The Guardian (Chronicles of Dover's Amalgam Book 1) (15 page)

“It must be said, and I already discerned your family situation. As I said before, I have obsessions just as many Asperger’s cases. I figure things out quickly.” He looked down at her. He was close enough that he could touch her if he wanted. “When were you going to tell me that you sing?”

“That’s not relevant,” Elizabet said. She shook her head. “And stop flying off to different subjects. Are we talking about stereotypes, Grandma, or me singing?”

“Your grandmother is an alcoholic. I knew that the moment I met her. She is grossly overweight, gray in color but blue about her lips, and rude. She did not bother to stand when greeting me earlier, so I assumed she also has COPD.” Jareth’s head tilted. “My mother was the king’s mistress, Elizabet. Do you know what that means?” Elizabet nodded. Even though she claimed to understand, he went on anyway. “She was nothing more than a glorified whore. Paid for a service with jewels, housing, and clothing. I have even heard that she was quite good at it. Virtual professional at pleasing a man.”

“Jareth.” Elizabet reached out. He stepped away and her hand grasped at the air between them. “You don’t have to explain. I get it. We are both screwed up family-wise.”

“Next subject then: stereotypes. You are classically Cajun, right down to your cute accent. When you sing, is your accent pronounced?”

“I don’t have an accent. You—”

“Yes, we both do.” Jareth raised his finger in the air to silence her interruptions. He wagged that finger back and forth. “So, now we have covered Grandma and my mother in greater depth. Do you feel better?”

Elizabet’s lips flattened. “I guess so.” He was being kind to lessen the sting of her embarrassment. He was deflecting her pain for his own. No one had ever done that for her before. He was being sweet again. A smile curved on her face despite that fact he looked serious enough to give her some type of language lesson like a stern professor. Speaking of his mother had hurt him. It was in his tone, and a shadow of shame covered his face at the mention of her.

“Good,” he said. He added one nod that seemed more like a jerk. “I feel better, as well. Confession is good for the soul.”

Elizabet remembered something. “Wait a minute. How did you know I sing?”

“I read the awards on the wall in your room.”

“Oh.”

“Does that embarrass you?”

She shook her head and turned away. Walking to the refrigerator, she opened it and grabbed the pitcher of sweet tea. Being hospitable gave her something to do other than appear foolish like a love sick admirer. Looking up at him, right into his thick eyelashes, was intoxicating and would leave her stupefied if she did not find something to divert her attentions. “No. Of course not. It’s just that I don’t sing anymore.”

“Why not?”

Elizabet grabbed two plastic glasses from the drain board in the sink, and sandwiched the rims between two fingers of her free hand. She walked to the table, motioned with the cups for him to choose a seat, and placed the pitcher between them on the table.

“It was something I did with my mom.”

“It was forward of me to pry.”

“Don’t think about it,” she said with a shrug. She poured the glasses full of cold tea, yanked out the chair opposite him, and sat down. “It’s been a long time, and if you and I are going to get along, I guess we need to know these things.” She rested her elbows on the table, ignored the tea she poured for herself, and watched as Jareth looked into the green plastic cup in front of him. “So, speaking of stereotypes, how do you fit the whole knight thingy? I know that you fight, but you aren’t good at it. I did see your ripped up body, remember?”

“I am very good at it, actually.” he said, frowning into the brown liquid. “My injuries were caused by weapons—” He pointed to the cup. “What is this?”

“Tea.”

Jareth glanced back at the cup before him. “I am told I will be quite fond of tea.”

Elizabet reached into the basket in the middle of the table and pulled out two straws—one pink and one yellow. She stuck the yellow straw into his cup. “Well, I’m not surprised. You brag enough about being British. Stereotypes abound for us both.”

“They have ground,” Jareth said. He touched the tip of the straw with his finger and circled the rim. “Social functions of certain people who live in close proximity have been proven to have similar beliefs and convictions. It is the way of things.” He looked up at her. “I do not like to fight. I have been trained to fight and it is something I do very well. Stereotypical. Your grandmother is a crack shot, and I am excellent with sword and shield. I am also quite fond of jousting.”

“Is there anything you don’t do well, oh gifted one?” she asked. She sipped her tea, and somehow managed to smirk around the straw.

Jareth leaned forward and put his lips to the straw as she did, but nothing happened.

“You have to suck,” she instructed when he only hovered and did not drink.

He pressed back, appalled. “I will not,” he flipped his hand toward the beverage, “pull liquid into my mouth by means of this conduit.”

Elizabet purposely pulled hard on the straw, and her cheeks caved in. She didn’t stop until the annoying slurp of an empty glass echoed.

“Dreadful.”

“It’s a straw.” Elizabet wiped her mouth with her wrist. Her eyebrows rose a notch. “I take it this is the first you’ve seen one?”

He nodded and turned away from the cup as if by not looking at it, it would vanish. After a while, she understood that was what exactly he expected to happen.

She refused to move the cup. “It’s just a straw. It makes drinking easier.”

Jareth turned a haughty expression on her. “Must everything be easy? I have noticed a trend with modern inventions. Impatience must be a new virtue amidst your people.”

Elizabet narrowed her eyes. “So, you don’t like straws. We speak of Google and you have access to all there is to know, yet straws cause you nightmares. You don’t like to fight, but you’re good at it. You’re a bastard—” She paused, but his expression remained unchanged. She sighed and sat back with a huff, and rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands. “What were you planning to say about weapons?” She paused and peeked between her hands. “You stopped mid-sentence to be horrified over the straw. It’s getting late and even though I am sure Grandma is passed out—your immaculate reputation won’t allow us to stay up alone. You’re running out of time, Romeo. It’s way past my bedtime and, unlike you, I have a job.”

Jareth glanced down at the straw in question and shuddered—in a manly, lordly sort of way. Elizabet offered a slight smile while she plucked a piece of lint from her black shirt, and then leaned forward on her elbows again and gave him her complete attention.

“The weapons being used at the battle that day by our opponents were not from the proper time period, nor were they expected.” He used the tip of his index finger to slide the glass away and into the middle of the table. “I suspect they were Huns.”

Elizabet’s brow crinkled. “Huns aren’t an enemy of England in your century. They’re all dead. Extinct. How is that possible?”

“The traveling stones,” Jareth said. “I am sure of it.”

“Spartans. An assassin from the Ming Dynasty. Huns.” Elizabet sat back and waved at him. “You’re practically a doctor already, doing surgery on your own.” She shook her head. “You might as well tell me about Jeremy, too—what happens to him, because I think I have it partly figured out.” She flattened her palms on the table, on the blue plastic place mat. “You’re oddly obsessed with the weather.”

Jareth leaned back and laid his hands on the table in a mirror image of hers. “All right. I will give you another bonus and give you honesty if you answer correctly. Give me your best guess.”

“Jeremy is about to die in the hurricane that is coming.”

Jareth shook his head, his gaze trained on his hands before him. He pressed the jagged edge of the tablecloth down and followed the seam with his averted eyes.

“Okay.” She followed her simple word with a sigh of exhaustion. Jareth was freakishly concerned with the condition of the dollar store place mats. “How about he gets abducted or something? By this storm? He goes up in the clouds . . .” She let out a growl of frustration when Jareth did not budge or give anything away. He kept tracing the square mat as though it was profoundly interesting. She rambled out what she thought were logical theories, but obviously her imagination was less than brilliant. “That’s all I have. I give up.”

Jareth looked up then. He slid back the chair and stood.

Elizabet shook her head. “I know. I know. I sound crazy. I guess I’m not as sharp as I thought.”

Jareth stood by her chair, grasped the back of it and folded down next to her. They were eye level now, but she did not turn to him. “There is something I want to tell you.” She faced him then, brows raised. He shook his head and a jaunty grin spread on his face. “It is not about Jeremy, but this affects you profoundly and I want you to know of it. I want to give you the chance to consider the future, so you may have a choice.” He reached up and moved a piece of her hair that had fallen into her face.

Elizabet’s breath caught and she turned away. “What is it?” she whispered. She was unable to find the volume of her voice. He was too close, looking as if he might see her as more than a friend. She wanted to guard her heart from splintering into a million pieces. People like Jareth shattered souls. He could break her. She had warned herself of the facts over and over. They were contacts, associates—friends at best. But he was too close, robbing the air of oxygen. It made her weak and want things from him she could never have.

“The website you got your information from was wrong.”

“What are you talking about?” She sounded a little hysterical, even to her own ears. He wanted to talk about websites when she was expecting something life changing. Her heart was beating in her throat as she gazed at him, her eye twitching because he was so close that her vision blurred, and he was bringing up random websites? The effect he had on her was like an allergy.

He leaned forward, pressed his forehead to her arm. “The name of my duchess. There is no S in her name, and they need to drop the H.”

Elizabet screwed up her face as she tried to unscramble what he was saying. It was hard to concentrate when he touched her and was kneeling there unaffected and speaking so clearly she wanted to push him away so he was as shaken as she was. Instead, she stared at the top of his head. His hair was so black it had a bluish hue under the bright light hanging over the table. Even that part of him was angelic. “What are you talking about? I don’t understand.”

“There is no Elisabeth. Only you.
You
are my duchess, Elizabet.”

Elizabet’s arm jerked and Jareth’s head flipped back. He braced his hands around the arm of her chair and managed to keep from toppling over. “
What?
” she hissed. It had been a reflex to shove him away and now she felt stupid. He eyed her as if he did not know what to do with her; as if she were a skittish animal that needed to be bridled.

Jareth blinked a few times. “I thought I was fairly clear.” He motioned between them. “You and I will be married. You are my duchess.”

“I heard you,” she said in what came out sounding more like a growl than words. Her face was on fire. “How could you tell me this?
Why
did you tell me this?”

“I want you to have a choice.” He shrugged and reached for her hand, but she batted him away. “I want you to have time to consider what this means.”

“What choice do I have if it’s already in the history books?” She groaned, rolled her eyes, and dropped her head into her hands. “We were just talking about my guesses of what happens to Jeremy and you come up with this? You’re going to kill me before it’s all over with.” She shook her head as her hands dropped to the arms of her chair and she slumped.

Jareth’s hand lifted to her face and cupped her cheek, even as she fought to press away. He went to his knees and raised his other hand to frame her face. “Stop. Listen to me. You have a choice. There is always free will. What is written can be changed.” Her gaze was frantic; he captured it and held it with a steady gaze of his own. Some of her tension lessened and she reached up to grasp one of his hands and press it into her cheek as though she desperately needed to be grounded. “If being married to a bastard disgust you—”

“Is that what you think?” she asked. She squeezed his hand. “You’re crazy. Look at you.” He looked confused, so she said, “Look at me. I’m not in
your
league. I’m practically a farmer. A serf—remember? I’m a social retard. At least that is what everyone calls me, and I agree. I have one friend and that’s my nine-year-old cousin.”

“I spoke churlishly. Having to work hard to live should be held against no one.”

“There are things about me that you don’t know,” she said quietly. “Things you might not like.”

“An alcoholic grandparent? A father who chases girls rather than women his age? You are poor? What, Elizabet? What can you possibly tell me that I would hold against you?” She dropped his hand to turn away, but he held her there. “You saved me. You traveled to another time knowing nothing but what you were told. You stayed with me when I would have died or my enemies would have taken advantage of my wounded state. You were all that stood between Dover and a hostile takeover. You hid me and kept me safe. How can you speak of the lady who holds my deepest affection in such a way? I will take it personally if you say anything other than, ‘Yes, Jareth. I will consider a future with you.’”

Elizabet lowered her gaze to where their hands were entwined. Even that looked out of place. His hands were strong and dark with long fingers that curved around her stubby, nail chewed paws. The urge to pull her hand away and wipe the clammy moisture was overwhelming. Tears pricked her eyes as she sucked her lower lip into her mouth to keep from going into a full ugly cry. Why, Why? Why would he say things that would cause false hope of a better life with
him
?

“I don’t understand what changed,” she said. She swiped at her nose with her free hand, but did not lift her gaze. “Why would you say such a thing? I mean, are you sure? How do you know it’s me? There could be an Elisabeth somewhere out there that you haven’t met yet.”