Forged in Fire
Beth Leighton moved to Scotland to marry the love of her life. But then he betrays her and she is fatally shot. However the Archangel Remiel interferes, and she awakes to find herself in 18th century England. Alive but confused and lost, she wants to go home. Despite a roguish and handsome highwayman.
Christopher “Kit” Locke is haunted by his past mistakes and lives on danger’s edge, not caring if he lives or dies. He will leave that choice to Fate. Intrigued by the spirited Beth, he is drawn from his spiraling descent and is enlisted to help steal an evil artifact, the Viper’s Eye, a demonic soul-stealing jewel.
While the Archangel and the Duke of Hell battle it out, both Beth and Kit must also fight evil. When the stone seeks Kit's soul can Beth's love keep him from falling victim to the Viper's Eye or will she lose Kit to Hell's fire?
Beth stood frozen in the doorframe as she watched Kit thrash on his bed. Between his sleep-laden moans, tears coursed down his face. She could only image what nightmare clutched him. Was he dreaming of the courtyard and Sophie? Should she wake him? Asleep, even though obviously troubled as it was, he allowed himself to mourn what he wouldn’t even acknowledge while awake.
Quietly, she crossed the room and reached his bedside. On the floor, lying on its side was a half empty decanter; obviously, it had fallen when he passed out. Dressed only in his breeches, his bare chest and arms with their outward scars were a testament to his hard life, but she worried more for his hidden scars. His tears stopped, and his moans turned into short panting breaths, legs and arms thrashing around. He was going to hurt himself if he kept this up.
“Kit! Wake up. You’re having a bad dream.”
He continued to twist, a grunt of effort escaped, followed by a cry of pain.
“Kit!” She reached out, careful of his whipping arms, and touched his shoulder. In a flash, Beth was grabbed and flung onto the bed. Before she could even react, he threw a leg over her hip, straddling her; leaning forward, he grabbed her throat with both hands in a crushing hold. When he started to squeeze, panic set in. Beth bucked her hips off the feather-ticked mattress, trying to throw him off, but she couldn’t get much leverage. She slipped both her arms between his to try and break his hold. It wasn’t working. Her lungs screamed for air as she pummeled him with her fists—striking blows to his shoulders and chest, but it was too hard to concentrate. Her limbs felt like wet noodles. Her hits became frantic pats. She had to wake him. With the last of her failing strength she managed to claw at his face.