Midnight Eyes. Sarah Brophy
Robert felt momentarily in control until Mary smiled gently, clearly unperturbed by his playacted ferocity.
“It’s not you she fears, my lord, well, not yet, at any rate. Her fears come from a time long before she was threatened with this marriage.”
“Threatened! It wasn’t…”
Mary simply lifted a hand to still his blustering. “This isn’t about you, not yet. It is Roger who is the threat.”
The words had a chilling effect on his anger. “She fears her brother?” he asked coldly.
“Yes,” Mary said flatly. “I can’t claim to know all that’s between them, but I know that Lady Imogen is terrified of him. Every three months the Keep is emptied of all people while the brother visits his sister. When he leaves we return to find more expensive clothes and fashionable fripperies, and Imogen acting like she has been fatally wounded although there is no blood.”
“Why does he come here?” Robert asked calmly enough, but rage burned clearly in his eyes.
“No one but the two of them know for sure. She never seems to be physically hurt beyond a bruise or two, but whatever the truths of the matter, they remain locked together in some evil dance. No, not a dance. That’s not what Imogen calls it.” She paused a moment as she groped for the right word. “A game. She thinks they are playing a game and I don’t believe my lady holds out much hope of winning.”
Robert looked down at his hands and was surprised to see his knuckles white where they clenched the top of the table. Carefully he loosened his grip. “That no longer matters,” he said with deceptive calm. “I am her protector now and as such I will not let anything happen to her in this…game.”
“If she will let you. To Imogen, Roger sent you, and that now makes you a part of the game. She’s frightened that you are Roger’s winning gambit.” She leaned forward earnestly. “That’s why she fears you.”
“She talks to you about this?”
Mary hesitated a moment. “We talked before you came, but since, no. No, now she’s holding on to herself so tightly to stop from falling apart that she can’t let anyone share her fears. She’s isolating herself in her head and it is starting to frighten me.”
Robert stared off into the middle distance, not seeing. He took a deep, steadying breath, trying to gain control of the raw anger that had flared to unexpected life inside of him. He had never experienced a rage like it before, and was at a loss to explain its existence. Moreover, he couldn’t let it rule him now. He needed to be in control, needed calmness to devise a strategy to defeat the man who had suddenly become his enemy. He tried to remember everything he could about the man, even through his anger, a part of him understanding the vital importance of knowing the enemy.
His knowledge was scant at best.
Roger belonged to the lowest set at the court. He was one of the pack of mindless animals that now surrounded the king. As a group they were noxious and prone to all the vices that money could buy, but Roger’s particular perversions could only be surmised.
Robert narrowed his eyes. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to feed his rage. Roger Colebrook. That such a man could even think of using him for his private warfare was abhorrent, and Robert never doubted for a moment that it was indeed a war, for all their calling it a game. Anything that claimed real victims was a war as far as Robert was concerned.
Robert smiled savagely as he spotted Roger’s first mistake. Roger had faulted badly if he thought to use Robert in the collecting of Imogen’s defeat. Robert was not a man to be used by one of the court parasites, not against something he had taken for his own.
And that was the one truth that shone, even through the haze of his anger: Imogen was his, body and soul.
“You’ve given me much to think on,” Robert said slowly. “Thank you for taking me into your confidence. I won’t see that trust abused.”
Mary let out a long sigh of relief. “I’m glad you didn’t see it as an impertinence. I was so afraid that you would, but you needed to understand, needed to see a little of what Lady Imogen sees.”
Robert sat and steepled his hands. “Oh, I see a little now, but I intend to see a lot more. Soon.”
Robert’s easy shouldering of leadership had inspired everyone in the Keep to new heights.
By evening the main hall had been scrubbed till it glistened. Fresh rushes had been gathered hastily and laid, their meadow fragrance quickly masking the mustiness. Enough tables had been located to seat all of the guests, each festooned with holly and ribbons, creating something of a festive air. Over the central dais a canopy of red cloth had been hung and the two chairs that had been placed on it had been decorated with matching ribbon.
The men of the nearby village had spent the morning at the hunt, killing two boars, a young deer and other smaller game, which were given to the cook and some women from the village to dress. The cook had complained bitterly about people expecting miracles, but had still managed to produce any number of mouthwatering dishes with only the most basic of assistance.
Robert felt congenially pleased with the preparations. He should have felt every inch the expansive host as he watched everyone eat, drink and be merry. Everyone, except Imogen beside him, was enjoying themselves mightily, but that omission was the thing that irritated him the most. Imogen was silently fighting him and, damn it, she may even be winning.
Aware of her fear of crowds, Robert had intended to behave the chivalric knight and escort her, also intending to reassure her as best he could, just as Mary had wanted him to.
Imogen, however, had easily forestalled the small gallantry. As the first guests arrived, Imogen had floated regally into the hall, with Mary discreetly leading her. Even as he felt the heat of irritation flare on his face, the vision she presented nearly brought him to his knees. All rational thought dissolved, leaving Robert with nothing to do but stare like an idiot at a queen.
She had changed from her angelic pink into a red velvet robe, but it wasn’t the sultry color that Robert found himself objecting to. No, it was the way the tight lacing made the fabric almost lovingly cling to the curves of her body, and the neckline, which seemed scandalously low to Robert’s suddenly puritanical eyes. They had narrowed when he noticed that every male in the hall had focused his attention on the flimsy lace inset that covered the pale skin at the top of her breasts. She had carefully bound her hair with gold thread, and eschewed the mantle worn by the women of the court, leaving the line of her vulnerable throat naked and, for a moment, Robert was struck dumb with awe. It seemed almost impossible that such a being existed outside of heaven.
He had watched as she walked with a calm dignity toward the dais, obviously trying to hide that it was actually tearing her into small pieces. Only when she got closer did Robert become aware of the whiteness of her knuckles on Mary’s arm.
When the old woman carefully removed those fingers, Imogen dropped into a very correct curtsy in front of him. He, with ill-disguised eagerness, had got up and helped her up the steps of the dais.
Then she ignored him; ignored them all.
She now sat stiffly in her chair, her hands held tightly in her lap, seemingly oblivious to her surroundings. She had remained unmoving when the sumptuous food had been brought into the hall. When the grunts and murmurs of satisfaction filled the large chambers she seemed to draw into herself more tightly.
Robert could almost physically feel the strength of will radiating from the woman, as she deliberately made no attempt to sample the aromatic food just in front of her, but to look at her she seemed entirely unmoved. It was as though she had been turned into a very beautiful statue, as if she was denying herself out of existence—and that was what angered Robert so much.
Robert didn’t want a lady made of stone and willpower; he wanted the blood-hot woman he had kissed that morning. He needed her to be real. He would make her real, he thought with a small, grim smile of determination.