For Honor Series

Excerpt 1. Porthos took a step back and placed his hand on the hilt of his cutlass. “That cocky young pup,” he replied. “Do I sense an insult to my powers of attraction? I just may have to call you out.” “Very well,” Aramis agreed. “Just please be so kind as to leave my face unblemished. I would like the ladies to remember me as I am now.” The large man nodded his head ever so slightly, and the two opponents drew their swords, saluted, then engaged. “Sacrebleu,” D’Artagnan cursed under his breath; that had to be broken up immediately before it became bloody. Excerpt 2: The spy looked Laurel up and down. Dressed in a court gown and her hair done up, she was far from presenting a threatening picture, and the sword in her hand looked distinctly out of place. Not to mention that her shoulder was wounded. “You don’t really think you can stop me, mademoiselle,” he informed her in his most condescending tones and moved to pass her. She raised her weapon, barring his way. “You don’t seriously think that I’m going to let you walk away after the crimes you’ve committed against me and mine.” They stood staring at each other. Neither gave and Laurel moved to disarm the man. Automatically, Georges parried. Swiftly, trying not to stumble, she retreated at his attack, cursing the skirts that hampered her movements and gave the half-starved and tired man a significant advantage. She whirled backward, narrowly avoiding his stroke. Disengage, and she backed up several steps, allowing herself just enough time to slit her skirts to reveal the pantalets underneath. The skirts fell at her feet and she jumped away from another lunge. Better, though by no means as good as breeches, a good tunic, and sturdy pair of boots. Men didn’t realize how lucky they had it. Of course they got the better end of the deal in everything. Her arm wavered as his sword thrust upward, and she linked her blade with his to block the blow. The blow sent little shock waves tingling up her arm. Her right arm simply wasn’t as strong as her left, and she was out of practice in fighting right-handed. If she ever got out of this and was able to heal, she swore to herself that she’d not neglect her fencing skills for either hand. The balls of her feet ached as she felt every stone and pebble through the thin slippers. Blast fashion for its absurdities! Blast men for dictating not only their own fashion but the fashions of women as well. She lunged, swiping upward, and her stroke was easily knocked aside, almost dislodging her sword in the process. Her grip failing, she still managed to block the next blow and dance around behind him. Okay, enough was enough. She threw her sword in the air and caught it in her left hand, and Georges looked at her like she was a complete fool. His sword at ready, he circled her. “You really think you still have a chance. Mademoiselle, it seems you are doubly foolish now.” “Then a fool I will be,” she huffed, attacking him and driving him back, to his surprise. Nom de nom! The woman was better at fighting with her left hand than with her right.

King Louis XIII is a weak leader with no love for his wife Queen Anne. Power, saving face, and honor are paramount, always. Laurel — the secret leader of France's spy network — has absolutely no doubt that he would plunge France into another devastating war if he learns Queen Anne has been kidnapped. Laurel and the musketeers attempt to find and rescue the queen, all without telling the king that his wife, pregnant with Louis XIV, has been abducted. God may save the queen, but who will save the heroes? Excerpt 1: The woman shook her head. “I will slow you down too much. You’ve got to find Laurel, Athos, and Porthos. Go on ahead. Bring them back here. Please. Please,” she pleaded. “And how will you defend yourself?” Aramis pressed. The woman shifted and pulled the pistol from her waistband. She cocked and primed it. “I am still well enough to shoot,” she replied. Aramis grabbed his sword and stood. Porthos’ sister was far more courageous and self-sufficient than he ever would have suspected. “I’ll be back as quickly as I can. Try to stay out of sight.” The musketeer dashed off down the corridor, Yvette watching, holding tight to the gun as if it were her lifeline. “God, please, let Aramis come back soon.” She was not brave enough for this. Already shock was setting in, and she felt ready to burst into tears. She would have called Aramis back, but he was already gone. Excerpt 2: Athos! Laurel charged forward, yelling like a woman gone crazy. It was enough to distract an opponent who had been about to deliver a blow that would have sliced Athos’ left arm off at the shoulder. The fighter glanced at her with contempt and turned his back on the woman, returning to his attack on the tired musketeer. Yet Athos remained remarkably persistent despite the ragged wound that had pierced his right shoulder. And he could have warned the man not to turn his back on Mademoiselle Laurel, but he rather preferred it this way. For with one clean stroke Laurel slashed the attacker’s arm, causing him to clutch at the bleeding limb and drop his sword. He’d never be able to use the arm again. Laurel had severed every muscle and tendon clear to the bone. “Never turn your back on an opponent, and never underestimate a woman,” she advised as she sidestepped the wounded man and came to stand by Athos’ side. “I must confess, it is very good to see you, mademoiselle,” Athos said, taking advantage of the brief respite.

Daryl, Keith and Jala time travel over 800 years into the past, to seventeenth-century France, with what they think is a great plan to manipulate people and events in the past and retrieve this Konrad from the year 2060, after he was mistakenly deposited there from 17th-century France. It turns out that Konrad is as ingenious as he is evil, and he takes full advantage of his odd bit of luck to change the future. Those changes are destroying the far future and our would-be heroes very likely may never have existed. Their desperate plan, invented as they fled from the collapsing future, requires that they convince Laurel and the musketeers that they are from the future and that the musketeers must time travel with them to catch Konrad. What could be simpler? "If you are so worried about me, then come with me." Laurel offered them the challenge. "To the future?" D'Artagnan queried, skeptical and curious at the same time. "That would be my assumption," Laurel quipped. Can, and will, Laurel and the musketeers travel to the future and fix the timeline, and, more importantly, do they really believe this Jala is from the future and that her desperate story is true?

Desperate people sacrifice almost everything that is dear to them and travel over 800 years into the past, to seventeenth-century France, in hopes of saving the future. They had what they thought was a great plan, but it failed. And now, someone else has to pick up the pieces. Take a peek at a scene from the book as Laurel and the musketeers prepare to travel to the future: The trees, tall and majestic, stood as silent watchers. Seeing all that passed beneath their limbs as they had for countless centuries. Again, in this crisp, cool dawn they resumed their sentinel duty as a small party wove beneath their bows and came to stand in an equally small clearing. Four men and one woman. All mute as the first rays of light played across the skin of their faces and the backs of their hands. In his hand the tallest of the group held a thermoTriresin, metallic plastic the size of a paperback book. Branches rustled as if whispering to each other. The woman glanced around, on guard. Seeing nothing, she dropped back into a state of deliberately-relaxed attention. Zut she was jumpy. Felt like her first solo spy mission all over again. Or was it more like the trepidation she had felt the day before her wedding? Laurel took herself to task for being so ill at ease. Soon she’d be joining her husband. The rest she would not think about right now. Her eyes stayed focused on Jean-Pierre as he intensely regarded the comstat. Watched as he set the device by hand and by mind command. Then double-checked the settings. At the same time the duchesse noted the musketeers were doing the same as she was. Jean-Pierre looked up from the readings, and a luminescent, scant blue portal with silver glimmerings opened in the fabric of the space-time continuum. Nothing could be seen on the other side of the portal-like bubble. “After you,” the young man managed to say despite the tightness of the muscles in his throat. One by one, Laurel and the musketeers stepped into the hazy light and disappeared, waiting in nether-space for Jean-Pierre to enter and close their route, sending them to the 26th century. A moment longer the large man paused. He knew once he stepped through that portal it would be a very long time, if ever, before he knew peace again. Young. He was too young and unprepared for this. Consciously he shut out the rest of his thoughts and strode through the shimmering opening. If Guillaume could face this thing, then so could he. Onto themselves the globes of light collapsed, and a little blond-haired figure sprinted forward. Paused not even a second before she dove through the fading color spray. At the last possible instant another large, masculine form darted from behind the tree, thrusting his body into the very last quivers of warped energy field of space and time. He too disappeared. And in the clearing the trees continued to whisper. The sun rose. Another typical day.