The Guardian (Chronicles of Dover's Amalgam Book 1) (16 page)

Jareth ran his index finger along her jaw and caught a stray tear she had been unable to stop. “My mind cannot comprehend it, but my heart fully recognizes you. It has not beaten the same since I met you.” He tipped her face up. “Why are you crying? If being married to a bastard is not it, then what is it?”

“You’ll be disappointed in me,” she said. “Eventually, everyone is.”

“No,” Jareth said, his voice firm. He covered her hand with both of his. “It does not work that way. We will work through our differences—”

“You don’t understand,” she interrupted. “You don’t know everything about me.”

“I know enough,” he insisted. “I know you are brave and kind.”

“That’s not enough. There has to be more. You have to know everything.” Her parents had a lovely marriage. Phil had not always been a loser. Once upon a time he had been in love and was a great father. She remembered laughter, date nights, whispers after dark and family vacations filled with good memories. Once upon a time, her life had been almost perfect.

Elizabet wanted what her mother had. Someone who loved her even when she was transparent. Phil had known everything about her mom and loved her anyway. He even thought her snoring was cute. Elizabet regarded Jareth through her blurry vision and wondered if he was capable of accepting flaws. He was so perfect—a progeny. There were none like him in his time period when it came to academic genius.

“All right, then.” He smashed her hand between his one final time before he released her. “You can tell me everything, but not tonight. I have to go soon; we both need some time to process what this means for us.”

Elizabet was taken aback. “You just said that your heart . . .” She looked away, her face heating. She didn’t know how to repeat what he said without sounding like a desperate idiot who was clinging to his words. “You sounded like you were all for this.”

“I am,” he said quickly. So quickly, she looked back as if prompted. The expression he wore made it seem as if his eyes were smiling. “I will not change my mind. I am tenacious when I want something.” He tapped her nose with his finger. “But I will give you space and time. We do not need to speak of this again until you are ready.”

Elizabet’s nose twitched. “How much time?” Dare she tell him that she was terrified he would never return? He was leaving after dropping that bomb? Well, she needed time parameters so she would not get depressed again.

“We have all the time you need,” he said. He brought his wrist that held the time bands up between them and rotated it. The bands shifted until the leather strap revealed the odd metal piece beneath. “All I want to hear from you now is that you will consider it.”

Elizabet never considered herself a fickle person. She knew what she wanted. “Then, yes. I’ll consider a future with you. But come back in few days. I’ll see Jeremy again on Sunday. I can tell you what he’s up to.”

“I do not need a report of his whereabouts. I need you to be his friend. He needs to trust someone close to me so when I come for him, his transition will go well.”

She nodded. “I can do that. We’re friends already.” As friendly as Jeremy could be with anyone. If she was a social retard, he was a social quadriplegic.

“All right, then,” he said. “Look for me in four days’ time.”

Chapter 9

“THEY ARE DEAD,
your majesty,” Perceval said. His voice was void of emotional inflection.

Jareth glanced up at the burned bodies hanging from the stone fence that led to Kent. His fence. Two men, one woman, and three young children.

The last of it was unacceptable. When innocent children were murdered as pawns, Jareth became angry. Sir James of Torquay would pay with his life. The slaying of children was something he never overlooked.

“I can see that,” he said. He wiped the sweat from his brow before it ran down into his eyes. “I am not blind.” He motioned to the bodies. “Have them removed, identified, and given a proper religious burial.”

Perceval bowed and then turned to do his bidding.

Jareth looked behind him to the line of his men that stood as statues. “Well?” His voice was hoarse and loud. “Are you planning to ask me to dance or do we ride into Torquay?”

Half of the men headed for their horses, while those remaining appeared apprehensive. They looked to one another, each of them not daring to make eye contact with Jareth who stared them down with a brooding that did not bode well.

Jacob, a knight older than Jareth by ten years, spoke. “The moon approaches and the horses are tired and hungry. We cannot ride into Torquay in this state. We have only returned from Windsor Castle. May we have time with our wives and children before taking up this cause too?” He spoke in Norman French, which irritated Jareth.

Among his men, only Percival knew of his ability to travel time. It rankled that he must fall back into a language he considered ugly when he could practice modern English and slang.

“My wrath is nigh, Jacob,” Jareth said with a leering grin. “Do you have a care for your very life?” His French was refined and punctual, where most that surrounded him used it in the fashion of a child. “You worry for your family that is alive, while these bodies have only just lost their spirits and souls.” He waved negligently toward the fence behind him; he didn’t dare to look back at the innocent stares of the children who were strung up like garbage. His hands curled into fists as his mind fought to keep the images at bay. “I shall not rest until I have vengeance in their names.”

“She is not worth it, Jareth,” Jacob said in whisper as he stepped forward. He glanced around as the other men mumbled and motioned to the ember remains of Sir James’ flag strewn among the bodies. Some, hearing the measure of Jareth’s tone, began to make their way to their horses—ready to ride anywhere he led. Jacob shook his head, and his blond hair twisted with the movement. “Let your actions be the end of her. Will not the fact she has been put off be enough revenge? Her father will never find a proper husband for her now that she was refused—”

“By a bastard duke?” Jareth finished. His lip curled in anger as he pointed to the bodies with his sword. “Yes. Poor, dear girl. She was scorned and hurt, so she had innocent people killed to alleviate her suffering.” He tipped his chin forward to Jacob’s horse. “I have seen you kill a man for insulting Zeus, yet these innocents you would have me forget and pardon their murderer? If that shrew has children killed because she has lost a suitor, what does that say of her character? Should I forget that I knew these families?” He closed his eyes briefly with a passing memory. A few months ago, he allowed one of the lads to ride Veritas into Kent. The family had gone to the village for supplies and to visit the orphanage at immunization time. Jareth had secretly given them the smallpox vaccine. Now, they were all dead—even his horse. He was furious.

“Catherine was the conduit,” Jacob said. “We will avenge these people, but by hunting for the men responsible for their slaying.”

“They shall die as well.” Jareth seethed and noted that Jacob put more distance between his steed and Jareth’s sword. Jareth turned to where Perceval awaited with his dun gelding. “Right after I slit Catherine’s throat so she may never spill lies and judgment on any other man or woman.”

He glanced at the small bodies whose forms still singed; smoke rose from their charred flesh. “Or child.” Unbidden tears surged into his vision. He stayed steady as he grabbed the bridle from Perceval and swung up into the saddle. Crying was for women and children. He refused to see those small bodies again. He turned his horse in the opposite direction.

Jareth was known for making decisions based on fact, never emotion. Seeing children cut down, however, evoked madness in him that he did not want to name. His justice was clouded by vengeance, yet if he were to think hard on it, he knew that justice for those people meant the death of Catherine of Torquay.

And anyone else who perjured themselves for the sake of revenge.

Five years into the future of Dover

“HE REFUSED HER?”
Mrs. Wheatley asked in a seeming mixture of shock and glee. She grasped her apron strings and yanked.

“Yes, he refused her, but not without cost,” Gabriel said from where he sat at the large, splintered table in the main kitchen. “There were children among the slain.”

Mrs. Wheatley’s fingers flew in the sign of the cross and then tore her apron from about her neck. It sailed through the air and landed in a heap on the floor. “That witch!”

“I was thinking in other terms,” Minh said as he scooped up the fallen apron and draped it over one of the chairs surrounding the table. His tall, lanky form moved lightly across the kitchen. He was bred to be smooth and it showed in everything he did. Even scooping up mislaid aprons by aging nursemaids. “But witch will do—for now.”

Mrs. Wheatley reached for a fresh apron. “Does the duchess know?”

Gabriel lifted one of his shoulders. “Elizabet is forbidden to us.”

Minh rolled his eyes.

“My mind is not what it used to be,” Mrs. Wheatley murmured as she looked down at the clean apron in her hands and then to where she had abandoned the other. She searched with wide eyes until she realized Minh had removed it from the floor. She shrugged and put on the fresh apron. “I cannot remember that there were children.” She looked up at Gabriel, tears in her eyes. “Why can I not remember? How many?”

“Three,” Gabriel said flatly. “Jareth says that time jumping will do this. We will forget things and become foggy minded.” He looked away, over to Minh who shifted from one foot to the other. The sounds of baby garble along with the lovely voice of the lady of the manor grew louder as they approached. Gabriel caught the eye of both Minh and Mrs. Wheatley, put a finger to his lips, and shook his head.

Minh’s mouth became a hard line. Mrs. Wheatley looked away, swiping at the tear coursing down her wrinkled cheek.

It was technically five years since the slayings, and although they were seated in Dover Castle, everything was different. The castle had an acting duchess, an heir, a spare, a daughter, and one child on the way.

“Ah, there you are,” Elizabet said as she spotted the lot of them brooding in the dark kitchen. It was early morning and dreary with only the fire in the hearth oven to offer a glow. As always, the young heir and his twin were two steps behind their mother, quietly following wherever she went. The black haired spare was perched on her hip. “Jareth said to fetch you.” She smiled at Gabriel. “Jeremy is talking. He’s talking!”

Before Gabriel could respond, the royal pack of hounds came bounding into the kitchen. They leaped at the hen that was hanging, plucked, awaiting the pot. Mrs. Wheatley swatted at them, scolding in brisk French. She tended to lapse when she was upset.

The twins giggled and dove straight into the rambunctious pack, squealing with delight as the animals licked their faces and bounded upon their small bodies.

“Did you tell them?” Jareth brought up the rear of the hounds. His hair was wild, as if he had been in a wind storm, which was entirely possible. He had just finished a tutoring session with Jeremy. He grasped Elizabet’s shoulder and leaned in to kiss her cheek. Gabriel and Minh glanced at each other and just as swiftly looked away. Minh rolled his eyes to the ceiling again.

“Jeremy has spoken,” Jareth announced. “He asked for apples.” Gabriel avoided Minh’s glance, but when Jareth noticed, his joyful tone dropped. He looked between the two of them and then to Mrs. Wheatley. She turned to the large simmering pot, muttering that something was burning. Jareth braced himself, his arms crossed. “What is it?” Jareth demanded.

“Nothing,” Gabriel answered.

Minh sniffed and stared out the narrow window above the hearth, looking for all the world as if he were daydreaming and had not a care. Mrs. Wheatley mopped at her tears, stirring the broth with wide turns.

“Nothing that you’d allow me to do anything about, anyway.” Jareth grimaced and rolled his shoulders.

The conversation could barely be heard over the ruckus the children and dogs were making. Jareth made a chopping motion in the air with his hand. “Quiet!” he roared.

The leaping hounds seized into the sounds of canine whimpering and toenails scraping against the stone floors. The twins looked up, confused by their father’s harsh tone. Jareth stared at Abigail, the only girl of the family, until she smiled adoringly at her daddy, apparently satisfied that his tone was not meant for her.

He placed his hands on his hips and eyed Gabriel. “Out with it. I know it has to do with past events.” He jerked his chin toward Minh. “I saw Minh cleaning his sword and I know of no battles.”

“It was a poacher,” Minh said. He turned to Jareth. “His knife was found in the belly of a serf in Kent. I recognized his mark. It wasn’t one of ours.”

“Very good,” Jareth said, his voice soft. “I trust your judgment.” He glanced at his children, grinned again at his daughter, whose idolizing eyes were still fixed on him. “Elizabet, can you take Peter to see the hounds out? I promised him I would allow him that before his nap.”

The black haired toddler on the duchess’s hip smiled a toothy grin at hearing his name. “Of course,” Elizabet said. She passed Minh and Gabriel a look. “I will have Percival help.” She narrowed her eyes as she turned back to Jareth. “You’ll call me if you need anything?”

“All is right, my love,” Jareth said. “Go see to your children.” He leaned in to kiss her on the cheek as if he could not help himself, and smiled down at her.

It was an artificial smile that Gabriel recognized. Jareth was internally seething. He knew Gabriel and Minh well enough to know that something was not right—and he had his memories. He was probably calculating what had happened in relation to where they were in time. He would recall the deaths of his vassals. Still, he released no words or bellows until the duchess, her children, and the royal hounds all filed out, with Mrs. Wheatley leading the procession. There was no sense in speaking of killing while the children and Elizabet were about.

Jareth’s eyes narrowed on them just as the doors clanged shut. The sound echoed through the halls. “Last I calculated, we were in the beginning phase and you were concerned I would be unable to rid myself of the lecherous Lady Catherine.” He smiled that ghost of a smile he gave when he was not happy. Gabriel frowned and looked away. “I can safely assume that I was more than able. Am I locked up in the dungeon of Torquay?”