Page 2 of Under Arthur’s Protection

“It’s real,” I breathed. Don’t get ahead of yourself. “That’s preliminary, of course. I’ll need days with it.”

“But it’s the same thing my gut said.”

“Neither of our guts are peer-reviewed.”

She laughed. “Your gut was right about that Roman helmet when three other appraisers said it was genuine.”

I set the sword back into its padded home. There were tests to run. I needed a lab. Needed time. Needed to calm the hell down. This was a tremendous find, and I couldn’t afford a mistake. Perfect. You have to be perfect.

“The photo room next door has scientific imaging,” Sam said, pulling out her phone to glance at it. “UV photography, X-ray fluorescence, Raman spectrometer. It’s yours as long as you need it.”

That wasn’t the sort of setup I’d expected in a small town like Brenton, Michigan, but it would make my job a lot easier. “That’ll help. Thank you.”

“If you’ll excuse me, the security consultants are here.” She slid her phone back into her pocket. “I’ll be right back.”

As she disappeared, I turned back to the sword. So much to examine. Where to start? Photographs and measurements first. Then leave the sword, dig through the databases, and start calling people.

Call whoever will talk to you, right?

I circled the sword, taking in the visible surface from all angles. I placed my bag on a nearby table and pulled out my small digital camera to take a few preliminary shots. Sam’s photo lab would be a huge help, but that would have to wait until I got my bearings.

Sam’s voice carried into the storage room, alongside a deep, steady male voice. They came through the door together, and I froze for the second time this morning.

The man was tall. Tall and broad-shouldered, with dark blond hair, brown eyes, and a strong jaw hidden by a short beard. He wore a charcoal jacket over a white shirt with no tie. His gaze swept the room like he’d been trained to evaluate everything and everyone. But when his eyes met mine, they held.

“Gwen, this is Arthur Penn,” Sam said. “He’s with Round Table Security. Arthur, this is Dr. Gwen Lyons, our arms and armor specialist.”

I put my camera down on the table next to the case, removed one glove, and shook his offered hand. His palm swallowed mine. The grip was firm, and the contact sent a wave of heat through me, as though he were melting me from the inside out. Then his cologne hit me. Citrus and sandalwood, only enough to catch when someone was this close.

Too close.

I let go.

“Dr. Lyons.” His words were crisp and unhurried. “What are we protecting today?”

He didn’t ask what it was or what it was worth. No, he asked about protecting it.

I liked his question more than was reasonable. “Sixth or seventh century, from my initial impression. Anglo-Saxon or Frankish. But I still need to confirm its authenticity.”

He nodded once and turned his head toward Sam. The movement was slow, his eyes lingering on me for a beat—or had I imagined it? “Walk me through access to this room?”

Sam and Mr. Sexy As Hell Security Consultant began discussing everything from the biometric locks to the cameras and doors. Somewhere around the third question about locks, Sam suggested she show him the rest of the studio.

They moved out into the main space, their voices fading as Sam walked him through the building.

The air finally returned to the room.

Focus, Gwen. You’re here for work.

I turned back to the sword, trying to be grateful for the quiet, and pulled my glove back on. My brain needed to sort itself out, because it was split between the most exciting item I’d had in front of me in a decade and a man who was…

Was “wow” descriptive enough? Probably not.

I rummaged through my bag for my notebook and tape measure. With each photo, I jotted down ideas and tasks to complete. This sword would take time. It wasn’t a project I could rush or risk getting wrong. I used the case to flip it over, and reopened it to look at the underside. Just as beautiful. Just as perfectly ancient. It had the same red enamel in the gold, but there was a different texture on this side. Something… I snapped a photo and zoomed in, trying to make it out.

An inscription? Was that what it was? It was so faded, buffed almost smooth, but it was definitely letters. I muttered as I enlarged the image further, “C-L-A-V-I-S⁠—”

“Sorry I’m late,” came a male voice from the doorway, and I startled.