Gabriel Edge savagely told the man he held at sword point. “I amnot 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, waiting 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.
