor. She was greedily sipping a whole liter of Pepsi and looking out at the Penobscot River on their right. “You'll meet your friend and soon be on your way to your father. I hope he's all right. Um, would you be willing to give me your address? So I can write and see how your father is?” she added. “I don't know where in Bar Harbor I'll be staying yet. I have to find a job first.”

Mark looked over at her. “You're moving without having a job?”

She dropped her gaze to her soda. “I have enough money to tide me over until I find one. And I haven't decided what kind of job I want yet,” she added, lifting her chin defensively.

“You're running from something.”

That chin lifted higher. “A woman can go looking for a new adventure if she wants to.”

“What are you running from?” he softly persisted.

“A husband and eight kids,” she shot back.

Mark turned to hide his first smile of the day. Her face was still flushed, her eyes were still bloodshot, and her nose was still running, but she was back to being sassy. “I have something to discuss with you, Jane,” he said quietly.

“What?” she asked, still defensive.

“About what happens in Stonington.”

“I'll drop you off at your friend's and find a motel for the night, then head back to Silas in the morning.”

“I want you to come with me.”

“Where? To meet your friend? It's awfully late, Mark. I'm sure he doesn't want to be entertaining a stranger.”

“To Shelkova.”

“Excuse me?”

“I want you to come with me to Shelkova,” he softly repeated.

There was a full minute of dead silence, then, “Thank you, but no.”

“Why not? You're unemployed right now. You don't even have a car. And Jane,” Mark went on, lowering his voice, “the men who shot me down will know who you are from your car's license plate. Staying here is not safe for you right now.”

She looked incredulous. “Why would they come after me? And how could they find me, anyway? I no longer live at my old address. That's all they could learn from my license plate.”

“Maybe through your family?”

“I don't have one.”

He watched the road, not knowing what to say at that quietly given declaration. This wasn't at all going well,
and Mark decided he preferred her listless and complaisant. “Then why not come see my country? You just admitted you're looking for an adventure.”

“But you live on the other side of the world. I've never even been out of Maine.”

“Really?” Mark looked over at her. “Never?”

She shook her head before he had to look back at the road.

“But wouldn't you like to? This is your chance.”

“No. I'm doing just fine right here.”

“Jane, I can't merely walk away and leave you behind. I'll worry about you.”

He looked over again in time to see her smile sadly down at the soda bottle. “I've been taking care of myself almost my whole life. Go home and see your father, Mark. Give me your address and I'll write and let you know I'm fine.”

Well, dammit, he had tried. She couldn't say he hadn't tried.

Reaching Deere Isle a full hour of stark silence later, Mark pulled off the main road onto an overgrown path marked with a milk crate a couple of miles shy of Stonington. He cringed when he heard branches scraping Manly and hoped they were soft enough not to scratch the paint. He came to a halt at the beach, and from the reflection of the stingy moonlight, could just make out the dock and waiting boat. As soon as he turned out the lights and shut off the noisy engine, a man emerged from the boat and came toward them.

Mark looked over at Jane to see her coming awake. “Feel like stretching your legs?”

“You're leaving by boat? That boat?” she asked in confusion.

“I am obviously not even safe in my own plane. But I can trust my friend to take me to a connection that will get me out of the country safely. Come with me, Jane.”

She blinked at him as if just hearing his offer for the first time before apparently remembering their conversation. She shook her head. “I told you I can't. The only place I belong is here.”

Mark sighed and closed his eyes, listening to Jane blow her nose.
The only place she belongs.
Damnation, the woman belonged in a palace surrounded by servants.

She belonged with him.

“At least come stretch your legs and meet my friend.”

She finally nodded, and Mark rushed around the truck and helped her out, then slipped an arm around her as they walked toward the dock and his waiting friend. Nodding to him over Jane's head, Mark turned to her and gathered both of her hands in his. “I'm sorry, Jane,” he whispered, tightening his grip as a cloth settled over her mouth, effectively stifling her scream. “I'm sorry,” he repeated, holding her firmly while her hands were bound in front of her.

Mark then lifted her onto his shoulder while his friend subdued and bound her flailing feet, then carried her down the dock and onto the boat. “I am sincerely sorry we had to do this the hard way,” he told his struggling angel as he laid her on a narrow bed in the cabin, watching with regret as her expression changed from anger to fear.

S
he was going to die.

Jane wanted to close her eyes and weep. And she would, just as soon as her stomach stopped twisting in terror. Her Judas laid her down in the cabin on some poor excuse for a bed, only to pull back and tell her how sorry he was again.

Sorry to be taking her out in the ocean to dump her off? She could see the regret in his eyes as he stood over her. He had to kill her, since she knew right where to find his plane, which probably
was
loaded to its tail with drugs.

She was so stupid!

When the boat dipped with the weight of his cohort-in-crime coming aboard, Mark muttered that nasty word again and left. As soon as he cleared the doorway, Jane went to work on her gag, dislodging it enough to sneeze.
She brought her bound hands up to her mouth and started working on the knots of the cloth tying them together. She had to stop and wipe her nose on her sleeve several times, but when she heard the engines start, she panicked, nearly shredding her hands in an attempt to escape. Finally the cloth came free and she sat up and quickly freed her feet.

Mark reentered the cabin carrying her pack and shotgun and another large paper sack. Jane rushed him with a shout of outrage, knocking him back against the steps, and tried to gouge out his eyes while repeatedly kicking him. He grabbed her shoulders and held her away, giving her a clear shot at his groin—his own angry shout ending abruptly when he doubled over on a pained grunt.

Jane lunged for her shotgun.

Mark lunged for her, but suddenly stopped at the business end of the shotgun barrel.

“You Judas! I'm not letting you kill me.”

“What!” he shouted, his face going from red to purple. “What are you talking about?”

“You're not dumping me in the ocean,” she hissed, poking his chest with the gun barrel for emphasis.

“Dump you in the—” He took a deep breath. “Jane.”

“You're a criminal. You used me to get away, and now you've got to get rid of me.”

His jaw snapped shut and his cheek started twitching.

She stepped away and raised the gun to her shoulder when he reached out. “I . . . I trusted you,” she whispered, her eyes stinging as she blinked back tears.

And then she sneezed again.

Jane was jerked forward, there was a shotgun blast, and
she was flat on her back on the bed with a very angry giant glaring down at her. One of his large hands reached for her throat, and Jane closed her eyes, letting her tears escape.

Only the hand settled under her chin and lifted her face. “Jane,” he said hoarsely, using his other hand to gently brush the hair from her face. “I'm not going to hurt you, angel. And you
can
trust me. I'm trying to keep you safe.”

He slowly pulled away when she said nothing, then stood up and turned to the man standing on the cabin step holding a handgun. Mark said something to him in Shelkovan, and they both looked at the damage to the boat. Jane swiped at her eyes to also look, and saw a hole the size of a softball in the hull just above the water line. The man smiled crookedly at Mark, then picked up the shotgun and left. Mark turned and picked up Jane's backpack and the paper bag just as the boat lurched away from the dock.

Jane bolted for the steps.

Mark dropped his load with a snarled curse and grabbed her around the waist, tossed her back on the bed, and came down on top of her again. They glared at each other in silence, then Mark gathered her hands, clasped them in front of her, and bound them back up with the length of cloth she'd worked so frantically to untie. Only this time he took off his belt and slipped it through her bound hands and then around her waist, buckling it at her back. His jaw tight and his eyes hard, he bound her feet in silence.

She also remained silent, her glare accusing. That is, until she suddenly sneezed and her eyes started watering again.

Mark grabbed the paper bag that had ripped in their
scuffle, held it up for her to see, and dumped its contents on top of her. “If I intended to kill you, would I have bought you all of these?” he said ever so softly, gesturing at the bags and bags of candy strewn over and around her. Some were opened, spilling M&M's on her, the bed, and the floor.

Jane watched the man she'd pulled from the lake turn and walk out of the cabin, then further spilled the candy when she rolled over, buried her face in the bed, and burst into tears.

It was a good hour before he returned. The powerful boat they were in was speeding through the waves of the Gulf of Maine, headed for only the devil knew where. Her stomach rebelling at the sometimes rolling, sometimes jarring ride, Jane didn't even look up when she felt his weight come to rest beside her hip. And she didn't open her eyes, which were swollen shut from crying and a raging fever, when he cradled her head with one large, gentle hand.

All she did was moan.

“You must drink something. You're still burning up,” he softly petitioned, brushing her tangled hair away from her flushed face. “Come on, sweetheart. I've got cold Pepsi. Don't go stubborn on me,” he said gruffly when she tried to roll away. “You need liquids.”

He wasn't going to leave until she drank. And she
was
parched. So Jane finally opened her eyes and tried to sit up. Mark helped, then had to hold her, since she couldn't seem to stop shaking. Heaven help her, right now she wished he
would
throw her in the sea so she could die quickly instead of slowly burning to death—even as she
wondered if this wasn't what Sister Roberta's purgatory would feel like.

The boat lurched into a wave, spilling Pepsi over her face and chest and bed.

“It's okay, I've got you. Drink what's left.”

It might have been easier if her hands were free, but she refused to ask the jerk for that concession. She didn't trust him, and she didn't believe his tender act now.

But he bought you M&M's,
her befuddled mind whispered.

He likes them, too
.
It's an act. He's a criminal. You're in trouble, Jane Abbot. Big, gonna-die trouble.

I don't care. I'm dying anyway.

Jane tried to wipe her nose on her sleeve, but had to use her shoulder instead because her hands were bound.

“Christ, I'll be glad when I can get you to a doctor. If I untie you, will you behave?”

She shook her head. If he untied her, she was throwing herself off the boat and taking him with her just on principle.

Mark swore again, in English, for her benefit, she guessed. “I'll cure your stubbornness someday, witch.” He cradled her head again, making her look at him. “Not long now. We're almost there, Jane. Just try to hold on a little longer,” he added, gently lowering her down.

Jane closed her eyes in exhaustion.

*   *   *

B
asically, the submarine she was looking at blew her drug-runner theory to smithereens. Criminals didn't have subs, did they? A person couldn't just go out and
buy one, could they? So how had Mark-with-no-last-name gotten hold of such a large, deadly boat?

Jane watched the underwater craft break the surface of the night-shrouded ocean like a giant, lumbering beast rising from the bowels of the deep. If it weren't for the frothing waves lapping against the hull, she wouldn't have been able to discern it from the ocean, it blended in so well. The engine of the boat they were on had stopped ten minutes ago, and the sudden silence had awakened her. Now she was sitting on the deck in an undignified heap, watching a sight she was pretty sure few civilians ever witnessed.

Which made her ask her still-befuddled mind—again—who Mark was. A spy or secret agent? Russia had those. Did Shelkova? Or was he just a very wealthy, successful criminal? Maybe Russia had sold off some of their subs to raise a little capital after the breakup. Jane was sure she remembered seeing ads of Russian military surplus for sale; boots, binoculars, jeeps, even field rations. She'd never seen any subs advertised, though. And wouldn't Uncle Sam have something to say about foreign countries selling private citizens submarines?

Probably. Which brought her back to her spy theory.

She preferred Mark-the-drug-runner, because spies were . . . well, they definitely were below criminals on the bad-guy scale.

The devil himself broke into her thoughts, bending down to pick her up. “Come on, sweetheart. It's time to go.”

Jane recoiled and tried to scurry away, even though her hands and feet were still bound.

Mark hesitated in mid-reach and frowned at her. “We need to move quickly. They can't stay on the surface for
long, as we're still in American waters.” It was pitch-black out, but she could see the flash of his grin. “And I doubt your government would appreciate finding a foreign submarine not fifty miles from shore.”

Oh, heavens. He was a spy.

*   *   *

M
ark finished picking up his wide-eyed, wilted angel, ignoring her struggles even as he wondered where she got the strength to continue fighting him. He lifted her to the railing and carefully lowered her to the waiting arms of two crewmen from the
Previa
, and, as careful as they all were, Mark, Jane, and the two men in the launch nearly ended up in the sea.

“Enough!” he snapped. “Sick or not, I'm going to put you over my knee if you don't settle down. This is hard enough without you fighting me every step of the way. Now cease!”

Apparently undeterred by the edge in his voice, Mark had to scramble over the rail and save the crewmen from her kicking feet by wrapping his arms around her and giving her a good squeeze.

“I'm not getting in that . . . that boat!” she screeched, nearly deafening him. “I'm not!”

Well, hell. She was in a near panic. Mark was suddenly glad for her weakened state. If Jane were feeling any better, she'd have them all visiting Davy Jones despite her petite size. He ended up having to wrap his legs around hers so the crewmen could start the launch, and even then she struggled the entire way to the
Previa
, her hysteria seeming to grow the closer they got.

She exploded completely when he carried her to the sail tower. Several other crewmen were standing aside as he hefted her—bucking and now hoarsely screaming—up onto the tower, then had to tell one of the men to untie her feet so he could stand her on the ladder. The man hesitated, clearly not wanting to get near her.

His own temper finally exploding, Mark barked the order again in Shelkovan, causing several men to flinch and causing Jane to lurch violently. Two crewmen finally grabbed her feet and unfastened the restraint, then helped him lower her onto the ladder.

“Stand up, Jane,” Mark ordered harshly.

“No! I'm not getting in this death machine!” she screamed. “P-please,” she suddenly pleaded on a broken sob. “Please don't put me in this hole.”

Mark captured her head in his hands, bringing his mouth close to her ear. “There are no other choices, Jane. It'll be okay. I'll be right with you.”

“You don't understand! I can't stand . . . I won't be . . .”

She was crying in earnest now, trembling all over while straining against his hold. Had she gone from believing he intended to kill her to thinking she might instead end up suffering a fate worse than death? Mark slid his hand to the back of her neck with a muttered curse, and softly pressed his finger to a nerve until she went completely limp.

He barked another order, making several men scramble to help lower her to outstretched hands below, where she was carefully held until he could climb down and take her again. The men parted at his order, one of them leading Mark along a narrow, low corridor to a cabin that
had a wide, single bunk. He gently laid Jane down and quickly freed her hands, brushed the hair from her face, then pressed his palms to her cheeks.

Lord, she looked dead but for the flush of her fever. Because of her illness, he hadn't wanted to take away her consciousness, but hadn't had a choice. Sitting beside her waiting for the ship's doctor to come and hearing the signal that they were diving, Mark began to pray for her health and forgiveness for what he was putting her through. She'd saved his life and he was slowly killing her in return. If she would only get better, he would gladly stand unmoving before her and take any abuse she wished to give him. He deserved it.

Because angels deserved better.

Many women had come and gone in his life, all of them actively vying for his attention, and Jane Abbot had firmly captured his heart without even trying.

The doctor pointed out that the damp clothes were adding to her shivers as Mark helped him undress the fragile, vulnerable woman. The small, healing scratch on her arm—which he knew was from a bullet—made him wince. It was red, but the doctor assured him it was not the cause of her fever. Fatigue, a raging head cold, and possibly pneumonia were responsible for Jane's fever, which was likely responsible for her being listless one minute and hysterical the next.