Page 44 of Under Arthur’s Protection

“Arthur,” Gwen said slowly. “You’re investing a lot of resources for a story that may turn out to be pub folklore.”

I turned in my seat to face her. “Caine-Ferraro’s hired you to authenticate the sword, and you have three credible academic leads. Our contract with them is to protect the sword. That means we go where you need to go to follow your leads.”

She met my gaze for a breath before I had to turn around. When she continued, her voice was even quieter. “You don’t have to do all of this.”

Yes, I do. “You’re the job.”

The job? Really?

“Oh,” Gwen said. “Right. Of course.”

My chest tightened at the doubt in her tone.

Lance’s eyes cut sideways at me without his head turning. I recognized that look. It was his way of informing me I was being a prick.

I woke my phone screen, finding no notifications. I’d spent ten minutes reorganizing the operation around her investigation. Rerouted a jet. Split my team. Committed days of my time and thousands of dollars of company money because a retired metalwork specialist in Bodmin had made her doubt herself.

I was not being a prick.

“What he means,” drawled Lance, as though I had no idea how to talk to a woman, “is we need to see it through to the end. We’re also both signed on for your protection while you authenticate the sword, so until you’re done, we’ll keep going.”

“Thanks, Lance,” she said.

Lance. Not Arthur. Lance.

Because there was planning to do. Because safety and security came first, and comfort came second.

So I moved on to the logistics. “When we get to the cottage, everyone pack up. We’ll all leave together and drop Lance off at the airfield. I’ll update the team while you⁠—”

“It’s oh-dark-thirty at home,” said Lance. “I’ll brief them from the jet while I’ve got dead time.”

That also made operational sense.

“And I’ll call Morganna while I’m at it, in case she’s made any progress on the journalist.”

“That works.” I nodded and checked my phone again. For what? I wasn’t sure. “We’ll drive straight to Glastonbury from the airfield.”

Lance raised an eyebrow, which was obviously aimed at me. “Are you booking a hotel?”

“It depends.” That was something I could do with my phone. I unlocked it and began looking for somewhere to stay in the Glastonbury area. “If we need more meetings than we can fit in today, then yes. If we find everything we need, we can head back to the cottage. Otherwise, we can catch a ferry.”

The hedgerows thinned as we came down the hill toward the turn for the cottage lane, and the sunshine broke through the clouds long enough to reflect off the wet road.

Behind me, Gwen unzipped her laptop bag. The sound was loud in the quiet car. “Dr. Hopkins sent me the contact information for Glastonbury, and the number of someone from the Troyes archive.”

“Forward that to me?”

“Sure.”

I should have spoken up earlier. When Dr. Hopkins had started explaining away the inscription as little more than gossip, I should have said what I had last night in the library doorway—that she should trust her gut.

But it wasn’t my field, and it certainly wasn’t my place. Standing silently by the door was my job. What would my father have said? Probably something like, ‘There’s no ROI in sentiment.’

Except I didn’t care about the return on investment. I cared about doing work that made me proud to say it was mine. Most of the men under my command had taken pride in Task Force Legacy. That was why I’d selected them—plus our two CIA contacts—to join me when I founded my company. Because I planned on building a company I would be proud of, not just a company to make money.

Protecting an academic while she authenticated a potentially significant artifact was exactly the kind of work I wanted to be known for. Protecting the homes of people like Oscar Buchanan had an excellent ROI, but it didn’t nourish my soul.

And his home definitely didn’t have a pair of hazel eyes that I needed to see light up again.