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

asking her what her immediate plans were. It took her mind a moment to put together a coherent reply, answering numbly that she hadn’t made any plans beyond this interview.

“Excellent,” he said smoothly. “I will have chambers put at you and your people’s disposal till I have sorted this matter out to my satisfaction.” He placed a heavy hand on her slight shoulder. “It shouldn’t take long.”

She had to swallow past the lump of cold fear in her throat before she could speak.

“May I…May I ask where exactly my husband is?” she stammered.

William smiled sardonically. “It will no doubt relieve you to know that Robert is languishing rather romantically in the dungeons, awaiting my pleasure.”

The rush of relief that washed over Imogen left her feeling so light-headed that she barely noticed as William helped her from the chair and handed her over to the guard he had summoned.

“Rest,” he suggested awkwardly. “It will help the time of waiting to pass.”

“Thank you,” she said huskily.

William cleared his throat uncomfortably, signaling frantically for the guard to get this weeping woman out of his presence, and he let out a sigh of relief as the door closed behind her. He hated women who cried. Not that he saw them doing it all that often; he made sure of that.

He turned from the door and couldn’t stop himself from walking over to the table and picking up the ring. It was only a simple piece but beautiful in its own way.

He hated it.

The cold metal seemed to yell for the entire world to hear that King William, son of the great Conqueror, had been taken for a lovesick fool. His hand tightened compulsively around it, pressing the ring’s smooth edges deeply into the flesh of his palm. But, even hidden, he couldn’t seem to stop its cold weight from whispering that the man he loved didn’t love him, and never had. Roger had been attracted only to the power inherent in being the king’s lover, not the person beneath the crown. It was a truth that left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Not that it was completely a revelation.

He had always been a little skeptical about the depths of Roger’s passion, had always known that kings were rarely loved for themselves alone. Despite that, he had actually dared to hope that Roger felt something beyond lust for power when he surrendered his body intimately to the demands of his monarch. He had even believed that it hadn’t been self-interest alone that had led Roger into the royal bed.

William snorted derisively as he threw the ring carelessly back on the table. He had been deluding himself and it was time for him to stop acting like a fool in love.

He reached for the tankard of ale that was never far from his side and drained the contents in one long swallow and called for another. While he waited he stared broodingly at the letters, letters that were clearly written in Roger’s own hand. They were damning. In them Roger actually dared to gloat about his power over the king. Their very existence mocked him and he longed to consign them to the fires of deepest Hell.

When the second tankard arrived he drank it more slowly, all the while staring at Roger’s damnation.

By the fifth he had to close his eyes, no longer able to bear it. He leaned back his head against the chair and smiled sullenly at his own folly. Tonight he would get drunk and tomorrow he would face harsh realities. Tomorrow he would have to be king.

“Leave the jug and bring me another,” he said harshly to the servant who waited patiently near the door. “Then, after that, I don’t want to be disturbed.” He opened his eyes and pinned the man with a steely stare. “Not by anyone, is that understood?”

The man nodded frantically, anxious to get out of the king’s explosive presence.

William smiled savagely at the sight of the man scuttling off in fear. Tonight he would grieve in private. Tomorrow he would face the laughing eyes of his court.

Tomorrow, and for the rest of his life.

“What the hell do you mean you can’t let me in?” Roger roared. “I always have access to the king’s person.”

“I’m sorry, my lord, but the king’s instructions are clear. He was not to be disturbed.” The guard’s eyes didn’t quite meet Roger’s. “By anyone.”

Roger glared in frustrated anger, but knew that he was temporarily beaten. He turned on his heel and marched back to his chamber, struggling to ignore the gloating stares that followed his progress, but unable to stop the dull flush that flared on his pale face.

He dismissed his attendants and sat down on the bed.

It was all that bitch’s fault, he thought angrily. Ian had warned him, of course, but he had failed to comprehend just how much damage his sister could do in such little time.

Perhaps he should have listened to Ian. He’d said that her marriage had changed her, but Roger hadn’t taken the priest seriously. He had been confident that he had the king, body and soul, and nothing his little sister could say would change that.

It was a mistake. In just a matter of hours, Imogen had managed to turn the king’s mind against him. What else could explain the king’s unprecedented refusal to see him? When he had his hands on his little sister, nothing would save her, he thought savagely.

He tried to feed his anger, tried to let it consume him, but it couldn’t disguise the panic that was eating into the pit of his stomach. Somehow, everything was going terribly wrong. For the first time in his adult life, he was losing control of a situation. It left him with the overwhelming desire to break things.

Like Imogen’s sweet little neck.

His eyes narrowed as a vision of her filled his mind. His palms itched to break her, to sully her perfection, to make her his alone. The bitch! This was her fault. She had