The Guardian (Chronicles of Dover's Amalgam Book 1) (13 page)

“Honestly, you’re brilliant. Grandma is Catholic. She’ll never step foot in a Pres church.” She kicked at a rock that was too large to ignore. “And actually, I just left there. Spied on Jeremy. Proud of me?”

“That’s my girl,” he murmured. There was a twinge of awe in his voice.

Elizabet stumbled over her own feet, but righted before she made a twit out of herself. She refused to look back, terrified that he would be laughing at her. “Well, you owe me, because tonight wasn’t an average service. It was more one weather announcement after another.” She shook her head and frowned. “Who’s bringing the taco dip and soda for the evacuation? I almost fell asleep. It was awful.”

“Evacuation?”

“There is a mega storm in the Gulf of Mexico, headed straight this way. It’s a hurricane. Ever heard of that sort of thing?”

“Yes.”

She began walking again, motioning with her hand to nothing in particular as she spoke. “It happens all the time around here. We prepare for the worst and sometimes it happens. Other times—nothing. Storms have gotten worse over the past few years. They happen more often and earlier in the summer season, but we don’t have the special occurrences like those hyper tsunamis and monsoons. Just hurricanes. Thank God for small favors.”

“How long have these special occurrences been in existence?” he asked.

“A while. Years. I remember the first mega hurricane. My mom was already sick by then. We went to Dad’s office, spent the night while the storm blew through. It was horrible. I can’t stand hurricanes. You can’t hide from them.” She made a shivering motion. “Nasty things. We haven’t stayed since. We go up to North Louisiana and stay with Dad’s family. They own a horse breeding ranch. It’s big and safe. Far enough away, and most of the time, the storms turn before they reach us.” She hated the way her stomach did a somersault when she glanced at him over her shoulder. He needed to stay medieval. It was easier to ignore that he was gorgeous when he was wearing a tunic. “This will cost you, you know? I’m racking up the points. You’ll owe me.”

“I have noted that you mentioned your mother,” Jareth said. He continued speaking even though she kept walking. “And I want to hear more of her, but after we speak of the necessary. I am not opposed to answering your questions. I have some as well.”

“You don’t have to be nice to get me to talk. I’ve already decided to help you. I don’t go back on my word.”

“It is not kindness that prompts me. I am curious.” Jareth quieted as they reached the porch and together ascended the three small steps. The porch was narrow but long. It spanned the width of the wooden house that was as old as her grandma.

“I think it might be best if we go inside,” Elizabet suggested, but stopped and turned to him with a questioning expression. She smiled and tilted her head. “You’re different. And it’s not just the clothes. There is something new about you.”

“I assure you, it is the clothing. It is irritating.” He shifted to show his discomfort under her scrutiny. There was something in her gaze that he had seen before on another’s face. He was accustomed to the perusal of ladies and he recognized it easily enough. He motioned to the screen door. “Invite me into your home. I want to meet your grandmother.”

Elizabet’s eyes traveled the length of him. “Where is your weapon?”

His eyes widened. “I assure you, it is for your protection as well as my own.” Jareth said. He reached down and lifted the hem of his left pants leg. The handle to a bowie knife peeked out above his leather boot.

“Just like knowing what I’m up against.”

“You are not up against anything,” he assured her, and shook his pants into place. He reached for the door handle. “I would never hurt you. In any way.”

She pursed her lips and made a
harrumph
noise. “You say that like you mean it.”

“I do.” He twisted the knob and opened the door a fraction. “Is it so difficult to believe I am not the abductor you thought me to be?”

Elizabet laughed. “That’s cute.” She wagged her finger at him. “You remembered.”

“It is rather hard to forget being accused of kidnapping.”

“Well, just remember that Grandma thought I was a missing person, so let’s keep this as a private joke.” She mimed locking her lips closed and then jerked the door until he released it. She swung it wider and stepped ahead of him. “Stay right behind me. I’ll not be responsible if she talks your ears off.”

Jareth remained relatively silent, though polite, during introductions and she attempted to view the scene through the eyes of a stranger. It would not take him long to understand the family dynamics. Grandma was an alcoholic, who was currently intoxicated. An oxygen tank leaned against the wall in the corner, and the ashtray was full of cigarette butts. Not that he needed to see an ashtray. The lingering odor and stained walls told the complete story.

“Who’s your parents?” Grandma asked as she dug between the cushion and arm of the chair for the remote control to the television. The woman was large with a pendulous belly. Her worn calico print house dress was stained on the right breast and from where Jareth was standing, he was sure to spot the food crumbs pooling in the area of her lap. She found the remote and muted the television. It was apparent that she was not happy with the interruption of the football game and news she was viewing in a split screen.

“He’s not from around here,” Elizabet said quickly.

“My parents . . .” Jareth said at the same time. He looked at Elizabet. She flushed and glanced away. “I have been on my own for quite a while. I am studying medicine at the University of New Orleans. I was invited this evening by the Camerons to give an exposition on the Book of Solomon for the local Presbyterian congregation. I am an expert in that particular book of the Bible.”

“Never heard of it,” Grandma said, looking unimpressed. Her legs were covered with a Saint’s blanket. Her eyes tapered. “You aren’t from around here. You talk funny.”

“He’s from England, Grandma.”

“I am British born and raised,” Jareth said.

“Umm,” Grandma hummed. She fumbled with the remote, pressed the mute button so the sound resumed—and loudly.

They were dismissed. Elizabet smiled pitifully at him and jerked her chin toward the hallway.

“It was a pleasure.” Jareth bowed.

Grandma frowned. “Umm,” she repeated.

“We can talk privately in my room.” Elizabet headed for a single long hallway. She motioned him along with the sweep of her arm. The house was narrow and efficient. It was old and smelled of fried food, most likely seafood-shellfish and bottom feeders. The medley of smells was nauseating; a mixture of stale cigarette smoke and various food odors.

“Do you think that is wise?” Jareth asked. He followed her anyway; the volume of the television had risen to an obnoxious level.

Elizabet kept walking and did not look back. She motioned again with her hand for him to follow, flapping it slightly over her head; annoyed now. “We’re not going to roll around in the bed if that’s what you’re crying about. I have chairs.”

“It is inappropriate.” Jareth frowned and shook his head. “I will not compromise who I am for the sake of being modern. There are some things that are not done.”

Elizabet stopped, braced her hands on the narrow walls of the hallway and peeked under her left arm. “You do understand that Grandma will be able to hear everything we say.”

Jareth’s right eyebrow arched upward. “I highly doubt she can hear her own breathing over the television, and that says volumes.”

Elizabet let out an exasperated breath. “It’s here, the porch, or the kitchen.” She marched onward up the hallway, and paused before her bedroom door. “The porch—we’ll get eaten by mosquitoes. The kitchen—we won’t be able to hear over the Weather Channel and the Saint’s game. Here . . .” She reached for the door knob. “ . . . We’ll have peace and quiet.” She made a face. “Come on; we’ll leave the door open.” The door hit the opposite wall with a resounding thump as if to emphasize her point that it would stay open.

“No.”

“Look,” Elizabet said with a huff. “I seem to remember being locked away—alone—with you for days on end.”

“Shhh,” Jareth said as he stepped forward. He glanced back and she peered behind him at Grandma, who was on the edge of her recliner reaching for the can of beer on the side table.

“If we leave the door open, the inside of the room will still be visible.”

“All right. All right. Agreed. The door stays open.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re so bossy. Honestly, you act as if I’m about to jump you. You must be quite the catch back where you come from.”

Jareth concluded the remaining three steps in long strides. “It would be an honor bestowed onto a maiden to be offered my suit.”

Elizabet’s lips slid to one side in a smirk. “Poor maidens. I bet you just melt hearts wherever you go. Good thing I’m no maiden, so that makes me, like, immune to your charms.”

Jareth mirrored her smirked expression as he brought his body almost flush against hers. She tilted her face upward and tried not be shocked or awed by his proximity and boldness. A mere inch separated their bodies. Heat radiating from him, and he smelled of Dover, a distinct citrusy smell mixed with a spray of the sea.

“How very clever of you to point out that you are not a maiden. In fact, you are equivalent to a serf. Peasant. If we were to be introduced, the
king
would have me shun you—publically. I am, after all, a duke.”

Heat crept up over Elizabet’s face. She kept eye contact with him for as long as she could and then lowered her gaze to the floor. Her mind churned for something malicious to say.

“Forgive me,” he begged. His words were rushed as he exhaled in a whoosh.

Her head jerked up and she gazed at him; her top lip quivered as she fought to keep a smirk in place.

“All I do is forgive you,” Elizabet said. Her face felt as though she’d been working in the fields mid-summer. She blew a piece of her hair that fell onto her face. “You have no idea . . .”

“Hush,” he pleaded, and then his fingertips were over her mouth. The contact jolted her, and she took a step back. The back of her head hit the door frame.

“Don’t touch me!” She gripped the door frame behind her with both hands. The movement brought her heaving chest forward as she forced deep breaths to remain calm.

Jareth stared at the hand that had touched her and then regarded her with a puzzled expression.

“Keep your hands to yourself,” she warned. She sidestepped to fully enter the bedroom, and narrowed her eyes when he looked down at his hand again. “I get that you are royalty and I’m beneath you. I. Get. It. You don’t have to rub my face in it.” She shifted her weight to one side. “I’m helping you, so please, don’t get all snooty on me and remind me that I’m nothing, when I’m all you’ve got right now.”

Jareth said nothing. Instead, after they stared at each other for precisely one minute, he walked into the room, grabbed a chair, carried it to the open doorway and placed it there.

Elizabet kept a stiff stance, even as he walked around her, and watched him position his perch in the doorway. She had conflicting emotions. Part of her was immensely relieved that he did not have the chance to bring up the problem of Grandma. The other part was, well, a mixture of aggravation and embarrassment. He was being a jerk and she didn’t understand how he could go from being nice to telling her she was basically dirt. “Aren’t you going to say anything?”

Jareth brushed off the seat of the folding chair. Lint and bread crumbs fell to the floor. He stood for a beat, made eye contact with her, and then sat, legs slightly bent, his hands resting on his knees. “You are right. I treated you badly and I am sorry.”

“That’s it?” she asked. People did not drop that kind of innuendo and merely say, ‘sorry, my bad.’ This required a foot washing service with a possible public declaration.

Jareth turned his palms upward in a questioning pose, and then returned to cover his knees. He did not seem to know what to say. “That is all, yes. There are no words that can make up for what I said. It was not well done of me.”

“Well . . .” she drawled, though she wasn’t yet convinced. “ . . . If you’re really sorry.”

Jareth leaned forward and dropped his head into his hands, resting his elbows on his knees. “I am extremely repentant.” He grabbed a handful of his hair. “Why do you vex me so?” He looked up, and his hands fell away. “I do not understand. Why is it you cause my pride to flair? You are only a girl.”

Elizabet rubbed both palms down the fronts of her thighs, drying them on the denim. She allowed her expression to turn cynical. “Is that what you say to all the girls you apologize to?”

“No, no, no,” Jareth said, shaking his head. He straightened, his hair disheveled, and struck the chair back with such force that it slid back an inch toward the hallway. “I am mucking things up again.” He frowned, and lifted his gaze to the ceiling. His lips moved silently for a beat before he spoke again. It looked distinctly as if he mouthed
Here I go.
“What I want to say is that I like you.”

Elizabet had been reaching for a chair. She paused and gaped at him. “You
like
me?”

He nodded and closed his eyes on a sigh that almost seemed exasperated. “Very much, I am afraid.”

“Oh,” she said, and grasped the back of the chair to drag it next to his. “When did you come to that conclusion? Before or after you called me a serf?”

“I liked you the first time I heard your voice.”

“Oh,” she repeated, but this time it was unfeigned. He had surprised her.

“It is a lovely memory,” he admitted. “No one had ever shown such a kindness to me as you did. I shall never forget what you have done for me. I owe you my life.”

“Well,” she said as she sat slowly, keeping her eyes on him. “That is very—

“Sweet,” Jareth offered dryly, his lips bending. He muttered something under his breath and shook his head.

“I guess you could say that,” Elizabet agreed.

“Please, forgive me,” he repeated.

“Forgiven for the hundredth time today,” she said with a wave of her hand as she crossed her legs. She gave him a pointed look. “Mostly, I forgive you for being a jerk. Don’t remind me that I’m gum beneath your shoe. I don’t like it.”