SAMPLE 1. Chilling cold settled itself more fully upon the barren landscape. A bone-chilling type of cold that seemed to fuse itself into the marrow of one's being with an almost human bitterness. Not even the solace of falling snow pierced the stillness of the frigid panorama. No, it was quite simply too cold to snow, if such a thing were possible.

Rather than descending as fluffy white flakes, snow lay packed and trampled so heavily on the ground that it had been polished to a thick, rough slab of ice. And all this in early November. 1636 was turning truly vicious.

Through this bleak and barren terrain, two figures trudged as fast as their legs could carry them-fast enough so that the exertion might bring some needed warmth to their numbed bodies. Perhaps it would bring enough heat to withstand the biting cold-to ward against the icy fingers of air seeping through their breeches and leggings and multiple layers of clothes and deep into every muscle fiber and into their very bones.

The smaller of the two figures reached up to steady the taller man-actually the very tall man-as he stumbled over a stone frozen in the icy snow.

"Papa." The boy's eyes searched his father's face as if seeking signs to assure himself that his father was all right, considering their most recent travails in the duplicitous world of espionage. That they had managed to escape the insidious designs of the powers that be-with their lives and the documents-was nothing short of a marvel.

Especially after such stratagems as they'd been obliged to adopt in their flight, he had no intention of letting his father freeze to death, even if he had to rely on sheer stubborn willpower to ward off the chilling hand of death. Christophe's mouth drew into an even tighter line as he addressed his father. Splotches of healthy tinted skin stood out on the older man's face-a hollow consolation that attested to the life that still animated him.

The older man, with grey-streaked brown hair, stopped short every so often and leaned with his hands on his knees as his son's steadying hands left him. "Christophe, you must go on without me. I slow us down too much, and I will not be the cause of both our deaths." He paused as the frigid air stung his throat, and then his eyes shifted back to the tall, proud boy with shoulder-length blond hair. "I thought I told you to get going."

Christophe d'Anlass rolled his blue eyes and opted to ignore his father's last few words. Instead, he urged his father to stand straight. Reluctantly, through an immense effort of will that had often served him in good stead, Thomas d'Anlass stood taller.

"Bon," Christophe concluded with an expression of determined satisfaction. "I don't wish to and won't abandon what's left of my family. Now come, we must hurry. There's no telling how close to us those Prussians have gotten, and I refuse to be captured."


SAMPLE 2. How long the odd pair trudged along in that wasteland neither had a clue. They simply walked in a rough quick shamble, though there was probably nothing simple about it.


SAMPLE 3. Her soft leather boots, very similar to those musketeers wore, echoed off the cobblestones and blended in with the sounds of the busy port city. She darted around the corner and searched for her horse.

Stopping short, she pressed herself to the wall, flat. How had they found her so soon? Well, the horse was lost. Poor Rebelle, but there was nothing she could do for the faithful animal now. Those men obviously knew Rebelle was from the Marquis de Langeac's estate. She took a fortifying breath and dashed back in the direction from which she had come.

At least she still had a hefty sum of money and one of her father's basket hilts. Hopefully she wasn't too out of practice with the sword, for she had a sinking feeling that she would have to be using it all too soon.


SAMPLE 4. Moments dragged by as Aramis urged his friend to keep drinking until the bottle was drained, every last drop. He set the empty bottle aside and both uninjured musketeers prepared to hold Athos motionless.

Laurel lifted the cognac-soaked blade to the wound and made a deft, deep slice in the flesh of Athos' shoulder. Athos thrashed weakly, and the men held him down until finally he passed into merciful unconsciousness. With her arm, Laurel wiped sweat from her brow and made another careful incision next to the wound.

Suddenly the bleeding started again, and Porthos grabbed a fresh cloth and stanched the flow of blood while Laurel looked around for a forceps of some sort and laid them on the blood-stained bed-cloth. She paused right in the middle of making a third cut, and Aramis and Porthos both looked her straight in the eye. Long, palpably tense moments ticked by. "You can do it," they both encouraged her, and she bent her head and returned to the task at hand. There was no other option.


SAMPLE 5. The stiff and proper butler raised his eyebrow in disapproval at the ragtag bunch that was standing in the open doorway. Four men and one lad, and all carrying swords. One tall and darkly handsome man, alluring, dangerous even. Another, a blond with a refined but rugged air and broad shoulders. Another yet who appeared to have just entered manhood, and a handsome young devil as well. Finally, there stood the frowning heir apparent to the 'comte'.
"Please inform my mother that I am here," Porthos spoke.