The Guardian (Chronicles of Dover's Amalgam Book 1) (8 page)

“Jackass would better suit Gabriel, not I.” He bowed slightly as if she had not just insulted him. “My name is Jareth. I will allow you use of my Christian name, but only do so when we are alone together. I must maintain a level of respect for my station, even in these times.”

“Wow,” Elizabet said, and rounded her eyes with mocking awe. He said ‘these times’ as if she were living in Sodom. He had offending down to an art, even while he pretended to charm. All that fantasizing she had done had left out the bluntness of his personality. “For a while there I expected your majesty would be your choice. You surprise me, Jareth.” She uttered Jareth as if the word shared space with a clove of garlic in her mouth, and yet inwardly she rejoiced that his name was not Ralph or Victor.

She could not decide if she wanted to kiss him or slap him. It had been so easy to get him to tell her who he was that she was eager to ask more questions. He appeared to be oddly sociable even though he was being a jerk. While his words were appropriate, it was the way he held himself, the way his words sounded bored. He seemed to barely tolerate her.

They had reverted back to the bantering that accompanied their previous conversations. She felt most comfortable when she hid behind sarcasm and veiled complaining, while Jareth shot straight to the heart of things with seemingly little thought of feelings. He was practically a sledge hammer to her ego.

“Well.” His thick eyebrows creased together as he reached up to touch a scar under his eye. His mouth curved into a grin that was bashful. “There is that.”

“I was kidding,” she said as her eyes widened. He was embarrassed because he had royal blood? Her lips turned downward as the magnitude of that fact sank in. “But, figures. That’s just my luck. I guess you needed someone simple and from the working class.” And was it not just perfect that he was a royal? It matched his demeanor with a whole new meaning of snobbery. She rolled her shoulders. “Can’t imagine just anybody climbing into a wormhole with an old lady. Call me crazy.” She would blacken his royal eye if he did.

One of Jareth’s black brows arched. “I was given a title after squiring for the Prince of England, Edward. I am a duke. The Duke of Dover to be precise, but I believe history refers to me as the Bastard Duke, so do not get any romantic ideas.”

“That is very hateful to be referred to as something you have no control over.” She scowled at his overture of thinking romantic thoughts where he was concerned. “Even for you,” she added. The word bastard was unexpected. It took her by surprise and made her soft to his pompous attitude. Her anger was gone just like that. No one deserved to be judged by the mishap of a parent. She had firsthand experience.

“Cruel, but precise. The cruelty of my birth has lost its sting long ago. The specifics of my birth remain a mystery even to me, and quite frankly, I do not have a care one way or another. My title was given to me because of my abilities. I can learn to speak another language overnight. It is a gift.” He lifted one shoulder. “I am a translator by trade, a knight and duke by title given to me by the king.”

“That’s big of you, but I think you’re lying. Words like bastard stir up bad feelings, no matter what century. Which century did you say you were from?”

“I did not say.”

“Well, feel free.” Elizabet propped her hand on her hip. “Spill it or get out.” She wagged the other hand. The shell of uncertainty cracked away as their accustomed banter returned. She momentarily forgot that he was the best looking thing on two legs. Her self-confidence had a surge. “Leave. I don’t care if you’re the King of England. I do remember the two clues you left me with: England and medieval. But, I’m no longer willing to put up or shut up.”

“But you do it so well,” Jareth leaned forward mockingly. His eyes met hers even as he made the cynical gesture. She was forced to look away. The intensity and challenge she saw there were nerving.

“I see you brought the ugliness back,” she said, and allowed her lips to twist. He had the nerve to be beautiful even with a condescending smirk firmly in place. “How I missed it. I wondered how long it would take you to revert back to being a jerk.”

He turned his attention to the house, then to the barn, and finally back to her. His face clouded as if with confusion; his lips twisted as well.

“I digress. Is there a place acceptable for us to converse? A place where we will not be disturbed and I will not be on display, perhaps?”

Even while she was sparring with him, she felt protective. “We can go to the barn,” she suggested. Far from the kitchen window where Grandma would be stationed while she watched her afternoon television. Her eyes trailed to where her thoughts were. It would not be good if Grandma became suspicious. There was still the lie she had told when she claimed she had run away. Grandma would be suspicious of a man-boy wearing weird clothing. “I can leave the doors open so it won’t offend your lordly nostrils.” Elizabet motioned for him to follow, and then hooked her thumbs into the belt loop of her jeans as she led the way. There was no sense in delaying and staying out in the open.

“I do own livestock,” Jareth said. “My lordly nostrils are accustomed to putrid odors. I live in the medieval age. Normally, there is no plumbing and animals are housed in close proximity to living quarters.”

She looked over her shoulder, and for a brief second her heart plummeted into her stomach at the sight of him following. “I love the middle ages.” She rolled her shoulders as she looked ahead again and shook her head slightly. “Well, studying about it, at least. It wasn’t so great playing doctor while I was there, though. I could’ve done without that part. I can’t tell you how many times I wished I’d studied anatomy instead of vet science.”

“You did remarkably well given the circumstances.”

Elizabet tripped over thick thatch of dry grass and teetered to the side. Jareth reached out and steadied her, placing his hands on her hips to right her on the uneven levy.

“Don’t touch me,” she said immediately. She pulled away by stepping forward. Her slick boots caught in another slippery thatch of grass and she slid, but righted herself even as he went to help her. She batted his hands away. “I don’t need your help.”

Jareth’s hands balled into fists as he drew back. He changed the subject. “What do you know of medieval England?”

Elizabet patted down her hips where he touched her, then skimmed her hands down her sides before she crossed her arms over her mid-section in a slight embrace. “My mom was a history teacher. She used to read me her old college textbooks.” Her heart ached as she remembered her mother. She did not like speaking of her in past tense. Some things never got any easier. Losing a parent was one of those things. She motioned for him to follow before she began walking again—cautiously.

It was sweet the way he gave her an out. She had reacted badly when he merely helped her not to fall into the muddy waters of the crawfish pond. An awkward silence hung in the air as they walked up the three acres of levies to reach the barnyard. It was a good distance to cover in self-conscious quiet. She was thankful to come to the barn.

“I hope you weren’t trying to make me feel better by saying your nose wasn’t sensitive, because two of our hogs just gave birth.” Her nose crinkled as she reached for the lever that held the door closed.

“May I?” Jareth stepped up to her side. He motioned to the door, one black eyebrow climbing up. It looked like a difficult task—to have only one eyebrow nearly disappear into his hairline. He did it often and she imagined it went with being an arrogant, overbearing lord of the manor. His vassals probably cowered in fear when that haughty eyebrow went north.

“Sure,” she said, and her hand fell away from the lever. She stepped back. “Be my guest.” So, he wanted to be a gentleman and prove that he would not be offended by barn smells. She almost roared with laughter as the smell hit him, but instead settled for a curt cough that resembled a cackle as she swept past him as he held the door.

Chapter 5

IT HAD BEEN
hard not to show his shock at having found her working like a serf. Seeing her toil over the land and repairing large machinery disturbed him. She would be his duchess, for goodness sake, but for now he reminded himself that she was just a girl. A peasant girl, if he assessed correctly.

He had come with the sole purpose of planting seeds about his future host, Jeremy Cameron. Someone needed to watch over Jeremy as the time of his turning approached. Jareth trusted Elizabet. It was getting her to trust him in return and being civil that seemed a good place to start in this journey. It had been a while since they were acquainted. Talking soothed Elizabet, which meant she was open the longer he kept her going. It was evident how she threw her soul into her words.

It was an easy task to lure her into conversation. They had been in the hot, enclosed stable for an hour and he had a complete history of her losing her mother to leukemia and how she was now resigned to a life of farm, field hand, and property mortgage. Jareth understood better than anyone the importance of land holding and maintenance, but he had not come to give a lecture on proper stewardship.

The more she talked, the more she relaxed in his presence. However, she still spoke with animation, volume, and the type of voice that boomed and sounded angry. He was forced to match her facial expressions to her tone to be certain she was not picking an argument instead of merely conversing. Even as he watched her, his mind wandered to thoughts other than the purpose of his visit. He wondered how this petite girl had his emotions in knots. In the past, whenever he considered marriage he imagined the girl in question would be ugly. His prospective wife would be someone he could confide in and beget heirs, but never more. For all of his goals, though, he would never marry, but rather dedicate his life to Church and country. As a duchess, Elizabet would never do. She was loud, bossy, and sassy. And she was pretty. That was unacceptable. The alliance could make him weak.

“Aren’t you going to say anything?” Elizabet asked. She leaned forward over the bale of hay she was seated on. She grabbed a handful of rice hulls to toss to the chickens that scurried about.

Jareth leaned against a wooden beam, half of his weight supported. He forced the scattered thoughts from his mind. “I am under the impression you require words to put you at ease with my presence. I am merely allowing your leisure.”

“Well, I’m under the impression that you aren’t leaving until I answer the question you came for, but you let me talk my head off about all things me. Why?”

Clever girl
. Jareth’s mouth curved into a lopsided grin. “You speak in broken English. There are times I find it impossible to follow you. I say nothing because I am still deciphering your language.”

“Liar. You didn’t have that trouble before,” she said. “You said you were a translator and I could point out that you spoke in cultured English, but definitely not Middle English the way you should be. Or is it French?” Elizabet smirked. “Which is it? And remember, I know these things because my mom was a history teacher. Don’t change the subject.”

“Right.”

“You see . . .” she lifted the fistful of hulls and caused them to sprinkle around her as she spoke. “You say, ‘right.’ That is just wrong for you.” Her lips flattened as he covered his face in exasperation. “You should be using thy and thou.” She narrowed her eyes. “Or is it Norman French?”

“You are exhausting,” Jareth muttered under his breath from behind the veil of fingers. He caught her irritated expression from between his fingers and smiled sheepishly. It was not the time to be on her bad side when he needed her help. “But actually—you are right. I hail from the twelfth century, so French is the prominent language for nobility. I speak four tongues fluently. Translation comes naturally to me.” She nodded to encourage him to keep going. “But the language I speak is my own. It is a mixture of English. I am told by Gabriel that I will grow more British as my travels increase.” His hand dropped away. “Which makes perfect sense. I am British by birth, so do not become too accustomed to my speech today as it will evolve.” Elizabet opened her mouth, but Jareth cut the air with a chop of his hand. “I am not done yet. You have been given an adequate chance to have the floor, but it is my turn now.”

“Slang,” Elizabet cut in, as if she could not help herself. She wagged her finger. “You’re using slang. ‘Having the floor’ is slang for—”

“I know what it is slang for—I was the one who used it. You say this as if you are surprised,” Jareth said with a touch of irritation in his voice. He did not like the turn in the conversation or how she was picking at him. They had serious business to discuss and he was reduced to bickering about slang. “I am a time leaping progeny. Of course my language is strange. I no longer have a time that I call my own.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. She looked away, and appeared embarrassed that she could not keep her mouth shut. Her finger seized its accusatory wag and she dropped her hand to her side.

“I should not have to explain these things to you. Do you not remember the castle? The days and nights you spent giving me care? We had a clock, we spoke in your English, and wormholes abounded, for goodness sake. How can you question the way I speak—or live, for that matter?”

Elizabet shrugged but he barely left her sufficient time to come up with a smart quip. “It’s a blur. I hardly remember it at all.” She flapped her hands in the air as if waving her hazy memory away.

Jareth recalled her weak stomach for nursing a near fatal wound. Where she claimed to not have recollection of what happened between them, he wanted to collect each detail and study it. He wanted to dissect every word and each moment until he knew for sure what was between them, and at once, he knew she fibbed.

She wanted to know what was between them as badly as he. Something on her face told him he had figured her out. He was disappointed that she had dissembled, but he also realized she was nervous. There must be an allowance for feminine nerves. And they were almost fighting again, as if they could not help it. He did not understand how this happened.