Jane sneezed again.
The hand on her breast gently tightened and started to knead.
Jane closed her eyes as she felt the heat of a thousand suns rush to her cheeks. Holy heaven, was the man even aware of what he was doing?
“Good morning,” Mark gruffly whispered.
Darn, he was awake. And his hand was still moving, still making her heart race.
“Ah . . . good morning,” she whispered back. Afraid her heart might actually explode, Jane slapped a hand to her chest to still his actions—then sneezed again.
Mark sat up slightly behind her. He did move his hand, though, but only to slide it between her breasts and pull her tighter against him. “Are you sick?” he asked with soft concern.
“Could . . . um, could you move your hand please?”
He chuckled, his chest vibrating her back as his searing palm pressed against her belly and pulled her even closer. “Sorry,” he apologized, an unrepentant lilt in his voice. “Instinct, I guess.”
“Instinct, or . . . habit?”
He patted her belly then withdrew his hand altogether. “I don’t make a habit of sleeping curled around beautiful women with frost on their noses,” he offered by way of answer.
Picturing him curled around beautiful women, Jane suddenly gasped. “Are you married?”
“No. Are you sick?” he repeated.
“No,” she said on a sniffle and rubbed her nose—which her blush had apparently thawed to the point that it had started running. “I’m not sick,” she continued as she nonchalantly rolled away and sat up, then made herself busy by folding the thin Mylar blanket they’d used for cover.
She squeaked again when Mark pulled her back, facing him, and pressed her nose against his throat. He gasped then, and Jane sneezed again—although this time she was pretty sure it was because his chest hair was tickling her nose.
“You are sick.”
“It’s probably just an allergy,” she lied, not about to admit she’d been too shy the day before to get out of her wet clothes quickly enough.
“What are you allergic to?”
Your soft, nice-smelling chest hair, Jane wanted to shout. “The woods,” she said instead, tugging against his hold. He let her go, but then stopped her from scrambling away by trapping her with his eyes.
They looked better this morning. Clearer. Brighter. Actually, they looked positively gorgeous; a stark, molten gold, keen and intelligent and . . . narrowed in suspicion.
“Your face is red. You’ve caught a cold.”
I’m blushing, you oaf. But Jane decided being sick was less embarrassing than admitting her hormones were on the verge of rioting. Heaven help her, the man she’d pulled from the lake was beautiful.
Okay, she may have noticed that fact yesterday, but she’d been determined to ignore it. She couldn’t now. He was sitting right in front of her, and she couldn’t help but notice his hair was sticking out in a tangle of mahogany waves, brushing the collar of his unbuttoned shirt and falling over his forehead just short of his gorgeous eyes. His jaw was slightly shaded with whiskers, which only accentuated his sculpted features. And his mouth? The one that had kissed her last night? It was wide and sensual and . . . appeared set with determination.
“You’re a stubborn woman, Jane Abbot.”
“It’s how I survive. And it’s my business if I want to be stubborn.”
“You’ll probably die of pneumonia before I get you back to civilization,” he muttered, standing up.
He got her to civilization? This was her rescue operation, not his. She was saving him.
Apparently now that he had his sight back, the man intended to take charge. Well, she’d see how close he got them to civilization without her help. He might be big and strong, but he didn’t have a clue where they were going.
And she’d let him in on that little secret just as soon as she stopped gawking.
“I would like a few minutes to myself,” she finally managed to say. “And since you seem so capable all of a sudden, why don’t you go find us some water.” Jane tilted her head, intrigued by the little twitch that came into his cheek.
“I’ll find us water,” he whispered, sounding more threatening than agreeable. “Have the fire built back up by the time I return.”
“Yes, sir,” Jane snapped, her cheeks red again for a completely different reason. Oh! Ordering her around like he was king of the forest or something.
With his cheek still twitching, Mark grabbed the canteen and stormed out of the camp. Jane scrambled to find her brace and put it on over her sock inside her dry but stiff boot, pulled down her pant leg, then checked to make sure the comfortable old brace was hidden. She’d been wearing one since before she’d learned to walk, and considered it a welcome old friend that allowed her mobility and a degree of confidence.
She hadn’t been born with a bad ankle, but the nuns at Saint Xavier’s had told her she’d come to them with the injury. Since then she’d had several operations and many fittings of braces. No one knew how her ankle had become crushed; only that she’d had the injury when they’d found her—not three days old, it had been determined—on the steps of the hospital in Abbot, Maine. No one knew who her parents were, either. And twenty-seven years later, the sources of her injury and parentage were still unknown.
Jane no longer cared. She was contented with her life and making the best of what she did have. The only thing she craved was a family. And until a month ago, it was the one thing she was afraid she might never get. That is, until she’d suddenly realized she could have a family of her own—an actual blood tie—if she were to have a baby. She could be a mother.
And finally be somebody.
By the age of twenty-three Jane had figured out she probably wouldn’t ever be a wife, only to have that lesson drilled home again last month by a groping, drunken lout who’d offered to set her up in a cabin of her own in the woods as his mistress. That’s when, despite Sister Roberta’s adamant cautions about what happens to immoral women, Jane had seriously started thinking about having a baby out of wedlock. Because honestly? She’d willingly spend eternity in purgatory in exchange for having a family of her own right here on Earth.
And she didn’t really need a husband for that to happen—just some sperm.
But how was she supposed to get the ingredients for motherhood when sober men were turned off by her limp and lack of sensuous beauty? Like Mr.-No-Last-Name Mark; sharing a bed and waking up to find himself holding her breast hadn’t done a thing for his libido, apparently. He’d just calmly pulled his hand out of her shirt like it was a common, everyday mistake and focused on her illness instead. And when he’d kissed her last night, his hormones hadn’t even sparked, much less run away with him. Heck, he’d told her to go to sleep.
Okay, maybe she wouldn’t tell Katy about their sleeping together, because she really didn’t want her friend—who happened to be a tall goddess with shining gray eyes and the body of a swimsuit model—to give her another lecture about getting over the silly notion that she was nobody.
“You didn’t start the fire back up,” Mr. Dead Libido said from behind her. “You really are sick, aren’t you? Your face is flushed and you haven’t even finished dressing. You only have one boot on,” he added, giving her that intense, golden look again. He set down the canteen and stirred the dying embers of their fire. “Just sit still and I’ll fix us something to eat. Do you have any aspirin in your pack?”
“Yes,” she croaked, reaching for her other boot just as she sneezed again—making her finally admit she was sick. Okay; maybe her melancholy was from having a cold and not from having shared a bed with a gorgeous man who, like most sober men, didn’t see her as a woman.
And with that quiet capitulation, Jane lost complete control of her rescue operation. As soon as she dug out the aspirin, Mark procured her backpack and its contents, c
ooked soup and hot chocolate, then dismantled their camp right before her disbelieving eyes. He let out the straps on her pack to fit his wide shoulders, hefted her shotgun in one hand and held out his other hand for her to take—their roles of yesterday unquestionably reversed.
“Which way?” he asked once she was standing, albeit bewildered and stuffy-headed.
“Ah . . . north,” she whispered, fighting back another sneeze. Jane thought she should tell him everything now, since she didn’t know what condition she might be in later. Heck, she was liable to lead them in circles. “Follow this ridge until you see a good-sized stream on the left. Then follow it downstream to the lake. The canoe should be where the stream enters the lake.”
With a smug grin that said he was fully in charge, Mark started along the ridge, his hand securely holding hers. Now that the man could see well enough, he had no trouble covering the rough terrain with his long, powerful legs, but he matched his pace to hers, and even helped her over steep places by simply grabbing her around the waist and lifting her up.
And every time she sneezed he turned and frowned at her, and every time she stopped to blow her nose, his eyes silently scolded.
When they reached the lake and found the canoe, Mark tossed her in the front and took over the stern. “If you don’t feel well enough to paddle, just rest,” he offered with obvious concern and another frown. “Tell me which way to the outlet, and I’ll take it from here.”
Beginning to really simmer now, whether from fever or building anger, Jane pointed to the other end of the lake, then closed her eyes and decided to let him do all the work, if that’s what the bossy man wanted. She was sick, he was arrogant, and maybe paddling a canoe for seventeen miles would take some of that cockiness out of him.
Within minutes she was fast asleep.
* * *
Mark watched the flushed, sick, angry woman sleeping in the bow. She hadn’t liked relinquishing control this morning, and he guessed that if she hadn’t been feeling poorly they’d still be back at camp slugging it out over their respective roles in this odyssey.
Jane Abbot was a capable, independent creature who appeared too stubborn for her own good. He wondered where her family was. He also wondered why some intelligent man hadn’t put a ring on her finger and bound her to a home.
But then, for all he knew some man had. Maybe she hadn’t liked the situation and had left. Then again, maybe she was simply too independent for marriage. Mark certainly couldn’t picture Jane as a complaisant wife to some domineering husband.
But she’d been totally flustered this morning to find his hand on her breast. And a nice, plump breast it was, he remembered warmly. He’d given her an excuse for her red face by blaming it on her illness, and she’d jumped at the offer. Jane had been disconcerted by his touch, which led him to believe she’d never been anyone’s wife.
After many hours of paddling in the surprisingly warm late October sun, and hoping he hadn’t passed the settlement, Mark shored the canoe and gently shook Jane awake. “Jane. Come on, honey. Wake up and tell me if we’re close.”
She groggily sat up and promptly sneezed again. Her nose was bright red and had been running most of the morning, her sleep had been restless and her breathing labored. She was working her way into a terrible cold, and he wanted to get her comfortable and some medicine down her throat as soon as possible.
“It’s a little farther,” she said hoarsely, looking around. “There’s a beaten path from the stream that leads up to Twelve Mile Camp,” she explained. “You can’t miss it.”
Then she closed her eyes and fell back to sleep.
Mark scowled at her and then at the river. Then he scowled at his watch. It was already afternoon. He was hungry, and they were down to three granola bars. He shoved off and headed downstream again, glad they were at least going with the current. He found the path twenty minutes later, and he banked the canoe and pulled it all the way onto shore. He unloaded the pack, the gun, and Jane, setting her on her feet and not letting go until she quit swaying. Mark held the canteen for her to take a drink, popped the last butterscotch candy in her mouth, hoping it would ease the sore throat he suspected she had, then took her hand and headed for the settlement.
Which was a generous description of Twelve Mile Camp, Mark decided half an hour later when he spotted the store and five disreputable cabins. There was another beautiful lake backing the cabins, but not a soul in sight.
“Jane, we’re here,” he told the quiet woman beside him, giving her a worried look. “You’re sure they have a phone?” he asked, looking for and not seeing any telephone lines.
“Cellular,” she explained, her voice raspy. “He’s on the fringe of reception.”
Mark hated like hell to see the energetic, scrappy woman so listless. He touched her forehead and drew back his hand as if it had been scorched. Jane Abbot had a raging fever.
“Come on, sweetheart,” he said, wrapping his free arm around her shoulders and leading her forward. “Maybe they have more aspirin in that . . . store.”
“I just want an ice-cold Pepsi.”
“I’ll get you one,” he promised. “Just hang in there.”
The screen door was so old the meshing was rusted. The proprietor obviously didn’t need a bell to tell him when a customer arrived, as the creaking hinges served nicely. It was definitely a Maine woods store, Mark decided upon entering. In the middle of the expansive room was a large, rusted potbellied stove that stood taller than he did. He guided his ailing angel over to one of the chairs positioned near the cold stove, then steadied her descent as she collapsed in a boneless heap with a sigh of relief.
Mark turned and faced the gaunt, aging man walking out of a back room. “I need a cold soda and the use of a phone.”
“Sure thing,” the man replied with a grin as he sized up his latest customer, his eyes darting to and dismissing the woman sitting with her back to them. “Soda’s in the cooler and the phone’s right here,” he added as he reached under the counter and pulled out an ancient cellular bag phone. “The call will cost you ten bucks.”
Mark pulled an American twenty-dollar bill out of his wallet and tossed it on the counter. If the call cost ten, he didn’t even want to ask the price of the soda. “Keep the change,” he said as he strode to the antiquated cooler and slid back the cover, which had a limited choice of beverages all standing in cold water. He pulled out an unfamiliar brand, having discerned there was no Pepsi, and twisted open the cap as he returned to Jane.
“Here, honey. Drink this. It will help.”
He had to hold the bottle at first, but the cold drink seemed to revive her enough that she finally grabbed hold and served herself. Mark then returned to the counter.
“Reception’s better if you take it outside,” the man said, grinning again.
“I’ll do that. You have any aspirin?” Mark asked, mentally reminding himself to check the expiration date before he gave any to Jane.
“Sure thing. Aspirin’s five bucks,” the man responded, going over to the wall and pulling down a small envelope containing two aspirin.
Mark raised a brow as he accepted the medicine, noticing the twenty had already disappeared. After checking the expiration date and deciding six months wasn’t that long ago, he pulled out another twenty and set it on the counter. “Give me three more packets,” he said, already ripping open the one in his hand. He stuffed the extra packets in his pocket, grabbed the phone, and returned to Jane. “Here, take these,” he softly ordered. “If they don’t kill you, they’ll make you feel better.”
He had to put the tablets on her tongue, but she swallowed them with the last of her soda. Mark got her another one out of the cooler—tossing another twenty on the counter before walking out to the porch to make his call. By the time he returned, Jane had finished her second soda. She suddenly sneezed again, dislodging a rather unladylike burp, which made
her gasp weakly.
“Do you have a cabin available?” Mark asked the proprietor, even as he shuddered to guess what that would cost him.
“Well, now. I think maybe number six is free,” the man said, rubbing his chin. “I’m pretty sure old Matilda finally moved out with her young’uns.”
“Matilda?” Mark asked, wondering if the guy knew he only had five cabins and hoping cabin six wasn’t actually a bear’s den.
“Matilda’s a raccoon that took a liking to my number six cabin,” he explained in all seriousness. “I’m pretty sure she moved on last week, though.”
“Give my appreciation to Matilda,” Mark drawled. “Do you know how the lady and I can get to the nearest town?”
“Well,” the man huffed more than said, rubbing his chin again. “Seeing it’s Thursday, Lester’s headed to Milo tonight. He could probably take you there.”
“Lester?”
“He comes through here about midnight most weeknights with a load of saw logs.”
“We’re talking about a tractor-trailer, right?” Mark clarified.
“Yup. Lester’s got himself a right nice rig.”
“Is there any way I can contact Lester?” Mark patiently asked. Lord, this was like pulling teeth.
The man apparently had to think again. “Well, you could call him on my phone. Lester’s got hisself a phone in his truck.”
Mark pulled out his wallet, opened it, then stopped and looked across the counter. “How much for the cabin until Lester comes through?”
“I take Visa,” the man said, leaning forward to surreptitiously peer down at the wallet. That was when Mark knew he was dealing with one of Jane’s Yankees, realizing the guy had sized him up as an out-of-stater before he’d even opened his accented mouth. Then again, it might have been his battered but expensive clothes that had given him away. Hell, his leather jacket alone probably cost more than the whole settlement. Or maybe it was the fact that he’d walked in and demanded a phone while blithely throwing twenty-dollar bills across the counter.
From Kiss to Queen Page 4
