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

travels increase.” His hand dropped away. “Which makes perfect sense. I am British by birth, so do not become too accustomed to my speech today as it will evolve.” Elizabet opened her mouth, but Jareth cut the air with a chop of his hand. “I am not done yet. You have been given an adequate chance to have the floor, but it is my turn now.”
    “Slang,” Elizabet cut in, as if she could not help herself. She wagged her finger. “You’re using slang. ‘Having the floor’ is slang for—”
    “I know what it is slang for—I was the one who used it. You say this as if you are surprised,” Jareth said with a touch of irritation in his voice. He did not like the turn in the conversation or how she was picking at him. They had serious business to discuss and he was reduced to bickering about slang. “I am a time leaping progeny. Of course my language is strange. I no longer have a time that I call my own.”
    “I’m sorry,” she said. She looked away, and appeared embarrassed that she could not keep her mouth shut. Her finger seized its accusatory wag and she dropped her hand to her side.
    “I should not have to explain these things to you. Do you not remember the castle? The days and nights you spent giving me care? We had a clock, we spoke in your English, and wormholes abounded, for goodness sake. How can you question the way I speak—or live, for that matter?”
    Elizabet shrugged but he barely left her sufficient time to come up with a smart quip. “It’s a blur. I hardly remember it at all.” She flapped her hands in the air as if waving her hazy memory away.
    Jareth recalled her weak stomach for nursing a near fatal wound. Where she claimed to not have recollection of what happened between them, he wanted to collect each detail and study it. He wanted to dissect every word and each moment until he knew for sure what was between them, and at once, he knew she fibbed.
    She wanted to know what was between them as badly as he. Something on her face told him he had figured her out. He was disappointed that she had dissembled, but he also realized she was nervous. There must be an allowance for feminine nerves. And they were almost fighting again, as if they could not help it. He did not understand how this happened.
    Elizabet sighed, sort of snorted, and crossed her arms. She must realize she was caught. He did not need to utter the words that he was wise to her false claim.
    “Why don’t you just tell me why you are here?” She lifted her shoulders. “Obviously, I’ll never keep my mouth shut long enough for you to get a word in elsewise,” she murmured.
    Personal conversation was difficult for Jareth as well, and he felt a twinge of remorse for becoming cross. He tilted his head and studied the way she flushed when she was nervous. She was having a difficult time meeting his gaze. He felt for her—something; probably mercy. “We are both inept at being civil,” he murmured.
    “You think?” she asked with a sarcastic bend to her lips.
    “Yes,” he said. “But I also believe we are getting better.” His mouth curved upwards on one side. “You have not thrown anything at me, nor have you run screaming. You have not vomited once in my presence today. I think we are making progress.”
    “Maybe,” she said, and her mouth also tipped into some semblance of good humor. She appraised him, up and down. “But I wouldn’t say you’re safe with the vomiting part yet. You could always flash your scar and I’d probably chuck all over your cute black boots.”
    Jareth smiled and shook his head. “I like these boots. Hoby.” He tapped the heel of his left foot to his right toe. “They were a gift for my birthday from Minh. Please, do not . . .” His grin widened. “Chuck on my cute boots. It would break my heart.” His hands folded over his chest, where his heart lay beating under his fingertips.
    Elizabet laughed and lifted her hands. “Okay. I won’t. Just keep all things gross to yourself