Page 58 of Under Arthur’s Protection

I went back to the sitting area, planning to tell her I was heading to bed. But she was asleep. Right there on the couch, with her legs curled up, her head on the armrest, and her laptop balanced precariously next to her. Her hair had fallen across her cheek.

“Gwen?” I whispered.

She didn’t move.

“Gwen?” I leaned down to shake her shoulder and froze. My hand hung in the air, an inch away from her.

Last night, her voice had cracked three times while she’d recounted her story. I’d lain on the bunk, gripping the edge of the mattress to hold myself in place. I’d wanted nothing more than to stand up, pull her into my arms, and let her cry it out.

I hadn’t done it. I hadn’t moved.

Just like I hadn’t gone to Sam and Antonio’s building the night she stayed with them, but Lance had.

Now she was asleep on a couch in front of me, and I still couldn’t touch her.

Would Lance?

Did it even fucking matter? Really?

I pulled my hand back and let her sleep. I moved her laptop to the table so it wouldn’t fall and draped the hand-knit throw over her.

And I stood there.

The pinch between her brows was gone, as was the tension in her shoulders. She looked younger. She looked peaceful.

How could a man hold her trust and her career in his hands, and take it all from her? Fucking Lionel Davenport had sat across from her while she’d presented her research, told her she was brilliant, and then he’d put his name on her work. And to top it all off, the asshole had twisted her feelings and turned their relationship against her. He’d started gossip, and it followed her across three fucking years to Glastonbury.

How? How could someone claim to love this beautiful, amazing woman, and choose to destroy her?

I flexed my fingers.

Bridget McConnell was why this job mattered. Because I was going to get Gwen a win so big no one would ever question her again. No one would ever talk about her neckline or her smile as though she’d deployed them as weapons.

She moved in her sleep, rolling to her side and pulling the blanket up to her chin. A tiny sigh escaped her, and her mouth curved.

My chest seized. I turned around and marched back to my room.

Because her smile might not have been a weapon, but I was still losing the battle to it.

Chapter 19

Gwen

“Your appointment is confirmed, Dr. Lyons and Mr. Penn,” the woman said in French. “Reading room two, down the hall to your left. You’ll need to wash your hands in the restroom, and I’ll contact the archivist who’ll bring your boxes out.”

“Thank you.” I signed the register and clipped the visitor badge to my jacket, as did Arthur.

The archive building gave no outward hint it held seven centuries of regional history. It was modern, all white concrete and glass, set back from a quiet residential street. But the foyer told the real story. I slowed as we passed a series of display cases lining the wall by the entrance: sealed parchment with ink still dark after five hundred years, a land deed with a signature I couldn’t read, and a letter with a Champagne coat of arms pressed into red wax that had cracked but not crumbled.

“Reading room’s that way,” Arthur said, nodding toward the hall.

“I know.”

“You’re here to work.”

“And you’re always so serious.” I gave the cases one last longing glance and headed for the restroom.

With gold or other metals, fingerprints could leave permanent marks, which was why I wore nitrile every time I handled the sword. With paper, clean and bare hands were best—you could feel a tear forming before you saw it, feel the fibers starting to separate under your fingertips. With gloves, you might destroy a priceless sheet before you even knew what you were doing.