Underground Warrior Read Online Free Page A

he figured proved her claim that she wasn’t a teenager. Nobody got that much education that young. He’d admired her healthy distrust of people, which seemed like its own kind of smart. But at the time, she’d put out such a thick wall of don’t-touch-me that he’d more or less kept his distance. He tried to never forget that someone as big as he was could scare people just by saying hello.
    Today she’d looked…welcoming. Not just her shiny, clean hair, pulled back to let people see her solemn face, or her nice clothes, though those helped. Her.
    He could have sworn she was glad to see him, and it had felt great. Trace couldn’t remember the last time someone had been honestly glad to see him, except maybe his ma. He couldn’t help but want to get closer to her, want to know more.
    ’Course, Sibyl aimed the exact opposite look at the sword, times ten. Even after he’d wrapped it. What, did she think it would leap out and bite her? Still, she at least sank down to sit on the arm of the loveseat, instead of just using it to brace herself farther away from him. The position made her look taller.
    “So, what’s with the crazy?” he asked—and she winced. Great job. That would be why he had more weekend flings than regular girlfriends, wouldn’t it? Still…was he supposed to ignore this? “It’s just a sword.”
    “It’s a Comitatus sword.” She all but spat the name of his ancestors’ secret society.
    Cool! Information, just like he’d hoped. “You can tell by looking?”
    “No! It’s…” She took a deep breath, as if settling herself. To his relief, she sank back onto the seat cushion, wrapping her arms protectively around her knees. The don’t-touch-me-vibes were back with a vengeance. “Repro ductions are mostly a twentieth century art form. If the wall was old, this is authentic. No later than eleventh century. Maybe as early as eighth. Dark Ages.”
    “And you saw all that while you were begging me to put it away.”
    She scowled at the word begging, which was cute, until she said, “Yes.”
    Okay, then. Even before she rolled her eyes—which she did—Trace saw she thought he was stupid. Compared to her, he probably was, but he didn’t like the reminder. Just to be obstinate, he leaned a little closer to her, as if just to listen. He hadn’t forgotten his size. He was just…using it.
    She smelled good. Like girl. Like a wealthy girl, damn it.
    She didn’t seem the least bit intimidated. “Cruciform crossguard,” she catalogued, as if that meant something…so damn it, maybe he was stupid. Compared to her. That’s why he’d come to her, wasn’t it? “Double-edged, with only a slight taper, so an earlier than later period. Moderately rounded tip, so more a slashing than a stabbing weapon. Maybe a Viking sword. More likely Gallic.” She eyed his expression, then clarified, “French.”
    “And you know that ’cause…?”
    “The five-lobed pommel—that round cap on the end of the grip? Viking invention. Balances the weight. So does the fuller.”
    He narrowed his eyes. Now she was making up words.
    “The fuller is the groove down the center. Roman swords don’t have it. So post-Roman Empire. And it’s a one-handed sword, to be used with a shield, so pre-High Middle Ages. Also…Vikings. Assimilated by then.”
    “Vikings aren’t French.” Trace knew damned well the LaSalle family came from French roots. Hell, most of Louisiana came from French roots. He liked the idea of some French knight wielding the sword in heroic deeds better than he liked descending from Vikings. Weren’t Vikings more about murdering and pillaging?
    “They’re tied to Norman French. Also, true Vikings preferred battle-axes.”
    Trace chuckled at the image of murdering, pillaging Vikings getting chewed out by big, domineering women.
    Sibyl ducked her head and said, “The weapons. Axes. For battle.”
    “I knew that.” And this time, he did. He just liked the other picture better…and he