Page 33 of Under Arthur’s Protection

“Just saying.” He left, and I let out a sigh.

I turned back to the sink and ran more hot water into the saucepan. Watched the last of Hettie’s puttanesca swirl down the drain.

Emotional connections are dangerous, Arthur. Remember that.

Chapter 11

Gwen

“I’ve been studying photographs of this place since yesterday morning.” I stood just inside the wrought-iron fence, at the top of the path to the church. “I can’t believe I’m already here.”

Lance stood beside me, hands in his pockets. “Thank the man with the jet.”

The man with the jet was inside, checking the building.

He’d made waffles before we left, drenched in maple syrup, which he’d heated in a saucepan. The scent had lingered all morning, up until when we’d walked out to the car. But somewhere between the cottage and the Land Rover, he’d started talking rotation schedules, and the man who’d stood at the stove last night, tasting bread with his eyes closed, might as well have stayed in Michigan.

Arthur appeared from the side of the building where the main door was. As he climbed the narrow path alongside the graveyard, he said, “All clear. There’s four people inside.”

“Exits?” asked Lance.

“Just the one door.”

Lance nodded and handed him the sword case. He glanced at the couple chatting by an ancient Celtic cross nearby. “I’ll maintain the perimeter, but I doubt it’ll be active out here.”

I adjusted the messenger bag on my shoulder as Arthur and I started down together. “I know it’s a cliché, but I thought the church would be bigger.”

Up close, it was barely the size of my apartment. It was little more than stone walls, a slate roof, and a squat crenelated tower. The small graveyard sat on a hill by the road, full of stone crosses standing in grass that had gone to seed. The bushes lining the far side of the property were a mix of greens and oranges, several of them having dropped their leaves in the crisp autumn air.

“It’s even smaller inside.” Arthur pushed the wooden door open for me. “I emailed my neighbor—the one who opened the cottage for us—with some questions about the place. He said the tower section is the best-preserved, and the font might be the oldest thing in the building. Everything else was rebuilt in the 1880s.”

I stepped through the doorway and stopped.

The nave was tiny, crowded with wooden chairs instead of pews, arranged in loose rows. It had whitewashed walls, exposed timbers overhead, and to our left, the tower arch, which was made of the original stone. Dark and rough, nothing like the smooth plaster of the nave. A small stained glass window glowed through the archway.

An older couple studied the window over the altar, a young woman sat in one of the chairs sketching, and a middle-aged man in a light jacket flipped through a book in the side chapel.

“Where do you want the sword?” asked Arthur.

“I’ll be starting with the tower, so I’ll set up at the back.” I sat on a chair in the last row and unpacked the laptop Sam had loaned me, while Arthur turned another chair around to face me and placed the sword case on it. “Thanks.”

He positioned himself near the entrance. The church was small enough that he could see me, the door, and everyone inside.

Which meant I could also see him, no matter where I went. How did famous people handle having a bodyguard standing by, watching them all the time? Let alone a sexy, rich chef bodyguard?

Go and examine the tower, Gwen. That’s why you’re here.

I stood, intentionally not looking at Arthur, who was most definitely tracking every move I made.

The carvings I’d identified in the photographs were higher than I’d judged from the images—around nine feet up. The circle with the cross inside sat to the left of the letter forms. The markings were faint, so I turned on my phone’s flashlight. They were visible, but out of reach.

The chair I’d sat on was sturdy. I could stand on it. None of the people inside the small church appeared to be staff who’d chase me off. So I carried one of the wooden chairs from my workspace into the tower area.

The woman who was sketching turned around to look at me.

“I want a better view of the stained glass.” I pointed toward the small window in the arch. “Trying to find the right angle.”

She smiled and went back to her sketchbook.