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

duchess, for goodness sake, but for now he reminded himself that she was just a girl. A peasant girl, if he assessed correctly.
    He had come with the sole purpose of planting seeds about his future host, Jeremy Cameron. Someone needed to watch over Jeremy as the time of his turning approached. Jareth trusted Elizabet. It was getting her to trust him in return and being civil that seemed a good place to start in this journey. It had been a while since they were acquainted. Talking soothed Elizabet, which meant she was open the longer he kept her going. It was evident how she threw her soul into her words.
    It was an easy task to lure her into conversation. They had been in the hot, enclosed stable for an hour and he had a complete history of her losing her mother to leukemia and how she was now resigned to a life of farm, field hand, and property mortgage. Jareth understood better than anyone the importance of land holding and maintenance, but he had not come to give a lecture on proper stewardship.
    The more she talked, the more she relaxed in his presence. However, she still spoke with animation, volume, and the type of voice that boomed and sounded angry. He was forced to match her facial expressions to her tone to be certain she was not picking an argument instead of merely conversing. Even as he watched her, his mind wandered to thoughts other than the purpose of his visit. He wondered how this petite girl had his emotions in knots. In the past, whenever he considered marriage he imagined the girl in question would be ugly. His prospective wife would be someone he could confide in and beget heirs, but never more. For all of his goals, though, he would never marry, but rather dedicate his life to Church and country. As a duchess, Elizabet would never do. She was loud, bossy, and sassy. And she was pretty. That was unacceptable. The alliance could make him weak.
    “Aren’t you going to say anything?” Elizabet asked. She leaned forward over the bale of hay she was seated on. She grabbed a handful of rice hulls to toss to the chickens that scurried about.
    Jareth leaned against a wooden beam, half of his weight supported. He forced the scattered thoughts from his mind. “I am under the impression you require words to put you at ease with my presence. I am merely allowing your leisure.”
    “Well, I’m under the impression that you aren’t leaving until I answer the question you came for, but you let me talk my head off about all things me. Why?”
    Clever girl . Jareth’s mouth curved into a lopsided grin. “You speak in broken English. There are times I find it impossible to follow you. I say nothing because I am still deciphering your language.”
    “Liar. You didn’t have that trouble before,” she said. “You said you were a translator and I could point out that you spoke in cultured English, but definitely not Middle English the way you should be. Or is it French?” Elizabet smirked. “Which is it? And remember, I know these things because my mom was a history teacher. Don’t change the subject.”
    “Right.”
    “You see . . .” she lifted the fistful of hulls and caused them to sprinkle around her as she spoke. “You say, ‘right.’ That is just wrong for you.” Her lips flattened as he covered his face in exasperation. “You should be using thy and thou.” She narrowed her eyes. “Or is it Norman French?”
    “You are exhausting,” Jareth muttered under his breath from behind the veil of fingers. He caught her irritated expression from between his fingers and smiled sheepishly. It was not the time to be on her bad side when he needed her help. “But actually—you are right. I hail from the twelfth century, so French is the prominent language for nobility. I speak four tongues fluently. Translation comes naturally to me.” She nodded to encourage him to keep going. “But the language I speak is my own. It is a mixture of English. I am told by Gabriel that I will grow more British as my