Swordsman's Legacy. Alex Archer

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СКАЧАТЬ Annja then drew in a deep breath. The river, about a hundred yards off, sweetened the air with a marshy tang. She strode across the street, heading for her rental car to wait for Ascher.

      Since inheriting Joan of Arc’s sword, Annja’s life had been completely turned on its head. It wasn’t a bad thing, but neither always good. Her job description had become more than a simple archaeologist turning up finds at a dig. She was so much more than a field reporter on a cable television program.

      Around every corner she turned, it seemed she encountered danger. She had escaped from bullet fire, swum away from harpoons, battled demons and had come close to death too many times since she’d discovered Joan’s sword—her sword.

      Almost daily, the world proved to Annja it was far more wicked than she could have ever fathomed. When Joan’s sword came to her from the otherwhere and fitted itself ready in her hand, it was because it was needed to stop evil or counter adversity.

      And of late, Annja had been wielding it a lot.

      Today felt like a vacation. An escape from the day job. For once the world did not sit heavily upon her shoulders. This trip to Chalon was a free moment away from Annja Creed, sword-wielding defender of innocence. It was a chance to breathe and to indulge herself.

      “I need this,” she said aloud.

      Leaning inside her car, she deposited her backpack on the front passenger’s seat, then closed the door and went around to sit on the hood. From here she could see the two steeples of Saint-Pierre, the city’s largest cathedral. She loved touring European cathedrals. And there were so many of them to see, she felt sure to never run out in her lifetime.

      The parking lot bordered the shore of the river Saône. The scent of fresh water and grass overwhelmed even the leaky-oil smell coming from the rental car. Blond brickwork danced along the verdant shore, and the paved walkway was shaded by huge chestnut trees.

      A white swan called out as Annja scanned the pedestrians, mostly tourists carrying shopping bags and maps. A newly remodeled strip of shops and cafés lined the street behind her. This part of the city catered to tourists, and offered hourly boat tours along the river.

       “Tous pour un.”

      At the deep male voice Annja turned and offered an enthusiastic reply to his “all for one,” with “Un pour tous.”

      “Annja!” A six-foot-plus man with a smile as broad as his sunburned shoulders and curly, dark hair strode up and embraced her. He gave her a kiss on the left cheek, and then the right.

      It happened so quickly, Annja just went with it. Normally she did not allow a stranger such ease with her. She enjoyed the social aspects of her trade but she protected her personal space keenly.

      But Ascher wasn’t really a stranger. She’d been communicating with him for a year. And beyond the knowledge gained about him online, she couldn’t deny he smelled great.

      “Ascher Vallois,” she said. “It is you?”

      “ Oui, I am not to accost the beautiful star of Chasing History’s Monsters. Mademoiselle Creed, you are more gorgeous in person.”

      “And you are…” Handsome popped to her mind.

      His body moved sinuously, and the sleeveless shirt he wore revealed a defined muscle tone that could only come from intense workouts. The man was an extreme sports enthusiast, so the muscles were no surprise, but his attractiveness startled her. Of course, she had expected a rogue. His e-mails had not hidden the arrogant pride and underlying flirtatious manner.

      Ascher was, she realized with a start, the epitome of what she imagined d’Artagnan must have looked like. He was a boundless adventurer with a devil-may-care attitude and a charming glint to his pale blue eyes. A mere wink from him could be capable of dropping women in his wake.

      “I am what, Annja? You think I am as you expected?” Ascher asked with a grin.

      He moved to shake her hand, which relaxed her, and she shook off the weird schoolgirl reaction that had risen. She was no swooner.

      “You are exactly as expected, Ascher. Friendly, athletic and handsome,” she said, smiling.

      “Ah, the American television star, she calls me handsome? What my buddies at the dig will think of that!”

      “How many are there?” Annja asked, suddenly anxious.

      “Two others I have worked with previously. You know I trust them. Oh.” He dug something out of his pocket and handed it to her.

      Annja accepted the item, loosely wrapped in a white handkerchief. Her enthusiasm ratcheted up the scale. “Is it—?”

      “Just look,” he urged. Crossing his arms high on his chest, he watched her, the gleam in his eyes rivaling any glittering treasure he had ever claimed, Annja felt sure.

      She unwrapped a piece of wood about six by four inches. She ran her fingers over a design impressed into the end. Sniffing it, Annja scented the dirt and clay, or maybe limestone. Limestone was excellent for preserving artifacts.

      Turning the wood, she decided the impression must be a coat of arms. It was divided into four quarters, and in the first and fourth quadrant were double towers. A bowing eagle was impressed in the second and third quarters.

      “It is the end of the sword box that I removed accidentally.” Literally bouncing on his feet, he gestured enthusiastically to the object in her hand. “It is real, Annja. The sword has been found.”

      “I’ll believe it when I see it,” Annja said, forcing herself to remain calm.

      “Very well.” He hooked an arm in hers and tugged her around the car. “Come, we must be off to the dig site before the sun sets. We will take your car. You rented?”

      “Yes, in Paris.”

      “City of love!” He dashed ahead to open the driver’s side door for her, and closed it behind her after she’d slid inside. “To a dashing good adventure,” he said as he climbed in the passenger’s side.

      And Annja dialed into his enthusiasm. “To adventure!”

      F IELDS OF GRAPEVINES LINED the narrow country road they traveled. A symphony of crickets demanded Annja switch off the radio—tuned to a news-and-weather channel—and take in the natural performance.

      “Just ahead.” Ascher gave directions to the dig site that once harbored an Augustine convent before it had been demolished by fire in 1690.

      Charlotte-Anne de Chanlecy had initially moved into the convent following her husband’s death, but quickly retired to a quiet family estate just off the convent grounds. Chalon was her hometown.

      There was not a lot of documentation on d’Artagnan’s wife, she being a minor historical figure, but Annja guessed the convent might have been a bit too stifling for a woman who had once been married to an adventurous musketeer.

      Window rolled down, the September air brushed a warm breeze across Annja’s face and arm. It was a far cry from the ocean-kissed air that had buffeted Stonehenge, but not unpleasant. The countryside smelled like СКАЧАТЬ