Midnight Eyes. Sarah Brophy

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