The Guardian (Chronicles of Dover's Amalgam Book 1) (22 page)

When Elizabet stepped to follow behind Jeremy, Jareth stayed her. “Let him go. He needs to refuel. You will see him once he has warmed.”

“But I just want to see . . . to ask him how,” she said. She watched the retreating form of Jeremy disappear into the forest as he followed Minh. She shook her head as if to clear her mind. “Recharge? How?” she sputtered as she turned to Jareth and pointed to where Jeremy had disappeared. “That’s Jeremy Cameron. He’s nine years old, Jareth. Nine. Years. Old.” She dropped her head into one hand and shook her head again. “I feel as though I can’t think straight. I sound like a babbling idiot.”

“When Jeremy dissipates, he loses heat, like any storm. Cold air weakens him.” Jareth moved his sword over his hip so it rested against his backside. His arms ached to hold her, but she was skittish. “It is a cool English night. I cannot imagine the pain he is in to stay coherent while he waits for his guardian.”

Elizabet brought her hand to her brow. “I’m having a nervous breakdown in medieval England.” She peeked up at him. “But I’m a glutton for punishment. Tell me more. Make me crazier. I love crazy, obviously.”

Jareth smiled and reached out for her. This time, she came willingly, folding herself close to him. He rested his chin atop her head; his arms enfolded her. “He is a category all on his own. He does not register on the Saffir-Simpson Wind Scale.”

Elizabet pulled away, her head tipped back to look up at him. “Does that mean he’s stronger than any other storm?”

“Yes.” He tightened his arms around her, and lifted her slightly off the ground. “What you just witnessed is a lethal weapon that must be protected. The Amalgam was created to protect host such as Jeremy. We must train them to live peacefully amid the world, but go undetected. If they fall into the wrong hands, the world we live in will cease to exist.”

“Wow.”

“Yes. Wow,” Jareth agreed. “Jeremy is physically much like a hurricane. He is stronger on his left side—including his heart chambers. He is impossibly fast and strong. When he dissipates, he literally becomes a storm that can retract and contract to whatever size he desires. He can flood a single city or destroy an entire nation.”

“Jareth,” Gabriel called. Jareth looked over Elizabet’s head. Gabriel motioned to the forest where a large flame flickered upward into the trees. It was winter and dry. No words were necessary.

Jareth thrust Elizabet away. “Wait next to my horse and stay close to Gabriel. I will not be long.”

She looked at the roaring fire that could be seen through the trees. “What’s happening?”

“It is reverse feeding,” he explained. “With young host, one never knows how they will feed under pressure. I assume this is one of his first runs. He is having trouble controlling his urge to consume fuel.”

“Won’t you be hurt?” Elizabet stepped toward him and put her hand on his arm. He halted. “Can he hurt you?”

Jareth gazed at her small hand resting on his arm and something warm went through his heart. He smiled down at her worried face. “Do not fear, love. You are married to the only person who knows how to kill a host.” Elizabet’s face fell and she squeezed his arm. Jareth laughed. “It will not come to that—I promise.”

Elizabet glanced back at the glowing fire. The voices of Minh and Jeremy could be heard now and it sounded as though they were arguing. The men in the cart were also interested. Their necks were craned as they watched and listened to the eerie display.

“You better come back alive,” she stated, head tilted back to peer up at him. She pushed his arm away. “Don’t you dare leave me in this place alone.”

“Never, duchess,” Jareth assured her, and offered his most charming smile. He bowed slightly before he pivoted on his heel and headed toward the forest’s edge. “You cannot get rid of me that easily.”

Chapter 12

ELIZABET WAS MARRIED
to Jareth by the light of dawn the next morning with no raised eyebrows. Jareth’s reputation preceded him, and his ties with John Wycliffe were an asset. The priest was a personal friend of the reformer and had insight into the situation that was arising. Although it was uncommon for his alliance with Wycliffe to be considered a positive trait, Father John Paul had obtained a copy of the scriptures Jareth had translated and developed an opinion of his own. He was currently being investigated by the Archbishop of Canterbury.

This made Elizabet curious, but after the ceremony was concluded, Jareth asked for the sanctuary to be cleared on his behalf. It all happened so quickly she did not have time to ask questions. In a way, she was grateful for a moment to catch her breath. Jareth had gazed at her as though he would devour her while he said his vows. It was unsettling and lovely at the same time.

Before the ceremony began, Jareth had taught her the lines she would be asked to recite in Latin. The meanings were beautiful, but she was forced to either get the unfamiliar words right or focus on the severity of her vows. Her mind only allowed her to get through it without sounding like a total idiot.

There had not been a prompting to ‘kiss the bride.’ It left her wondering if that tradition had not been made popular yet. Their hands were fastened together with a ribbon, which Jareth removed after saying he did not believe in superstitions. According to Gabriel, the ribbon was to stay tied until after the consummation. Elizabet would rather not think about that. It was not a subject they had discussed. And with everything else going on, she would prefer to enjoy sightseeing and taking in the century it seemed she’d be stuck in. It was comfortable to be a spectator and delusional as long as she stayed at a distance from the reality of her new life.

She sat in the last pew of the church; hands primly in her lap, as she watched Jareth lay prostrate on the wooden floor before the stone altar. Everyone had been removed from the building save for her. He had insisted she stay, but the why of that escaped her; what he was doing seemed too personal for another to witness. Tears clogged his voice, though if he was crying, she could not say. Mournful, woeful lamentations poured from his lips in the language he claimed was his natural one. Latin had a distinguished sound. It was something, she considered, King David might do.

She decided then and there that he was not religious, but something else entirely. Though what that entirety was, she had no clue. As she watched him struggle with a grimace to rise from his prayerful position on the floor, her heart contracted with a different kind of beat. It was the beat that let her know she was in trouble. Jareth Tremaine was an original, and because he was, he would expect all or nothing. If she gave him everything, he may reject her. There was still a great deal he did not know about her.

She got to her feet. “Do you need help?” Her voice echoed in the stillness of the church.

Jareth’s face blanched and he reached out to grab hold of the pulpit for support. His breathing was shallow and his face had an odd greenish tinge. He gestured to her. “Reach under my shirt. In my back pocket is a bottle of ibuprofen.”

“Isn’t that cheating?” she teased as she climbed the steep steps up to the altar. She kept her tone light and approached him as she would a wounded animal. “I wasn’t going to say anything, but these are jeans, aren’t they?” She tugged up his tunic and tried not to think about what she was doing.

Jareth gripped the wooden podium when he swayed slightly. “Yes,” he managed. He rested his head on the podium.

Elizabet dug out the bottle. “Nice rump.”

Jareth’s head popped up. “We are in church, Elizabet,” he said over his shoulder.

She jiggled the bottle. “You plan to swallow these things dry?”

He looked around and saw the baptismal. Standing straight with a grimace, he snatched the bottle from her hand.

“Hey,” she harrumphed.

“I should scold you for you making sport in the Lord’s house.”

She crossed her arms. “Fuss at me, then.” She shrugged with one shoulder. “I’m tired and grumpy. That’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it. I need a nap.”

“You need a spanking,” he said as he peered under the baptismal table. He reached for the water pitcher stored there. Elizabet gave her signature snort. Jareth raised a brow. “I see you disagree with me.”

“Said by the man who’s about to drink holy water,” she said. Jareth snapped the bottle open with one hand, then tipped his head back and shook four caplets into his mouth. He swigged directly from the pitcher. “I’d like to see you try to spank me,” she muttered under her breath as she glanced over her shoulder. Minh entered the church; the heavy doors creaked as they opened.

Jareth met her gaze over the pitcher, and drank until it was empty. He glanced at Minh and nodded before he turned his gaze back to her. “As much as I would love to accept your challenge, there is something I must do before traveling home, and I intend to do it regardless of whether my life is in danger. So, get
your
rump into gear before I decide to take you to task.”

“I’m sorry I fussed at you for drinking the holy water,” Elizabet said. She tucked her chin to her chest as the swaying of riding a horse lulled her senses. She had not lied when she said she was tired. Traveling by way of horseback was not something she was accustomed to. Her rump hurt—not that she would bring up rumps again.

“And I apologize, as well,” he said. His lips were near her temple and it was a pleasant sensation to feel them move against her as he spoke. It was new, an intimacy she had never experienced before. She felt him smile. “I would only spank you under dire circumstances.”

She laughed quietly so not to draw attention. Even though it was only Minh and Gabriel now, she did not want an audience. They were overly curious and it made her uncomfortable to be in the spotlight. “I hope that holy water singes your innards.”

“Bloodthirsty wench,” he whispered. His arm tightened around her as he pulled the reigns with the other to turn onto an adjacent dirt path. “Lucky for me, it does not work that way. Believing inanimate objects can be labeled holy is unacceptable to me. Incantations and mantras do not belong in the church.”

“Excuse me; you might be speaking English, but all I hear is stuff I don’t understand.”

“All right.” His hand traveled up her back and came to rest on the back of her neck. He squeezed slightly. “I do not believe that water was anything but water—so I was free to drink as much of it as I would like.”

“Rebel.”

“Ah, yes,” Jareth said with an exaggerated sigh. “That is what they say.” He squeezed her neck again. “But you do realize that it was not blessed water? I would have had to drink from the baptismal urn.”

“You’re safe from being incinerated from the inside out, then?”

“Perhaps,” Jareth allowed with a smile in his voice. “Although most religious fanatics of this day would say different.”

They stopped just outside of Portsmouth, at a building that stood alone except for a few rickety cottages. The structure was tall, two stories, and made of brick and dirt mortar. At once, Elizabet knew it was an orphanage. Her mother had a penchant for medieval life and she had never been more grateful. Having a parent obsessed with this time period was proving an advantage.

Elizabet followed behind Jareth, feeling like an obedient little puppy while he spoke with the abbess in sharp Norman French. He sounded angry, and the woman cowered as he stomped around the foyer and barked commands to the few nuns who were present. They all scattered, crossing themselves with their eyes lowered in a prayer pose as they hurried off.

The building seemed too old and damp to house children. The candles were half burned and lent a smell of rancid lard. There was another odor kindred to rotting meat that permeated every room, every corner. The abbess handed her a melting candle nub to light their way. Jareth, who appeared as if he were chewing nails to keep silent, led her up a narrow staircase to a large open landing that had only one door with a circular knob in the middle of it.

“Is this all right with you?” he asked cryptically.

She turned to face him. “You’re here for the children.” The candle lit his features and she saw again how upset he seemed.

They had traveled all day to get there, and his face was no longer fresh shaven. The weariness and stubble on his face aged him. He wore that look of being both man and boy at the same time and it was disarming, for he killed as easily as he healed.

He blew out a breath in a long exhale. “Do you want to go home? To Dover? We can turn around right now. We do not need to do this.”

“Why would you say that?”

Jareth rested his weight against the door. “Because I do not know what is on the other side. I smell death.”

Elizabet sucked in her breath. The flame flickered and dimmed before it became stable and bright again. Her eyes widened. “That’s the smell?”

He nodded. “It is my best guess. The abbess told me the children have been sick.” He lowered his gaze and fisted his hand. “There has been no food or water delivered for two days because they were scared they might become sick as well. But they will have food and care today. Now. Or I will see that they are cut off from any parish or church funding.”

She reached out and touched his arm that hung at his side. He lifted his face and she caught his gaze. “We should go in, then, and do what we can.”

Jareth reached up and dragged his thumb along the side of her face. Her mouth tipped up on one side as she covered his hand with hers. “You will need a mask.”

She nodded. He stared at her for another minute before folding down at her feet. Elizabet braced herself against the doorframe as he ripped the hem of her dress. Just on the other side of the door was something that would change her forever. Being Jareth’s duchess would be a menagerie of situations similar to this. This was merely a beginning. She was terrified and excited at once. In her innermost heart, she realized this was what she was created for. This was where she belonged—with him, doing great things that seemed insignificant but affected so many.

Jareth rose slowly, his face contorted. It was still difficult for him to move without accompanying discomfort. “Turn around,” he said as he twirled the fabric around his hand. Elizabet put her back to him, her hands flattened against the door. He tied the fabric over her mouth and nose.