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Why would someone sacrifice almost everything that was dear to them and travel hundreds of 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.

Jean-Pierre met his father’s eyes for the very first time, wondering if he could possibly speak through the constriction tightening his throat. A moment longer he looked down on the man an inch or two, perhaps three. Porthos then read the unspoken message there—the one about whether he really wanted that information said here.

Porthos nodded his head in response to the unasked question, and the young man drew a deep breath. Attempted to relax. “I’m your son.” Jean-Pierre understood what it meant to truly feel like one had been flung into an abyss while having no idea when one might slam into the bottom.

“Parbleu,” Aramis murmured, and the whole room dropped into silence, eyes fixed on the two largest men they’d ever met.

Mighty Porthos blinked several times as he struggled to find his voice. “How old are you?”

“Two and twenty,” was the automatic response. Nearly three and twenty, but Jean-Pierre wasn’t going to quibble over the matter of a month or two.

“Who’s your mother?” The whole room poised in tense watchfulness, waiting anxiously for the man’s response to that question. Laurel met Jean-Pierre’s gaze, and in that instant the young man knew that she already realized who he was and when he was from. Even with her powers somewhat latent, the beautiful duchesse somehow knew.

“Cynthia,” he murmured softly. Thunk. He was pretty sure he had hit the bottom of the chasm.

“Cynthia,” Porthos echoed, and his son nodded. At the same time Aramis, Athos, and D’Artagnan all seemed to grasp the significance of the boy’s parentage. Porthos’ son from over eight hundred and eighty-five years in the future. “By all that is . . .”