Midnight Eyes by Brophy, Sarah (well read books .TXT) 📕

the tension that radiated from her, smell her fear. It made the locked tower a sinister place, a place of dark secrets, and he didn’t like it, he realized grimly.

Tension entered his shoulders. He was a veteran of too many wars not to know the folly of ignorance and right now he knew so little he felt like he was fighting an unseen enemy with one hand tied behind his back.

He set his jaw and curled his free hand around Imogen’s before stepping into the tower room.

What his torch illuminated caused him to stop stock-still in shock. He wasn’t really sure what he’d been expecting in Imogen’s dark tower, but he knew that this wasn’t it.

The place was a treasure trove!

Along one wall a staircase curled around and up through the ceiling. Every other spare inch of space seemed to be taken up with a jumble of objects that filled the chamber to overflowing. Furniture sat beside rolls of fur rugs and tapestries. Wooden crates were packed one on top of the other. Some had toppled over and revealed flashes of silver and gold.

One of the fallen boxes even revealed a pile of valuable books that had been scattered carelessly over the stone floor; their jewel-encrusted leather covers gleaming in the light of his torch.

“Mother of God!” he breathed out. “What the hell is all this stuff?”

Her smile was both bright and brittle. “My life.” She let go of his hand and started to feel her way forward. Robert paused only to light a candle that had been placed in a holder near the door and put the makeshift torch into a wall sconce before following silently behind her.

She touched one of the rolled tapestries and ran a shaky hand over the back of the tiny stitches.

“What’s the design?”

Her voice was quiet, and Robert could hear the pain that reverberated through it. He carefully placed the candle on a nearby box and dragged the tapestry off the stack. He clumsily unrolled it and gave it a shake, showering them both with a fine layer of dust. He looked carefully at the simple tapestry, uncomfortably aware that in normal circumstances he’d barely have noticed it.

“It’s a forest scene of some sort.” He gave an awkward shrug. He’d never felt quite this inadequate before. “There is some kind of flower border. In the top right-hand corner there seems to be a group of hunters, and at the bottom a group of ladies and minstrels are feasting and they are being watched by an odd horse.”

She ran her hand over the stitches, the picture rising from the darkness of her memories. “Not a horse; a unicorn. It hung in my father’s armory. Mother hated weapons of war in her home and would only tolerate them if the room could be made to look as little like an armory as possible.” A whisper of a smile filtered over her face. “When Father wasn’t looking, she would get the servants to cover the swords and bows with cloth, and when she wasn’t looking he would have them removed again.

“I’d almost forgotten about that,” she said, a sad acceptance etching itself on her face.

Robert’s hand clenched tightly around the fabric and he had to force himself to let it go.

“Can you see the books?” she asked, unaware of his rising anger in her eagerness for more reunions.

“Yes,” he answered quietly.

She felt for his hand and held on to it tightly. “Take me to them.”

He helped her pick her way through the boxes, furniture and rolls of fabric. They knelt in front of the disorderly pile of books. Robert could almost feel her excitement inside himself. She held out her hands expectantly.

Robert hesitated a second, then placed the first volume carefully in them.

She ran her hand over the surface and lowered her nose to inhale the scent of leather, parchment, glue and gilt. This time when she smiled, it was almost luminous with its intensity. Robert had to fight off the feeling that he was intruding on a personal moment, but he watched her intently as she gripped the book tightly to her chest, his anger burning hot. He had to clear his throat before he could speak. “Imogen, why?” he asked tightly.

“Why what?” Her voice sounded remote as her hands moved lovingly over the old leather.

“Why aren’t these things that you clearly love so much at the Keep near you?” Robert’s voice pulsed with repressed anger. “Why weren’t you surrounded with things that were familiar to you when you lost your sight? Why, Imogen?”

“Ah, that ‘why.’” She turned to him, her smile bittersweet with pain. “Because that would have made it too easy and Roger didn’t want to make it easy. He wanted to bleed me till I was obedient. He wanted me to give in and he thought that this”—she gracefully gestured to encompass the room—“would encourage that obedience.”

She sat down, curling one arm around her knees, while the other held the book tightly to her chest, and began to rock gently back and forth. “Every visit he tells me of all the things he has locked in here, tells me how to get in here. Each time he leaves knowing that the information is burning into my brain. Sometimes as a refinement he brings me something, lets me hold it before stealing it away again, saying I can only keep them if I—”

“If you what?” Robert was abstractly surprised at how calm he managed to sound when everything inside of him demanded violence.

Now wasn’t the time. That pleasure would have to wait; now he needed information. Information Imogen was deliberately withholding from him in her silence. He watched as she drew subtly away from him into those parts of her mind to which he had no access. Fear of losing her to her demons galvanized him into action. He tore the book from her grasp and threw it heedlessly onto the floor, ignoring her gasp of protest. He grabbed hold of her shoulder and