Chapter One
Edridge Castle
Montana
Wednesday 0600
“I don’t give a damn if it’s a matter of national security or not,” Gabriel Edge savagely told the man he held at sword point. “I am not having sex with that woman.”
The two men could have been sword fighting in medieval Scotland instead of twenty-first-century Montana. But both the castle and the heavy claymores the two T-FLAC operatives so expertly wielded were the real deal.
For several minutes the only sounds in the Great Hall were their breathing, the clash of ancient steel and the soft sibilant shush of bare feet on stone. Swordplay was a well-choreographed dance, and they knew how to keep it interesting.
Their blades slid against each other ritually as the men circled each other, feinting, testing for weakness, wait-ing for a split-second opening. Slightly better conditioned for a sport that required both strength and dexterity, Gabriel intentionally moved off balance to fool his opponent. Then, keeping his swift curse mental instead of verbal, sidestepped Sebastian Tremayne’s lightning-fast return thrust.
Pleased with himself, Sebastian shot him a triumphant glance. “Your country nee—”
“Same tune.” From a high guard Gabriel made a strong downward cut, the blade of his broadsword flashing silver in the early morning sunlight streaming through the high arched windows. He moved with a feline grace and speed that had Sebastian backing up. Fast.
The first time Gabriel had set eyes on Dr. Eden Cahill he’d felt this same cold clench in his gut. It was getting worse.
“I’ll find another way,” he assured his friend grimly. And he would. As soon as he damn well came up with something that would work just as quickly, and just as well, as having sex with her.
Sebastian almost took off Gabriel’s hand because he was so distracted. He’d taught his friend well. “Good one.” He brought his attention back to the task at hand. Cutting back on the inhale, he halted his own strike an inch from his friend’s heart. Again. “You’re dead,” he said with satisfaction.
They straightened and parted, each pausing to wipe the sweat from their eyes with their forearms. They were in hour two of practicing cuts and strikes. They’d stop soon. But not yet.
“Ready?” Gabriel asked after a few moments’ rest, replacing both hands on the leather hilt of his sword.
“Yeah.” Tremayne stepped back, sword raised.
Agile and fast on his feet, Gabriel circled. The longer they practiced, the heavier the claymore seemed to become. That ten pounds felt more like fifty after wielding it for an hour. A good workout. Both for his body and his mind.
“Been at it longer than you,” he pointed out, reading the familiar I’m-going-to-beat-the-shit-out-of-you-this-time glimmer in his friend’s eyes. They watched each other like hawks as they slowly circled one another.
Waiting for an opportunity. Waiting for an opening.
From a hanging guard, Sebastian brought down a strong downward diagonal thrust. “Faster on my feet than you.”
Knuckles white, Gabriel blocked. “You’ll have to be.”
Tremayne was a little out of breath, Gabriel noticed with satisfaction. They were evenly matched, he was just better at hiding his uneven breathing than his friend was.
Buttery light streamed through the leaded glass windows embedded in the thirteen-foot-deep walls. The Great Hall was constructed of rough-hewn stone the color of a good wine cork, and hung with enormous, priceless, centuries-old tapestries, coats of armor, ancient weaponry, and other objets d’
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