The Guardian (Chronicles of Dover's Amalgam Book 1) (27 page)

Finally, she spoke. “Except me.”

Jareth had to look away. The agony that infused her features was more than he could bear when he knew exactly how he felt about her admission. Elizabet was a champion for his linage and he would extend her the same grace in an equal measure. She would never suffer shame over this matter again as long as he had breath in his body.

“It is a good thing that I love you, Elizabet Tremaine. Otherwise, we would be stuck indeed. I would very much like to discuss, later, that you have difficulties in learning.” She uncoiled her hand from the tie at her waist to grasp his hand in return. “But right now—I would rather discuss what is at hand.” He offered her a smile. “We have a marriage that is yet to be consummated and I would like to know, dear wife, if you could trust me enough to give me your innocence? You see, as imperative as this information is, I would like to ensure that no one can take you from me—regardless of whether you are able to read.”

“You still want to be married to me?” she asked with wonder in her voice.

“Desperately.”

Her lips wobbled as she smiled, her eyes wrinkling in the corners, tears dripping down her cheeks. “I would like very much to be yours, Jareth Tremaine, if you will have me.”

Jareth’s smile turned wolfish. He yanked her to him, and her body tumbled onto his lap. “I will have you.”

Chapter 14

JARETH WATCHED HER
sleep.

She slept on her stomach with her hands crammed under the pillow, her lips slightly parted. Her hair partially covered her face that was flushed from the day’s lingering heat in the room. He had opened the windows, but it would take time to cool the interior.

And time was something he did not have.

Blowing out a slow breath, he buried both hands in his hair and used his palms to massage his scalp as he stared at the floor.

Percival had awakened him in the night with new developments. His brother’s men were here to take him to Kent for an audience with Church officials. So it was to be the Church that gave him trouble. Not for the murder of a nobleman, and not for a broken betrothal, but for translating scripture. Whatever the charge, there was a spoiled brat behind the accusation and he would have her head for it. It was ironic that he wore a set of seven time stones around his wrist and could not give his bride another hour to adjust to her new life.

“Hey.” Her voice was sleepy and soft.

Jareth smiled at the floor. Once he looked at her it would all be different. He glanced up slowly, taking his time to savor the initial jolt as they made eye contact for the first waking moment of this morning. Everything was new. Last night had been pivotal. He had ventured from being alone in life to united with someone else. He would never be the same.

She smiled lazily, her hair a tangled mess. The sheets were piled over her even though it was warm, and she pushed at them.

He released the hold on his hair. He did not care if he left it sticking up in every direction. He straightened in his chair and returned her silly, lopsided grin. “Good morning.”

Elizabet yanked the covers up under her arms. “How long have you been awake?”

“Long enough.” He got up and prowled toward the bed.

“You’re despicable.”

“I am a hopelessly besotted man.”

Elizabet tucked the sheets around her. She eyed him with a faint grin. “Really? You expect me to believe that? That one night changes everything?”

“I have already told you that I love you. Last night just sealed the deal.” Jareth shrugged with one shoulder. He placed his hands on the bed, his weight causing her to dip and roll toward him slightly. “I have not the time to spar with you, wife.” He reached out and grabbed a lock of her wild hair and tugged playfully. “I love you,” he mouthed silently. She blushed prettily and looked away.

Jareth sighed. “I say these things abruptly because the Black Prince has sent a small army to collect me.” Elizabet’s gaze jerked to his. He nodded once, slowly, and released her hair. “I have to go, but I leave you with those I trust.”

He stepped back, stood tall, and removed the seven bands from his wrist. It was nonnegotiable to take them along.

He observed her silent turmoil as his hands worked the bands from his wrist. “My brave girl,” he said. He placed the bands in his palm and held them out for her inspection. “You need not fear for your life or mine. All will be well.”

“You can’t promise me that,” she grumbled. “I heard what Minh and Gabriel said. Things are changing. Someone is tampering with time.”

“Come,” he said gently, dismissing the ache in his heart. “Get dressed and see me to the gates of my land. If you send me off to uncertain fate, then I shall go willingly.”

She turned her face up, fresh tears held trapped in her eyes. “What do you want me to do? Stay here and pretend that I know what to do? How to act? Do you know how long you will be gone?”

“I expect you to be wonderfully you,” he said. “I married you knowing full well what I was getting. Although, I
was
under the assumption that you could read.”

She narrowed her eyes. “I would have told you sooner.”

“I am only teasing,” he said, and motioned to the covers. “Now, get up.”

“Turn your head.” She clasped the sheets under her armpits when he smiled and shook his head. “I won’t parade myself around in broad daylight.” Her lips twisted. “Regardless that I’ve been thoroughly ravished.”

Jareth laughed out loud, reached out and pulled her hair again, the same strand as before, because it was sticking out and begging for it. “That’s cute. I will remember in the future that ravishing makes you cranky.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say that,” she muttered.

He laughed harder.

Elizabet stuck her tongue out.

“Come,” he said. His smile died as a shout rose from below. “I have tarried all that I am able. If we do not hurry, you will have more than a husbandly hand to aid you.” Elizabet’s expression sobered. Reality was outside, waiting with swords and other assorted weapons. He held his hand out. “Come, I promise not to look at the good parts.”

Jareth played the part of lady’s maid for his bride. And he tried not to peek at the good parts, which was difficult since neither of them were apt in ladies’ wear of the time period. He worked the lacing on the back of the dress, his eyes on her fingers as she piled her hair in a bun atop her head and stuck pins to keep it in place. A bun was most certainly not medieval, but a large, silly headdress had been provided for her and it would look stupid if she left her hair down.

“I’ll miss you,” she said. Her hands patted the bun she had made and then she smoothed down the sides with the pads of her fingers. Jareth smiled even though she could not see it. “Do I use the time bands?” she asked. His hands paused at her waist where he tied the lacing. “I don’t know how or which tunnel to take.”

He grasped her wrist that the bands encircled and twirled her to face him. The movement was like a dance step, fluid and practical. A small peep of exclamation came from her at the rapid move. Jareth kissed the tip of her nose to soothe the rough way he had handled her. “Use them only if necessary. Keep to the paths on the right. Those are the future. Take the widest opening. It is the path we are destined to travel.”

“How do they work?” She leaned into him, her cheek resting against his chest. He held her close and relished the notion that she was not a faint girl, one who needed to be coddled through each of life’s bumps—or his own shortcomings. She spoke of time travel as if it was merely a trip to a nearby village. There were strengths to contra balance her weaknesses. “I’ve never gone alone.”

“It is strange magic,” Jareth said. He realized again how small she was when they stood together. His back was bent as he rubbed his cheek against hers. Something primitive and protective rested in his bosom. No one had ever belonged exclusively to him, and that was what she was: his.

“I cannot explain it with reason. It can be calculated by science, but I do not have the time now. Gabriel claims it will be referred to as the science of alchemy in the future. It is specific, but hidden. Secret. Some things remain unexplained and a mystery. For one reason or another, Dover is the center point of the alchemy of the stones. There are no limits of time travel where Dover is concerned, but there are limitations to travel elsewhere. You will learn these places and times, but for now, stay to the right. You cannot go wrong. There is a marked pathway between medieval Dover and your Louisiana.” He squeezed her closer. “I have to go, wife, or they will bust the door down. Remember, it is the widest path. It will be riddled with bright hues of amethyst. Like jewels. That is how you will identify your home.”

A loud thumping sounded at the door, followed by a string of harsh French. Elizabet stiffened and grabbed at Jareth with both hands.

“I’m scared,” she said.

“Hush,” Jareth said into her ear, then kissed her there. “Promise me that you will find Minh or Gabriel. They can be found easily enough. Whenever you reach the destination, find your home and they will come.”

“I promise,” she whispered. “But only because you’re asking me. I don’t want to.”

Jareth smiled into her flesh, and hoped she felt it sliding along her skin. “Speak as little as possible and only to those who know the language of your custom. Do nothing to draw attention until I return. Trust only Percival and Mrs. Wheatley.”

She nodded as the banging grew urgent and the words became insistent on the other side of the door. “I don’t want to let you go,” she said, but even as she spoke, her hands opened and she released him. She stepped back, as did he.

He leaned forward and kissed her sweetly, as if an army did not await beyond the door and on the castle lawn below. “One last thing,” he murmured. The door shook with the insistent pounding of his eager captors’ fists. “Take the sheets and burn them.”

Elizabet drew back. “Sheets?” Her eyes darted around the room and came to rest on the only possibility. “The bed sheets?”

“Yes,” Jareth answered. He stepped closer, his hands coming to her shoulders and let his eyes bore into hers. “If you do not, then the servants will string the sheets for public viewing. They are stained with your blood. It is a custom that the virginity of the bride be proved by the displaying of the marital sheets.”

She looked down between them to the tips of his boots.

“Things can be rather barbaric here at times.” He squeezed her shoulders. “We can forgo this custom. For all accounts, your blood is mine as well, but I had no blood to shed.” Elizabet gaped at him, and he grinned. “What part of my upbringing did you think allowed for the debauching of ladies?”

Elizabet flung herself at him, wrapped her arms around his neck, and seemed to forget her embarrassment. “Please, don’t die!”

The door splintered as a meaty fist, joined by a few additional pair, pounded on the door. Jareth glanced back at the door and shouted to them in French. Even so, she clung to him.

Jareth tipped her face upward. “I will not die. I promise.” His face was serious, as if he dared death to claim him.

“I won’t burn them,” she whispered fiercely as she gripped the folds of his shirt to bring him closer. “If I burn them, then they’ll have something else to hold against you, and I won’t be the reason you’re ridiculed in history. Let them all know that your bride was a virgin. If it’s your custom, then it’s mine now, too.”

Jareth’s eyes widened and his mouth opened slightly, but words escaped him. A stupefied half grin managed to make its way over his lips. His eyes passed over her messy hair and her face that was creased with sheet lines, as his hands covered hers. The intimacy of the moment was not lost on him. It caused his heart to kick into a gallop even though a mob waited on the other side of the door. “Then let them fly, my lioness. I must admit that Mrs. Wheatley will be relieved. I told her to give you time to dispose of them.”

“Are you relieved?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “Customs are not critical. But . . .” he touched the spot wherein her heart beat and then tangled their hands together. “ . . . To know that you would do this because of your concern for me makes me love you even more. I will guard your heart with my life, your grace. I belong to you as much as you belong to me.”

Elizabet’s face flushed at the mention of her new title. “You’re breaking my heart—not protecting it. Do I have to go all the way to the gates? I’m afraid I’ll cry like a fool.”

“If speaking the truth breaks your heart, how can I help that?” He kissed her forehead and stepped away. Their hands parted. The men on the other side of the door were loudly discussing taking down the barrier. “But I can give you this small favor: I will go alone.”

JARETH WENT AS
peacefully as they allowed. His exit was dignified, upon his own mount with a banner of purity taking flight as he passed the keep. He tried not to smile, but it was difficult to appear repentant and glum while his men cheered as the marital bed sheets took the place of his flag on the northern lists. It would not do to leave surrounded as if he were a taken prisoner with a silly grin on his face. A surge of pride filled him when he passed one of his knights who, on bowed knee, gazed up at him with loyal respect. Elizabet had given that to him—the respect of his men. She had tossed aside her own embarrassment to validate him. She was priceless.

It was ironic that the men who escorted him and were sworn to protect him until he reached his destiny despised him. They hated that he was a bastard, yet titled. It did not sit well with them that they were sworn to see him safely delivered to the archbishop by order of the prince. They were, no doubt, the prince’s best men, which meant they could best him if he were to rebel. He would not attempt escape. To escape meant they would send word back to Dover, where others waited. One word and they would kill Elizabet for any of his transgressions.

Jareth was in turmoil as he thought of the many possible horrors that could befall his young bride while he was incarcerated. He had taken Percival aside and instructed him to watch out for her, but the squire had two broken legs and was hobbling around on crutches. There was only so much a lame man could handle, but he was the most trusted of his men.