The Guardian (Chronicles of Dover's Amalgam Book 1) (26 page)

“His grace will never believe that.” Mrs. Wheatley squeezed her shoulder. “He would not have married you if he thought you a coward.”

They spoke of nothing else as Elizabet was prepared for the next phase of medieval life. She took in the master room after Mrs. Wheatley left her. The chamber had changed little. It was still dark and manly, but now it also held a trunk of women’s clothes and the vanity where she was currently seated. It excited her beyond reason that he had thought to make her comfortable—that he had made provision. There were touches of feminine colors and pieces that had been added for her. It made her smile even though she was all alone and there was no one to witness her joy.

Could it be possible that Jareth was planning to do what he said he would? Would he demand a true marriage? Her lips trembled with the burden of maintaining a joyful appearance. Now that ravishment was nigh, all she wanted to do was wretch. She was the worst kind of deceiver and it was time to pay the piper. Jareth was about to discover what an oxymoron she was.

And when he knew the whole truth—would he still want her? All he did to make her feel welcome and comfortable, he may come to resent because of who she was. Or more to the point, what she was not.

Jareth stood outside the doors of his bedchamber long after Mrs. Wheatley left the room. He had given Elizabet time to settle in, but he felt bereft. He was unsure how to proceed, charting unknown waters. Lost, without a compass.

Using his thumbnail, he traced the wood grain of the door and rested his forehead against the polished surface. Faint sounds seeped through the heavy portal. The scrape of furniture moving and then light footsteps. The noises resembled activity from someone trying to distract their mind from troubling thoughts. Elizabet was worried about the upcoming night.

She should join the club. Jareth was a jumble of nerves when he considered what was required of
him
this night. He did not do relationships. He had subjects, tenants, host, and guardians he governed. Gabriel and Minh were friends, but they also were under his employ; it was different. Tonight, he had to cross over into an intimacy he never expected to tread. It was something he could not compromise, and he hoped his bride understood the necessity of having a marriage in truth. He needed everything about their union to be legitimate. Legitimacy was the right of his offspring and he would not leave it to the whim of anyone.

Briskly, with great surety, he knocked and opened the door before he lost his nerve. His eyes scanned the room, searching for her. A moment of panic went through him when she was nowhere to be seen. Not at the dressing table he had Minh find for her, not in bed, nor pacing the floor as he expected to find her.

“I’m here,” she said. She motioned to the window she had vacated. He was grateful that she did not witness the way he startled at her voice as she stepped from the shadows. “I thought I’d be able to see the cliffs from here, but I was wrong. It’s still beautiful, though.”

Jareth’s favorite type of night, but he did not say so—he was too relieved that she had not fled or jumped from the castle. He had read of females being self-harming when they were frightened. It was a bonus that she was not given to vapors. At this point, he was not sure he would not expire from some kind of anomaly—possibly due to his rapid heart rate.

He could tell by her tone that she liked his home and the thought warmed him. He could not imagine uniting with someone contrary. It would be inexcusable. Dover was his home, and his duchess needed to form a love for it if they were to get on.

“I like your people,” she said. She hugged her arms around herself; the movement made him notice that she was dressed in the white gown Gabriel brought. It was from Paris and he had claimed Elizabet would love it. Jareth did not like to think why Gabriel would know such things. He frowned and looked away. He did not know or understand how, but he did see that the garment morphed her into the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. It grated on him that Gabriel was aware of this, when it was he who needed some inkling into a female’s mind—preferably now. Divine inspiration would do.

“But I will have to study French.” She shrugged. “I know a bit of the language spoken by my mother’s family, but it is different.” Her lips twisted. “Very different.”

Jareth nodded, feeling awkward. He stared at her lips and looked away, a scowl forming on his face again. Although he had nothing to add, just standing there like a dummy was revolting.

He felt her gaze on his profile. His jaw worked and tensed as his eyes jumped from the bed to the vanity. “Will you teach me?”

“What?” He turned to look back at her.

“Norman French . . . I need to learn.”

“Rightly so,” he bit out, and followed it with a brisk nod. The words from his mouth seemed to jar him back to reality, gave him gravity where before, he had none. He walked to the vanity table and began removing his weapons because he did not know what else to do. Usually he dispensed of them in the outer sanctuary of his room, but tonight he wanted them close. They were still unsure where the enemy lurked. “I will see that Percival begins in the morning. He is very good at modern English and French.”

“I don’t want him to teach me,” she said. Jareth’s fingers paused in untying his gambeson. “I want it to be you.”

“Why?” He slowly resumed unknotting the tie.

“I think it will give us more time to adjust to each other,” she said. “And to talk. Get to know each other.”

“There will be plenty of opportunities to be together,” he responded. The tie came apart. He tugged the tunic hem and with one fluid motion, removed it over his head. “I keep a busy schedule.” He frowned when he realized she had looked away; he had forgotten the scars she knew intimately and would remember. He passed his hand over the healed incision, He did not feel the touch because of layers of scar tissue. It was a gesture that may be perceived as an attempt to hide them from view, and perhaps he was. “Percival is most apt—”

“I need to tell you something,” Elizabet cut in.

Their words overlapped and Jareth put his hands on his hips. His left eyebrow arched against his will, prompted by impatience. He had things to say and she was interrupting. She should not stop him when he was willing to speak. His new bride had no idea the struggle he was having.

Elizabet glowered and folded her arms before her to squeeze her torso. “Do you have to look at me like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you want to kill me or something. I have something I need to tell you, before we . . .” She rotated her hand in the air, and cleared her throat when his eyebrows shot up. “It’s important to me. I want to be honest. I don’t want to learn French from Percival.”

“Kill you? No, but perhaps that spanking may be appropriate,” Jareth teased. He shrugged. “You keep acting as though you want it. I just might have to give it to you.”

An enigmatic smile touched her lips.

Jareth opened his mouth, but thought better and merely growled. “You are beguiling; I will give you that.” He passed his fingers through his hair and turned to the vanity where there was a bowl of water for his night ablutions. He plunged his hands into the cold water and searched for the cloth at the bottom of the bowl. “I had a plan—a thought to come to you and reason with you. Tell you that you need not worry of being mistreated. I planned to tell you—”

“I can’t read,” Elizabet blurted.

Jareth’s hands continued to wring the cloth between his hands, even as he watched her in the mirror over the vanity. It was a modern piece—from the regency era that Minh had smuggled in, and the resolution was good. Her throat worked as she nervously swallowed. Her arms uncrossed and fluttered to her mid-section, her fingers playing with the pink ribbon at her waist.

“I have a slew of learning deficits. I didn’t even finish high school. It was too embarrassing to have everything read to me.” She glanced up and he met her reflected gaze.

He stared at her while his hands mistreated the cloth, practically strangling it and then discarding it on the vanity without using it. Still, he remained silent and schooled his expression to give nothing away.

“My mom read to me,” she soldiered on. “I retain what I hear as long as I understand it.” She yanked on the already secure ribbon as if she could tie it tighter.

Jareth braced his hands on the vanity and leaned forward. Suddenly the room was swaying and he needed solid ground. His ears must not be working, because he thought he just heard that his duchess was illiterate.

“When she died, I sort of gave up. I didn’t like how the teachers treated me—like I was stupid. I could tell they didn’t want to read
everything
to me. I put them out. So you see—Percival can’t teach me. It would be too embarrassing, and then everyone would know you married a dummy.” Her arms flew open, her face wild with emotion as words continued to fail him. “Would you say something? Anything! Tell me to leave, or call me stupid—whatever! But please say
something
.”

Jareth tore his eyes from her reflection and lowered his gaze to where his hands gripped the wooden vanity edge. “I think I need to sit down,” he said to his hands. He heard Elizabet behind him, scraping a chair toward him. This was the best joke of his life. Thoughts tumbled through his mind. He recalled the times she had avoided reading, times such as when he was wounded and he asked her to read a section of a textbook aloud. She made an excuse every single time—and no wonder.

Fate had him married to a girl who could not read, and who lacked even the basics of an education—even by modern standards, which was minimal. Of all the people in the world, this girl was chosen by time and chance to be his bride? She could not seat a horse while her people bred steeds, and she could not read although her mother had been a teacher. He suddenly had a headache. A massive one.

“Here,” Elizabet said. The seat of a chair hit his calves and had no choice but to sit. He folded his body onto the dainty chair. For a moment, he felt he may sway from the narrow seat, but then corrected.

Elizabet stood back, her arms crossed over her chest. A hand fluttered to her mouth where she nibbled at her cuticle, but then stopped and went back to viciously hugging herself.

“You knew things, found information about me.” He touched his fingertips to his chest. “And when I was wounded—you knew certain things that I had no hand in teaching.”

“YouTube,” she interrupted with a shrug. A blush crept up from her throat to her cheeks, but she maintained eye contact. He had to give her that—she was being brave. “It’s a website that has videos. No reading required. I used the voice activated app on my phone.”

“Resourceful.”

“What I couldn’t watch, I had Beau read to me.”

A rise of jealousy sparked. “Beau?”

“My cousin,” Elizabet said. She gestured with her hands to nothing in particular. “She’s Jeremy’s friend. Best friend—I think. They’re inseparable.”

Jareth nodded as if he understood, but he did not. He was trying to grasp that she was able to make a life without having the skills of the most basic function. However, he was happy that Beau was a girl. Ladies wore pants in the future and had masculine names. Something he must remember.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice small. “But I wanted to be honest. I thought you should know before it’s too late.” Her expression turned petulant. “It’s your fault, you know? You didn’t let me finish that night you told me I’d be your duchess. I tried to tell you there were things about me you didn’t know. Things you’d probably not like. I tried to tell you that I wasn’t duchess material, but you shooed me off.”

“I remember,” he said. He pressed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger.

“It was wrong. I’m sorry. But . . .” She paused and chewed the inside of her cheek, and looked away when he met her gaze.

“But,” he prompted. His hand went to his lap where the other waited. He threaded his fingers together and waited.

Elizabet glanced at him. “Well, we’re sort of stuck together now. You know—till death do we part.” Her voice lowered. “You have annulments if you can’t get past this. I’d understand. It was wrong not to tell you until now.”

Jareth slid his arms down his thighs, his fingers threaded until his elbows rested on his knees. He bowed his head as he released a slow, steady whistle. After several thought-filled moments, he looked up and captured her gaze. “No.”

Elizabet nodded, a barely detectable movement. She looked away, but not before he witnessed tears in her eyes. He watched the first tears she could not stop from falling and saw her disgust as she swiped at her cheeks before her face became a mask of indifference. Without a second thought, he reached out and grabbed her hand. She stood close to him, since she had thought to bring him a chair when he nearly swooned like a vapid youth.

She had learning disabilities. He was a progeny with a mind of the highest level of scholars. All of his life he had been pushed aside because people were fearful of his knowledge, of his passion and devotion to translating. How was he different? They were the same in their differences. A match. It would have been better if she was upfront weeks earlier, but there it was, and there was nothing he could do about it. He would accept it as a challenge and overcome it for her. Once his mind processed the information, he saw the possibilities—the exact nature of who she was and how this was to be.

Elizabet gazed through blurry eyes to where his hand curled around hers. Slowly, she tipped her chin up until her eyes met his. She sniffed and he eyed her with a lifted forehead. He tilted his head a fraction.

“You do know that over ninety percent of the population here cannot read?”

Elizabet’s eyes blinked rapidly. “You do understand that in my time, not knowing how to read just doesn’t happen,” she ground out. Her teeth were clenched as though she fought for control over the tone she used. “Don’t act like this isn’t a big deal.
Everyone reads.
”

“Except you. You cannot read.”

Elizabet’s head jerked back and an awkward grunt tore from her throat, more animalistic than human. He watched her struggle for words, patience, dignity, or a mixture of all three and his heart contracted with pain.