Free The Guardian (Chronicles of Dover's Amalgam Book 1) by Elizabetta Holcomb

your choice. You surprise me, Jareth.” She uttered Jareth as if the word shared space with a clove of garlic in her mouth, and yet inwardly she rejoiced that his name was not Ralph or Victor.
    She could not decide if she wanted to kiss him or slap him. It had been so easy to get him to tell her who he was that she was eager to ask more questions. He appeared to be oddly sociable even though he was being a jerk. While his words were appropriate, it was the way he held himself, the way his words sounded bored. He seemed to barely tolerate her.
    They had reverted back to the bantering that accompanied their previous conversations. She felt most comfortable when she hid behind sarcasm and veiled complaining, while Jareth shot straight to the heart of things with seemingly little thought of feelings. He was practically a sledge hammer to her ego.
    “Well.” His thick eyebrows creased together as he reached up to touch a scar under his eye. His mouth curved into a grin that was bashful. “There is that.”
    “I was kidding,” she said as her eyes widened. He was embarrassed because he had royal blood? Her lips turned downward as the magnitude of that fact sank in. “But, figures. That’s just my luck. I guess you needed someone simple and from the working class.” And was it not just perfect that he was a royal? It matched his demeanor with a whole new meaning of snobbery. She rolled her shoulders. “Can’t imagine just anybody climbing into a wormhole with an old lady. Call me crazy.” She would blacken his royal eye if he did.
    One of Jareth’s black brows arched. “I was given a title after squiring for the Prince of England, Edward. I am a duke. The Duke of Dover to be precise, but I believe history refers to me as the Bastard Duke, so do not get any romantic ideas.”
    “That is very hateful to be referred to as something you have no control over.” She scowled at his overture of thinking romantic thoughts where he was concerned. “Even for you,” she added. The word bastard was unexpected. It took her by surprise and made her soft to his pompous attitude. Her anger was gone just like that. No one deserved to be judged by the mishap of a parent. She had firsthand experience.
    “Cruel, but precise. The cruelty of my birth has lost its sting long ago. The specifics of my birth remain a mystery even to me, and quite frankly, I do not have a care one way or another. My title was given to me because of my abilities. I can learn to speak another language overnight. It is a gift.” He lifted one shoulder. “I am a translator by trade, a knight and duke by title given to me by the king.”
    “That’s big of you, but I think you’re lying. Words like bastard stir up bad feelings, no matter what century. Which century did you say you were from?”
    “I did not say.”
    “Well, feel free.” Elizabet propped her hand on her hip. “Spill it or get out.” She wagged the other hand. The shell of uncertainty cracked away as their accustomed banter returned. She momentarily forgot that he was the best looking thing on two legs. Her self-confidence had a surge. “Leave. I don’t care if you’re the King of England. I do remember the two clues you left me with: England and medieval. But, I’m no longer willing to put up or shut up.”
    “But you do it so well,” Jareth leaned forward mockingly. His eyes met hers even as he made the cynical gesture. She was forced to look away. The intensity and challenge she saw there were nerving.
    “I see you brought the ugliness back,” she said, and allowed her lips to twist. He had the nerve to be beautiful even with a condescending smirk firmly in place. “How I missed it. I wondered how long it would take you to revert back to being a jerk.”
    He turned his attention to the house, then to the barn, and finally back to her. His face clouded as if with confusion; his lips twisted as well.
    “I digress. Is there a place acceptable for us to converse? A place where we