Midnight Eyes

by Sarah Brophy

Genres: Historical Fiction; Historical Romance; Medieval Romance; Romantic Suspense

Synopsis

During the turbulent, decadent reign of William II, a royal mercenary finds himself caught in the throes of an unexpected passion--and played as a pawn in a treacherous game. . . The bastard son of a Norman nobleman, Robert Beaumont has blossomed into one of England's fiercest killers--and has found himself well paid for his talents. But now the time has come for him to set aside his sword. The king has agreed to reward him for his last service with an estate. . .on one condition: Robert must marry the sitting tenant--the infamous Lady Deformed. For years, Imogen Colebrook has lived in the ramshackle Saxon keep, the virtual prisoner of her cruel, sadistic brother, the man responsible for her deformity--and for wedding her to a dangerous man. Yet, on Robert's arrival, Imogen nearly brings the hardened warrior to his knees. For she is a vision of unparalleled beauty--living in a world without sight. Drawn to her courageous spirit, Robert gently draws Imogen out of her tortured past. But with her brother always lurking in the shadows, Imogen's newfound sanctuary in Robert's arms is in danger of being destroyed--unless her salvaged heart can find a way out of the darkness. . .

Release date: October 8, 2013

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 384

Sample

Mary’s voice halted abruptly and Imogen turned away from the inadequate fire to face the sudden silence, her eyebrows raised questioningly.

“M’lady, that is all of your brother’s message that is fit for human hearing,” Mary said slowly as she began screwing up the expensive parchment.

Imogen laughed softly. “Oh, Mary, you know you shouldn’t worry about things like that. When Roger visits, he says all manner of things that aren’t fit for human hearing to me. By reading the message in full you certainly won’t be telling me anything that I haven’t heard many times before.”

“Well, I’ve certainly never said such foul things before, and I don’t intend to start now.”

Imogen tried to smile as she turned her face back to the fire, hoping to hide her rising panic.

Roger had started the end game. She had always known that this day would come. On that small piece of parchment, which Mary refused to read out to her, he was giving her formal notice that the real war had indeed begun.

“Burn it, Mary,” Imogen murmured quietly. She shuddered almost imperceptibly when the smell of acrid smoke reached her heightened senses.

“Well, it doesn’t sound all bad,” Mary said encouragingly. “Those bits about your bridegroom sounded interesting anyway. Your brother did manage to say around the vitriol that this…Robert Beaumont is suitably impatient. He seems most anxious to claim his bride if he set out within the week, and I for one think that shows a very pleasing degree of eagerness.”

“But I doubt he is racing all this way just so that he can claim the infamous ‘Lady Deformed’ for his wife, don’t you?” Imogen said dryly.

Mary’s voice sank with embarrassment. “I didn’t know you had heard about them calling you that.”

Imogen smiled. “I’m blind, Mary, not deaf.”

Mary was silent for a second, then said bracingly, “You’re not deformed either, if you don’t mind me saying.”

“I’d be a fool to mind when you’re being nice.” She shook her head with a sigh. “But you seem to be forgetting that Robert Beaumont doesn’t actually know I’m not deformed. He is racing up here, eager to claim his land, not some gargoyle hidden away in a tower.”

Imogen got up and began to pace carefully around the room. Twenty-one paces one way, seventeen the other. Her bedchamber, her world. Sometimes, it felt as if the four walls were pressing in on her, suffocating her with the darkness that had held her so tightly for the past five years. There was a monotony to her days that ate into her, a sameness and isolation that threatened to destroy her.

If it wasn’t for Mary’s loyal presence, her destruction would have been completed years ago.

Imogen would never know what capricious whim had ruled Roger when he let Mary, their old nurse, stay with her when he had taken almost everything else she held dear, but she was pathetically grateful for that one small kindness.

She swallowed hard and tried to ignore the guilt that always rose to the surface when she forced herself to acknowledge that her gratitude meant she was as complicit as Roger in holding the older woman prisoner.

That Mary bore her exile with an admirable fortitude didn’t ease the heavy weight of shame Imogen felt. Abstractly, her acceptance actually added to Imogen’s burden till the pressure of it almost consumed her.

Sometimes she longed for the silence of death; sometimes it seemed like the only way to escape the loneliness and guilt, but at other times she longed for life with every fiber of her being. Especially at moments like now, when Roger and his dark threats were worming their way inside her, whispering of endings. When the threat of the end was so real that she could almost touch it, even her blind life became precious.

And no matter what Mary said, Imogen knew Roger’s threat was very real.

He wanted her, and he was prepared to destroy her completely to get what he wanted. Robert Beaumont was his weapon of choice. On his last visit, when she had been shivering while kneeling in front of him, he had made sure she knew all there was to know about Robert Beaumont, and now she knew why. Now she knew why Roger had gloated as he had told the story of how the bastard son of a Norman nobleman had risen from obscurity to be one of the best killers in all of England; how he had, with cold deliberation, sold his sword out for hire, not even pretending to fight for such illusory things as honor and integrity, but for cold, hard gold only.

As a mercenary, Robert Beaumont was second to none, and soon only the king himself had been able to afford him, for only he was able to promise the land and position that the warrior craved. Robert fought for the king, and the king was led by his lover, Roger.

Imogen could only too well imagine how her brother had calmly manipulated King William till everything was how he wanted it to be. She didn’t doubt for a second that it had been Roger who had seen to it that after four years spent fighting in the bloody border wars with Wales, Robert could claim his just reward only if he took the infamous Lady Deformed as his wife.

The last time Roger had been in the Keep he had bound her hands and hauled her to her feet. He had walked around her like an animal prowling after its prey, he had then stood so close behind her that she could feel the heat of him making her skin crawl and he had told her calmly that he was nearly finished playing games with her. His victory was now in plain sight. He had wanted her to know that, wanted her to know the man he had chosen to destroy her, wanted her to know that she had no way to save herself.

Knowledge, as she had learned through hard experience, was in itself a frustratingly inadequate weapon. After all, she had known his dark, twisted jealousies and brooding hatreds all of her life, but she had not been able to stop them from claiming her sight.

And now he was after her body and soul.

She had to stop thinking, knowing that in those memories lay a strange kind of madness. She turned toward the window, feeling the pale glow of the winter sun on her skin. God, how she wanted to live!

She sighed and raised her hand to her aching forehead. “I can’t stop him, Mary. I know what he plans, but I can’t see anyway that I can stop him.”

“Perhaps this is really the king’s plan, like Roger says.” Mary’s voice rang with a conviction that Imogen didn’t dare let herself believe. “Maybe it really is all about the cruel joke the king wanted to play on Beaumont.”

“I don’t know if I like being thought of as a cruel joke,” Imogen said dryly. She heard Mary’s embarrassed fluster and allowed herself a small, tight smile. She groped for her dear friends hands and when she found them, she also found comfort in their work-roughened familiarity. She took a deep, steadying breath.

“Mary, you must believe that the threat is real. I can hear the triumph in Roger’s letter. He is now a step closer to his goal of annihilating me and he has chosen Beaumont and the king to bring it about. They are ways and means only but never doubt that the threat is real, the outcome uncertain, and I will ask you once again to leave this accursed Keep.”

Mary gave Imogen’s hand a reassuring squeeze, silently communicating her loyalty and support, but Imogen refused to let herself give in to that offered strength.

“Roger’s hatred might not be appeased by merely tormenting me and, if not, it will spread, destroying all it touches. I couldn’t bear for you to be caught up in this. It is enough for you to have shared so many dark hours with me. I can’t let you end them with me.” Imogen drew another deep, shuddering breath. “Mary, please go.”

“I’m here because I want to be here and here I will stay. You can’t tell me to leave, my girl, because you never invited me to be here in the first place,” Mary said gruffly. “Besides, just where do you think I’m going to drag these old bones? No, I’m happy enough here by this piddling fire, thank you very much.”

“But Mary…”

“No buts. You won’t be rid of me that easily.”

Imogen smiled, tremulous with tears. “I know it’s selfish, I know it’s wrong, but I’m so relieved that you will stay. I fear the dark alone.”

“I think a little selfishness never hurt anyone much, and remember I’m being selfish too. I love you like a daughter, and I can think of nowhere I’d rather be and no one I’d rather be with.”

Imogen bowed and buried her head in the old woman’s coarse skirts. A warm hand covered her hair. For a moment neither of them needed to speak, and then Mary cleared her throat, trying to remove the huskiness.

“So, Imogen, what do we do now?”

Imogen rolled her head to the side but let it remain on Mary’s knee. “Now, Mary, we wait.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “And we pray.”

“You don’t mean to tell me that you have dragged me halfway across this frozen wasteland of a country to farm rocks amongst starving peasants? Because, if you have, Boy…”

Robert smiled absently, his mind concentrating on the deceptively repetitive horizon, but about two days ago he had stopped listening to Matthew’s constant whining.

Ideally, he should have left the old man and his endless steam of complaints back in the London inn that they had been calling home, but he had no idea how such a thing could have been achieved. After all, as he hadn’t invited him to come along in the first place, there was no way he could really have invited him to stay behind.

From many years of hard experience Robert had learnt that nothing in the mortal realm moved Matthew one inch unless the cantankerous old man wanted to be moved. Just because the man called himself squire didn’t mean that he actually took orders at any point.

Which was also only logical, Robert thought with a wry smile, considering that the position itself was entirely self-appointed.

It had happened in Robert’s first battle as a knight when he had been forcefully removed from his horse. He was hacking his way to a certain doom when he had heard a yell from the skies. Matthew had jumped from a nearby tree and cut down the man who had been about to fatally attack Robert from the rear. For the rest of the bloodbath they had fought back-to-back till their retreat had been called.

When they were safe, Robert had tried, clumsily, to thank the man for his timely intervention. Matthew had just looked him in the eye and said, “God may look after the stupid, but obviously he’s handed you over to me for a little closer attention.”

And so Matthew had become his squire and had stayed with him ever since. Robert couldn’t help but view the association as something of a mixed blessing. While he knew that there was no more loyal and trustworthy squire to be found in all of England, that sometimes couldn’t make up for the fact that more often than not Matthew treated Robert as a wayward, slightly backward son. Time had taught Robert when to listen to the old man and when not to. As Matthew didn’t do anything he didn’t want to, Robert felt he could safely ignore his complaining now as an exercise in contrary-mindedness only.

Besides, he had far more important things to dwell on right at this moment.

Absentmindedly he reached down and ran a hand over Dagger’s graying mane. He had worried how the old stallion would withstand such a long journey over indifferent roads in the middle of winter, but all in all he was holding up very well. Still, Robert would be pleased to see journey’s end even if just for his old friend’s sake.

Journey’s end—Robert knew he should be looking forward to it. After all, it was the fulfillment of all his dreams, his reward for years of hard labor. If only it was all that simple, he thought, and let out a disgusted sigh.

It had seemed simple enough when he had been making his plans. All he had wanted was land, something that the changing fortunes of war couldn’t take away from him. He may have come into this world with nothing, but he would be damned before he left it the same way.

Well, he had that land now, but to claim it, he had to marry Lady Imogen. Robert clenched his teeth as he tried to quash the anger that rose every time he recalled how the king and his lover had manipulated him. Now that the deal had been struck there was nothing to be done about it. He would be married by sunset tomorrow and the very land beneath Dagger’s hooves would be his.

The winter snows lay over everything like a blanket and the trees were bare of leaves. It was a spectacle of seasonal desolation, but strangely Robert could feel his soul expanding as he took it all in. The closer they got to their destination, the more entranced he had become with this alien world.

Indeed, everything would be perfect if only Matthew would stop moaning and see the beauty that surrounded him. But Robert knew there was no more chance of that than there was of Dagger taking flight.

The old man sat slumped in his saddle, burying himself deeply into the enormous pile of furs he had procured from one of the towns they had passed. It left visible only his wizened hands, blue with cold, and his condemning eyes. From a distance, he looked like a heap of rags that had been dumped randomly on a horse.

If only he would be as silent as a pile of rags, Robert thought wistfully. However, the old man showed no sign of stopping his steady stream of spleen.

“So tell me, Boy, why did you drag me up here?”

Robert sighed loudly. “I didn’t drag you anywhere. Only the will of the Almighty himself might be able to drag your sorry bag of bones anywhere against your will, and I actually doubt even He can do that.”

“But you have to admit that this land seems to be worthless for anything save for the breeding of surly peasants.”

Robert ran a hand through his black hair, his heavy brows drawn together thoughtfully. “They do seem to be getting a little less friendly the further north we go, don’t they?”

“That is an understatement.” Matthew snorted, trying to bury himself farther into the furs. “I thought Lady Deformed was to be your punishment for irritating the king with your excellence, but now having met some of the locals, I’m not so sure.”

“Don’t call her that. She is Lady Imogen Beaumont.” Robert’s voice was hard and cold and Matthew looked over at him inquiringly. Robert turned his concentration back to the road.

“She ain’t no Beaumont. Not yet,” Matthew said gently. “And why so defensive, Boy? You haven’t even met the lady, much less given her your name.”

“It matters not why. She is to be my wife and her honor is now mine.” Robert refused to meet the old man’s eye. Matthew’s brow was raised questioningly and Robert couldn’t even begin to answer the unasked question when he didn’t understand it himself. After all, he’d never been one of those mindless fools who would willingly die in the name of honor. He’d always been too cynically attached to life to worry about such things, managing to brush aside all of the small slights he’d ever encountered.

And yet suddenly, here he was not only prepared to defend his nonexistent honor, he was also attaching that honor to Lady Deformed, a woman he didn’t even know. Even Robert could see that it was irrational, and was relieved that for once, Matthew wisely allowed the silence to claim his skepticism. The only sound to be heard was the crunch of the horses’ hooves through the crisp snow and Robert gritted his teeth, irritated by his own illogical behavior.

He regretted his terseness. He knew Matthew had meant no slight and they had now been too long together to start being precious about each other’s sensibilities. They had always talked without boundaries; been free with their thoughts and opinions.

Until now.

Now, Imogen, Lady Deformed, was something that he didn’t want to discuss with anyone, not even faithful Matthew.

Lady Deformed. How he had come to hate that name. To hear it sent a shaft of pure rage through his body and created a creature in him that he barely recognized. A creature comprised solely of pride and honor.

As a bastard and a mercenary, what could he claim to know of personal honor? He had spent the last five years killing for a man he despised. He had always lived his life to his own code and had never cared that the rest of the world couldn’t understand that code. And had never felt the need to justify his actions to anyone but himself.

But right now, even he didn’t understand himself. He was jumping to the defense of a woman he had never met. More than that, he became a rabid beast, and could only be amazed at his anger, at his protectiveness.

It was the protectiveness that was the most perplexing. He had never considered himself callous, but the life he led never left room for such sentiment, and he couldn’t honestly say that he had missed it. Now, strange, dark emotions were raising their heads, emotions he didn’t even recognize, and they seemed to have a single focus: the poor creature that was trapped in these cold lands so far from her warm southern sun. To hear her insulted in any way started a battle rage deep inside him.

“I hate to bring you back to the real world, but I think that pile of stones up ahead might be yours.”

Robert’s mind instantly shifted.

Home.

It stood tall and bleak against the winter sky. It did indeed look a little like a pile of stones thrown together by chance. Robert raised his brows, their earlier conversation forgotten.

“I didn’t know that the Conqueror’s building program had stretched so far north, but surely the Saxons never used stone.”

“I don’t think they did,” Matthew said thoughtfully. “No, that pile of stones looks new, but also totally uninhabitable.”

“Are you calling my new home uninhabitable?” Robert asked with a smile.

“No, Boy, I’m calling that pile of stones uninhabitable. I’m sure your home will be a habitation fit for a great warrior.”

Robert threw back his head and laughed. “Don’t snivel, Old Man. It doesn’t become you.”

“Who’s sniveling?” Matthew asked derisively. “This is just basic survival. If I compliment you a little, stroke that formidable ego of yours, I just might be able to get out of this blasted cold at some point.”

“Then there is no time to waste. Yah!” Robert spurred on his horse and streaked out ahead at a full gallop. Matthew sighed and muttered something about being young again and, with a creak of leather and old bones, tried to catch Robert.

The closer they got, the stranger the lone tower seemed. It jutted out of the forest in a harsh, unnaturally straight line. New, but already it seemed to be falling apart, littering the land with silent, gray stone corpses.

Robert frowned. “This can’t be Shadowsend Keep, Old Man.”

“No, Boy,” Matthew yelled back as he drew even with Robert, “but I can see smoke from those trees. Looks like a fair-sized chimney.”

Robert squinted in the direction Matthew had indicated, only just making out the thin wisps of smoke rising slowly and disappearing into the patchy gray winter sky.

“Let’s go and talk to more unfriendly peasants, Old Man,” Robert bellowed, trying to be heard above the wind in his ears and galloped toward the smoke.

As he maneuvered his horse expertly into the small courtyard of a wooden Keep and swung down in one fluid movement, his eyes quickly scanned the clutter of buildings, trying to take in everything at once. A thick blanket of snow covered everything except where the fires warmed the roof sufficiently to keep it clear. The buildings themselves were dilapidated, but at least they looked lived in.

“Ah, now, this is better. This looks like it just may have one warm corner to rest these cold bones,” Matthew murmured appreciatively as he slowly dismounted his horse.

Everywhere he looked, Robert could see where things were in urgent need of repair, where things had been incompetently repaired and where things had been repaired just enough to barely keep them useable. But it wasn’t all bad. Three or four brave chickens scratched hopefully through the snow and the smell of wood smoke gave the insubstantial Keep a surprisingly warm air of welcome.

Home.

“It would be impossible to defend, of course,” Robert said as he walked briskly to the double doors, trying to keep the excitement out of his voice.

“And whom are you envisioning defending it against?”

“The world,” Robert said to himself as he rapped his gauntlet-covered knuckles against the timbers. The two men heard the scurry of feet, but the door remained resolutely shut. Robert tried again, rapping his knuckles harder.

“We’ve nothing left to give. Clear off!” The screeching voice carried well into the courtyard.

Robert looked at Matthew. The older man’s face split into a grin. “Not so badly defended at all, it would seem. Your hallowed portals would seem to be protected by a savage crone.”

“Behave,” Robert murmured, then lifted his voice to what Matthew called his combat roar. “It’s Robert Beaumont out here, freezing on his own doorstep, and he has no intention of clearing off from what is rightfully his.”

A satisfyingly comic volley of noise followed the stunned silence inside the Keep.

Within seconds the door flew open to reveal an old woman. She was surprisingly small, considering the amount of noise she had been making. Her hair was scraped back into a kerchief, giving her face a stretched look.

“Sor-sorry, my lord, but we weren’t expecting you, and…and you can’t be too careful nowadays, not with all these Norman brutes wandering about attacking innocent folk.” She stared openmouthed for a second, flushed scarlet, and then slammed the door shut.

“Would you like us to storm the door, Sir Knight, or just burn it down?” Matthew asked with an unholy amusement in his voice.

Robert crossed his arms over his chest, exasperation beginning to tell on his nerves.

“Don’t tempt me, Old Man.” He took a deep breath, preparing to bellow his way to Hades, when the door flew open once more, this time wide enough for them to actually enter.

Neither he nor Matthew hesitated, afraid that this offer of warmth might suddenly disappear again.

They found themselves in the main hall with the doors being shut quickly behind them. It took a second for Robert’s eyes to adapt to the gloom. The room had no windows and light came from the guttering candles and the fire that burned sluggishly in the hearth. The enormous stone fireplace took up one entire wall and Matthew let out a groan of ecstasy as he rushed over to it, releasing the smell of stale rushes with every step. He thrust his hands to the small blaze and closed his eyes blissfully. Robert remained near the door, taking full stock of his new home.

It took Robert a moment to locate the person in the shadows who had finally allowed them in.

She stood so that the candles illuminated only one side of her face, leaving the rest in shadow. It was a harsh effect, seeming to magnify the lines on her face and the steel in her gray hair.

By her dress it was clear that she was a servant, but she held her back straight and met his gaze squarely as if they were equals.

Robert had spent years relying on his instincts, and wasn’t entirely surprised when his body eased automatically out of its wariness. It was clear that this woman wasn’t a threat, for all her apparent severity.

He gave her a small smile, which she didn’t return.

“Greetings, m lord, and welcome to Shadowsend,” the woman said stiffly. “I apologize for Alice, but you did startle her, although we have been expecting you. At the moment, the Keep is only being served by nigh on ten women, but if you ask for me, I’m sure that we will manage to serve most of your needs, Sir Knight.”

“What is your name, and what exactly are your duties here?”

“My name is Mary. I’m principally my lady’s companion, but I also function as a chatelaine in the absence of someone else more suitable.”

Robert nodded, only a little wiser than before. What he knew about the running of a castle, keep or cottage was insignificant, and he had only the vaguest of notions as to the function of a chatelaine. Hopefully it meant that she could run everything without any help from him.

“You may go about your duties,” Robert said in what he hoped was a confident manner, feeling large and clumsy in a domestic setting. Give him a meadow and twenty unseasoned soldiers and he moved with confidence. Present him with one self-assured servant and he was almost ready to eat the rushes. He tried to hide that uncertainty by turning his back in dismissal, but changed his mind abruptly, catching the woman midcurtsy.

It was a clumsy return to standing, and Robert felt a little more at ease in the face of this small imperfection.

“Wait. Why isn’t Lady Imogen greeting her guests?” Even he was aware that the basic rules of hospitality demanded that the lady of the house see to her guests’ comfort.

For a moment Mary looked disconcerted. “My lady, uh…sleeps and I was asked not to disturb her.”

Matthew snorted, stopping for the first time his fire worship. “They have found you the perfect wife. One who can manage to sleep through your battle bellow.”

The woman had the grace to blush at the too-obvious lie and for the first time lowered her gaze.

“We have much to discuss,” Robert said gently, “the lady and I, and I think we should start now. If you can go and wake her and tell her that Sir Robert desires very much for her to present herself in the hall.”

The woman seemed dumbstruck for a moment before her natural confidence returned. “I’m sorry, Sir Robert, but Lady Imogen never leaves her chamber.”

Robert was momentarily nonplussed. Perhaps Lady Deformed was unable to manage the stairs? Perhaps her legendary deformity prevented her moving altogether?

A nauseous feeling rose up in his throat. He had never been squeamish before. How could he, when the battlefield offered so many kinds of death and none of them were pretty? He had seen men ripped to shreds, splattered so far that they were unidentifiable. He had seen retribution, that cold, mechanical murder of the enemy. He might never have relished it; but he had accepted it. It seemed natural to him after so many years and he had learned to live with it, learnt that it was part of his days and, occasionally, a part of his nightmares.

But never before had he seen a female so scarred by her injuries that she couldn’t leave her room, so badly damaged that she hid from the world. Warriors wore their scars as a badge of pride, a symbol of their survival. This new kind of pain didn’t sit well with him. He longed for escape, longed to leave the lady buried in her living grave, but his newly defined honor demanded more.

He set his shoulders. “Well then, it is only fitting that I go to the lady if she is unable to greet us. Lead the way.”

Mary bowed her head and grabbed the candlestick from the great table, using a burning stick from the fireplace to light it. Robert raised his brows. The sun had risen two hours ago. Did none of the Keep open to the natural light? As if she read his mind, Mary shrugged her shoulders, a little apologetic.

“The light on the upper floor is not the best, Sir Knight, and the steps are not entirely sound. After a few nasty falls, you will learn the wisdom of these candles.”

She smiled and left the room. Robert paused for a moment but knew the time for delay was passed. It was time to face the lady herself.

The wooden stairs groaned ominously under Robert’s foot. He grimaced, and tried to pick a quiet way through the cacophony of noise. It would seem that before he was able to husband the land back into some fruitfulness, he needed to rebuild the Keep first! Even in the dim light cast by Mary’s candle up ahead he could see the rising damp and decay.

Mary stopped in front of one of the doors and turned to him. For a moment, her clear eyes looked deep into his, as if trying to find t. . .