The Guardian (Chronicles of Dover's Amalgam Book 1) (11 page)

“She is irritating, short, and bossy.”

“And she probably eats shellfish by the dozen,” Harrow added. “I know how you love your bottom feeders.” Jareth pretended to gag. “Most likely she’s crude.” Jareth shrugged. “And not as smart as you, and probably the lowest station known to mankind.” Harrow used the hem of his scrub top to wipe the lens of his glasses. His head tipped to the side. “But she saved your life. There is that.”

“Yes.” His fingers slowed as he squeezed the stiff muscles of his shoulder and neck. “There is that.” He imagined his expression waxed whimsical; he was nauseated just imagining it. It was a good thing there were no mirrors in the recovery area. “She has remarkable hands.”

“Ummm,” Harrow hummed. He paused in cleaning the lens and lifted his gaze. Jareth met his eyes in a look he imagined said,
Did I say that? Out loud?

“I will go to the autoclave and be sure Percival understands the new system,” Jareth said—almost as swiftly as he fled the room—leaving Harrow grinning after him.

“ART THOU TIRED,
my lord?” Catherine of Torquay asked in eloquent French. Her speech flowed from her tongue with distinct proper form—as should any lady of her station.

She thought she loved the man before her. Certainly, she loved the way he looked—his commanding presence when he entered a room, the way his body moved with elegant grace. He resembled his Scottish mother, which made him dark when Englishmen were drably fair. All other focus was swallowed when he opened his gorgeous full mouth to speak. Jareth Tremaine was the stuff of legends. Odes and songs had been written by squires and maidens concerning his great beauty. He was strong, just, and currently popular due to his involvement with the Church. And he was of possible royal bloodline. Anyone tied to him would have great status—both monetary and social.

Catherine planned to marry him for all of those reasons. The Bastard Duke was her betrothed. She had to suppress the urge to squeal with glee as she gazed at him from across the room. He was majestic and altogether beautiful when he brooded.

“Only tired of keeping company with you, my lady.” Jareth spoke in English simply to irritate her.

“How can one so great of beauty be so cruel?” Catherine pouted in the way of her mother when she wanted her way. She toyed with the edge of her veil that covered the crown of her head to get his attention. It angered her that he continued to stare out the window as he answered. His brooding, although magnificent, was aimed in a direction that was unappealing.

They should be out in the fresh air, enjoying the tourney taking place on the grounds of Dover Castle. It was why she was here—to watch her favorite knight perform and win the prize. Jareth commonly took championship of tourneys. It was widely known that he was best skilled with sword. This was his home, his castle and still he had not taken the field. Not for jousting nor blade games. He had not even gone to the lists to practice with his men, something that was unheard of during a tourney of this magnitude.

Instead, he was holed up in his solar absorbed in documents belonging to an old scholar Catherine personally hated. John Wycliffe would get Jareth into trouble. His time could not be filled with Church issues. It needed to be occupied with wedding plans, and quite frankly—her.

“Men do not aspire to be beautiful. We want to be known for our vigor and sensibility. Even being called bloodthirsty is better than being referred to as beautiful.” She understood the English language, but chose not to use it. It was unrefined, and beneath her to speak such a flat language. He used it to make her go away.

Catherine made her laugh sound musical. She did not notice the scowl that crossed Jareth’s face for she was too busy twisting her hands to match the laughter she had practiced. It took great skill to be a lady in waiting. “Why must thou speak strangely, my lord? I find it tiresome to follow. You know only paupers and the unrefined use the English language.”

“Then leave, and listen no more to my chosen language.” Jareth turned before she could hide the frown that betrayed her feigned laughter. “As I said, I grow tired of keeping your company.” He bowed at the waist. “Good morrow to you.”

“Thou art cruel, your majesty.” Her body trembled with anger under her many layers of clothing and veils. How dare Jareth dismiss her! She would have an audience with him or she would summon her father and the king—not in that order.

“I can be crueler still, Catherine. Would you like to try? Give it a go? I assure you, the Bastard Duke is not just a name they call me beyond my ears’ reach.”

Catherine glanced to her maid who was keeping chaperone for them. If Sara was to sew any faster, she would prick her fingers with the darning needle. “Sara, I bid thou leave.”

“No,” Jareth said. He stepped from the dark shadow and into the glow of the candlelight, and pointed at Sara. “Nay,” he corrected, for the sake of the servant. He motioned for her to stay seated when she went to rise. “Sara stays where she is. You will not catch me unaware. I will not be bullied into marrying you.”

“
Bullied?
What orgin—” There was not even a word in French to match this. She was angry that she had to imitate the vile language he spoke. Her fingers snapped as she searched for something to say to keep him at bay . . . and under her thumb.

The large doors to the solar burst open, and Gabriel strode into the room. The clamor had Catherine and Sara jumping. He thrust his hat under his arm, his jaw set as he stared at Catherine.

“Your father is looking for you,” he announced in Norman French. “If you don’t make haste, you will be left to Jareth’s charity.” He glanced at Jareth and something of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth—so he switched to English. “I’ve arrived just in time. As usual.”

Catherine hopped to her feet and grabbed Sara’s sleeve. “I shall have you both summoned to the king.” She glanced over her shoulder at Jareth as she cut a wide swath around Gabriel and bustled toward the door. He wanted to crow that the aversion to his person had worked its charm yet again. For some reason, the sight of him seemed to cause her great unrest. She could not stand to be in the same room with him and he did not know why, but neither did he care. “My father shall hear of this.”

“See that he does,” Gabriel said. He stepped forward and caused her to move faster out the door.

Once she was gone, Jareth smiled at Gabriel and stepped forward into the solar. He put his hand out for a handshake. “It’s good to see you, my friend.”

“And not a minute to spare.” Gabriel shut the wide, heavy doors. The outraged voices in high female falsetto were mercifully drowned by the thick wood. He shook Jareth’s hand. “You really should marry quickly so you can be rid of that vulgar girl. Saving you is getting old. Besides, my French is amateur at best.”

“She did not even bother to question,” Jareth said. He seemed to find it hard to speak, he was smiling so much. “I find it very gratifying to make fools of the already foolish. It pleases me. And your French is more than acceptable.” He indicated the length of the Gabriel’s attire, particularly the hat. “I must say you are getting better at mixing modern attire with medieval clothing. I am almost convinced that you belong here.”

“We both know that I don’t belong here,” Gabriel muttered. Jareth’s face fell. “I’m not here to save your hide. That was merely a bonus.” He grinned, and hoped it took the sting out of barreling onto the reason he was here. “Things are becoming jumbled and not as accurate. I have orders to desist visitation. The future is uncertain. Everything is changing. We’re concerned that if we continue to jump time, things will be lost.”

“Is this your final visit, then?” Jareth asked as he turned away and walked to the window he had abandoned. He would not look Gabriel in the eye. “I have come to enjoy our dealings; I counted on your visits to keep me on course. I do not know how I will fare not having a glance into the future. Those interactions will be sorely missed, not only for the information gained, but also for the friendship.”

“I will be available until the storm.” Gabriel said. Jareth turned to face him. They stood before the open window that overlooked the English Channel. The white cliffs gleamed under a full moon. The view mesmerized Gabriel as if he were seeing it for the first time. “That way Jeremy is safe and secure.” His gaze left the open window and turned to Jareth. “You agree that you will need guidance in the course of the next few weeks.”

Jareth sighed and shook his head. “It never gets old how you speak of me—to me—about me.” His shoulders dropped “How will I know when the storm comes? I assume it is near. I have watched carefully the times we are in, both past and future.”

“Elizabet will have that information. I trust you have the stones and you have made first contact with her?” Jareth nodded, his expression becoming vacant as if his mind was suddenly with the one they spoke of. Gabriel knew that look. He had seen it just an hour before on the same face that had barely aged in eight years. “And—?”

“And what?” Jareth asked, annoyance in his tone.

“Did she mention the approaching storm?”

“No.” Jareth turned and shouldered the window frame, looking out over the moorings of the cliffs. “We did not speak of the storm. I did not get that far. I though it unwise. But we did speak of Jeremy.”

“Jeremy is friends with her young cousin. The duchess is very protective of anyone close with members of her family.”

Jareth glanced over his shoulder. “She did not mention a cousin. I only heard of a father and grandmother.” He frowned; his eyes narrowed. “I forget that you know her—well.”

“She is the wife of my best friend.” Gabriel stressed the word best and ignored the jealousy in Jareth’s voice. “The duchess is the gateway to your hard heart. I would be stupid not to take advantage of the fact she has you at her beck and call.”

“That easy, am I?” Jareth asked dryly.

Gabriel laughed. “Only with her. With the rest of us, you remain an unyielding bastard.” Jareth had no response other than a slight lift to his right shoulder. “How’s the romance going, by the way? Are you totally smitten yet?”

Jareth grimaced and looked away. He leaned forward and gripped the window frame to bear his weight. The stance appeared as if he were readying to leap from the window. “To say that someone is smitten is equivalent to someone telling me I have gone daft.”

“You’re over thinking again, Jareth.” Gabriel kept his voice low because he was embarrassed. Even in present time, he and Jareth did not sit around speaking of their feelings, and it seemed this was where their conversation was headed. He had merely asked to see where they were on the timeline. “I shouldn’t speak of it, but I just left both of you in wedded bliss. Makes me a little sick, actually. Your life is so freaking perfect, it makes Hallmark look like a horror film.”

Jareth pushed away from the window and turned to lean his back against the wall. “She is plain and short.” He used his hand to show where the top of her head met the lower part of his chest. “I would have to stand in a hole to kiss her.”

“Ah, but you have thought of kissing her,” Gabriel said with a grin.

Jareth flung his arms out akimbo. “She is loud and a bit obnoxious.”

Gabriel choked. He didn’t know what to say. “Why do you want to do this?” He knew what Jareth was doing; he was counting the cost. It was the way of things in Jareth’s mind. If he could make sense of something, then it was good. However, in this case, it was absurd that Jareth was making a case against his future bride.

“She is poor and has been abandoned by her father. What is wrong with her that even a parent flees?”

“The same could be said of yourself, your grace.” Gabriel’s eyebrows rose as Jareth bristled with the set down. “Her mother died when she was young. Can you honestly fault her height or the manner in which she was raised? You should consider it fortunate that she isn’t Catholic. She’s from South Louisiana, where nearly everybody’s Catholic. It’s like being French in the fifteenth century; it would be social suicide. What a chore that would be if you had to convert her
and
fall in love.” Jareth’s jaw stiffened as he turned away with a growl. “Ah,” Gabriel grinned. “There is the Jareth I know and love.”

“Check mate,” Jareth replied.

“Point. Match. I win.” Gabriel leaned his shoulder against the wall. He wanted to hug himself for his brilliance. “I mention Catholicism and finally you shut up. Some things never change.” He waved his hand in the air. “But really, stop all of this doubt. Admit that you like the girl and move on. It’ll save time.”

Jareth smirked with half his mouth. “She mocks me by questioning my motives and wanting to play games when I was more than willing to provide her with answers.” He flipped his hand in the air. “Except about Jeremy and you know she wants to know about him. Pries about him. If I tell her all there is, I may lose her. How can anyone be expected to believe something like that is possible?” He folded his arms over his chest again. “What say you?”

“Elizabet is braver than you give her credit for. You forget that she knows all about Jeremy.” He thumbed over his shoulder. “I just left your house. He’s there, babysitting your children. Does that sound like a woman who is going to freak when she discovers her fave cousin’s friend is a living host for a hurricane?” He shrugged. “And she’s your wife. You do know what that means—don’t you? You did hear me mention children. Plural.”

“Of course, I know the meaning of marriage.” His biceps bowed as he gripped his arms . . . probably in an effort not to punch Gabriel. “I understand what the institution entails.”

“Have you spoken to her about the
institution of marriage?
” Gabriel let his face show how appalled he was. “That will endear her to you, I’m sure. Sometimes it amazes me how different you are. And what I mean is, the person you are here and the man you are there. The one I just left was bouncing a baby on his hip and giving a toddler a pony ride on his back as he ordered me about.” Gabriel shook his head. “You just delivered your own son last week because you wouldn’t trust anyone else with your family and you hate obstetrics. You’re a surgeon, not an obstetrician. I’m getting confused. You look like him, but use insults as a weapon.”