Captive (8 page)

“What did you have in mind?”

Sarah noticed the slight furrow of Tristan’s brow, as if he hadn’t anticipated her
question. Could it be that he hadn’t thought this through? Did he think she wouldn’t
call his bluff?

“A series of contests,” Tristan said after a moment. “Challenges, if you will.”

“What sort of challenges?”

“The sort I deem entertaining.”

And here comes the crazy.
Sarah fought back a welling despair.
He just wants to torment me himself rather than let the wraith do it.

“If you fail to meet the challenge,” Tristan continued, “you will answer the questions
I ask.”

“And if I don’t fail?” Sarah shot back.

“I won’t kill you. Nor will I allow any of my charges in this castle to cause you
harm.”

Sarah tried hard not to snicker. “And will any of these challenges allow me to win
my freedom?”

“Freedom isn’t on the table.” Tristan settled into an armchair. “I’ll remind you that
you are the trespasser here. You entered my home with ill intentions, while I’ve done
nothing to merit your hostility.”

“You’re a Keeper.” Sarah glared at him.

Tristan smiled blandly in return. “Racist.”

“What if I don’t like your questions?” Sarah asked.

“You’ll like the wraith even less.” His voice was dead calm. A smile ghosted across
his mouth. “Though I’ll need my room back, if you don’t mind.”

Down to the dungeon with me, then.

“Seamus.” Tristan beckoned to the wolf, who immediately shifted forms. “Take our guest
to more appropriate quarters. I think Fand will serve.”

Seamus hesitated but then said, “As you wish, my lord.”

Returning his attention to Sarah, Tristan said, “Since you’ll be under my roof, I
hope you’ll tell me your name.”

Sarah balked. She wasn’t inclined to tell the Keeper anything.

“Or,” Tristan offered when she didn’t speak, “I could come up with my own name for
you.”

“My name is Sarah.” She didn’t trust the oddly playful gleam in his eye.

“Welcome to Castle Tierney, Sarah,” he said quietly. “I’m Tristan.”

TRISTAN WAS STILL
awake and still dressed when Seamus returned an hour later. It hadn’t been his intention
to stay up. At first he’d tried to return to his copy of Marcus Aurelius’s
Meditations,
but was far too restless to read. Instead, Tristan ended up pouring himself a scotch
and mulling over his actions.

When he’d entered the bedroom with the wolves at his side, Tristan hadn’t known how
the scene would play out. He wanted to return the captive woman’s clothes and give
her back some of the dignity Lana had stolen. He hadn’t anticipated the visceral effect
seeing her stripped and chained to his bed would have on him.

With the initial shock of finding the woman gone, it had been too easy to let his
gaze roam over the slopes and planes of her form. Her body was strong but beautifully
curved—pressed into the bed, her full breasts had spilled out from beneath the weight
of her body. Tristan had had to pull his gaze away because his gut had clenched and
his cock had begun to stiffen at the sight of her.

Once he’d freed her from the chains and gag, Tristan had sought refuge in the alcove
that served as a walk-in closet. He needed to clear his head and get a better hold
of the situation. The vague notions that had formed in Tristan’s mind were that he
would interrogate the Searcher, but would attempt to appeal to her survival instincts
to extract information rather than immediately resort to the wraiths.

But when he’d seen her again, Tristan suddenly abhorred the notion of stowing her
away in the bowels of the castle. He wanted her close. He wanted to question her himself,
but not under threat of torment.

His impromptu plan had formed as he grabbed jeans and a T-shirt. He didn’t think he’d
be able to make his proposal and be taken seriously while shirtless.

When Seamus had escorted Sarah from his room, Tristan began to grope for justifications
for his actions. He wasn’t trying to deny the primal attraction that drew him to Sarah.
But Tristan believed he was in control of his baser instincts—simple lust wasn’t enough
to explain his impulse to keep his prisoner close.

What Tristan finally settled on was the need for purpose. For the first time since
he’d been sequestered in Castle Tierney, Tristan had the opportunity to participate
in the war that shaped his world but that he’d been forced to remain aloof from. The
enemy had scaled his walls, gained entry to his home. Tristan could turn the Searcher
over to Bosque, or he could take matters into his own hands. The former held little
appeal, while the latter . . . well, the latter was more than interesting.

Convincing Bosque that he’d made the right decision would likely be Tristan’s greatest
challenge—but he thought he knew how to persuade the Keeper overlord. While his minions
preferred to inflict suffering upon humans in a direct manner, Bosque had always been
a master of subtlety. Given that Lord Mar constantly reminded Tristan that he was
one of the few Keepers who could trace a direct line to their founding mother, Eira,
and Bosque himself, Tristan believed that Bosque would be intrigued by Tristan’s handling
of the Searcher.

This game would be one of wit and will. Well played, it would earn Tristan Bosque
Mar’s admiration and alleviate the apathy with which Tristan had regarded his life
of late. He pushed away a nagging thought that the subcreatures’ tactics with prisoners
might be more honorable. Honor had never been a priority among the Keepers; their
aim was and had always been power.

Seamus had knocked and then waited politely for Tristan to call him into the room.
Tristan sensed immediately that the Guardian was on edge. He poured a second scotch
and handed it to Seamus.

“How is our guest settling in?” Tristan asked the wolf.

Seamus gave a slow shake of his head. “She’s confused and . . . so am I. My lord,
forgive me for asking, but what the hell has gotten into you?”

Tristan looked at Seamus with a rueful smile. “It probably won’t reassure you to hear
me say I’m not sure.”

When Seamus frowned, Tristan continued. “I have every intention of finding out who
she is and why she’s here and how she came to know that ‘here’ exists, but I’m going
to be rather unorthodox in the way I go about it.”

“Unorthodox, eh?” Seamus chortled before taking a sip of the whisky. “Is that a fancy
way of saying you’re going to trick her into shagging you?”

Tristan choked a little on his drink. He shouldn’t have been surprised that Seamus
read him so easily, but the bluntness of the wolf’s words were still startling.

“That’s not how I’d put it,” Tristan replied.

“No, you prefer to call it unorthodox, but the truth is you had a lovely thing laying
bare-ass on your bed. A man’s blood won’t soon forget such a sight.” Seamus tipped
his glass toward Tristan. “Be careful, lad. I won’t deny that the Searcher’s a fine-looking
woman, and I’d be as wary about bedding Lana as you’ve become, but this stranger is
still your enemy and your prisoner.”

“Don’t worry. I haven’t forgotten.” Tristan sighed and looked directly into Seamus’s
war-weary face. “You think I should just give her to a wraith?”

Seamus’s lip curled back and Tristan saw the wolf’s canines sharpen. “That’s not what
I said. Just keep your eyes open.”

Tristan nodded, and Seamus swirled the amber liquid in his glass.

“How do you expect Lana to take it?” Seamus asked.

“Yes.” Lana stood in the doorway. “How do you expect me to take it? You certainly
know how I like it, which is why I’m quite puzzled with what I’ve been hearing about
the treatment of our prisoner.”

Setting his glass aside, Tristan glanced at Seamus. “Give us a minute.”

The Guardian took the time to bare his canines at Lana as he passed her, but otherwise
left without objection.

When Seamus had closed the door, Lana shot up in the air. She circled the room twice,
buffeting Tristan with gusts of wind from the punctuated flaps of her leathery wings.

Tristan knew it was meant to be a show of power, to remind him that the succubus wasn’t
to be trifled with. But the spectacle failed to impress Tristan. Lana could access
powerful magics, but Tristan was still her master. She posed no real threat to him.
She could, however, be a terrible nuisance and that was what Tristan aimed to avoid.

When Lana finally landed face-to-face with Tristan, she splayed her fingers across
his chest, letting her long fingernails dig into his shirt.

“Well?”

“I’ve decided to take a different tack with the Searcher,” Tristan told her calmly.

“That much is obvious.” Lana sniffed with disdain. “What I want to know is, why? Are
you really so emasculated that you can’t take what’s yours by right of conquest?”

Tristan didn’t bother to reply, knowing her rampage wasn’t finished.

Lana’s mouth hooked into a taunting smile. “Or perhaps you were too chilled after
your midnight swim to perform? Did you need me to warm you up first?”

Her hand darted out and grasped Tristan’s balls. He drew a hissing breath as his fingers
clamped around her wrist, shoving her arm away.

“Take care, Lana,” Tristan murmured, determined not to lose his temper.

“You gave her a room instead of a cell,” Lana snarled. She tried to wrench her arm
free of Tristan’s grasp, but he was stronger and didn’t relent.

“I know.”

“Why?” Lana’s fury turned to a whimper and Tristan let her go, convinced she wouldn’t
physically assault him again.

“Machiavelli, Sun Tzu.” Tristan picked up his scotch and took a leisurely swallow.

Lana smirked at him. “Dead writers?”

“Philosophers and tacticians,” Tristan answered. “Men who understood that wars are
fought in the mind as much, if not more, than on the battlefield.”

“You’re at war with that woman?” Lana scoffed.

“She’s a Searcher,” Tristan replied coolly. “Of course I’m at war with her. But being
that she’s here and disarmed, it offers a fine opportunity for a more nuanced attack.”

“How so?” Lana tried to sound bored, but Tristan knew he’d piqued her interest.

“By bringing her around to our way of thinking,” Tristan said.

Derision filled Lana’s gaze. “You think you’ll convince Bosque to elevate a Searcher?
You’re a fool.”

Tristan answered her with a harsh laugh. “Of course not. I only propose to persuade
our captive to join us, so that she’ll give us what we want. And when we have that,
hard truths will be hers to deal with.”

Lana stalked up to Tristan. He stayed perfectly still as she cupped his face and kissed
him.

“That is delicious,” she said breathlessly.

Tristan waited until she’d backed off, then said, “I expected you’d appreciate the
benefits of such an approach.”

Lana nodded eagerly. “So will Owen. Her misery . . . just thinking about it makes
me—”

She stopped abruptly, glaring at him. “
You’ll
have to pull it off though.”

“You don’t think I can?” Tristan peered at her over the rim of his glass.

Lana eyed him for a minute. “Perhaps. I guess we’ll have to see.”

“I guess we will.” Tristan returned her assessing gaze. “If you’d like to tip the
odds in our favor, I could use your assistance.”

“What do you need?” Lana asked.

“Supplies,” Tristan answered with a smile. “Supplies of a very particular nature.”

SARAH STARED OUT
the narrow slit of a window, wondering if she should make every possible effort to
escape. The window, obviously a notch in the wall designed for archers, was not an
option. She could have hidden behind the door, knocking out the next person—or creature—who
opened it, and run like hell. Since Sarah already knew the castle was secured by Guardians
and nether fiends, it seemed unlikely that an escape on foot would be successful.

Irrational as it seemed, escaping wasn’t the first thing on Sarah’s mind. Her thoughts
continually returned to the bizarre scene that had played out with her captor—the
Keeper named Tristan. Relieved as she’d been that Tristan had not assaulted her, nor
suggested that he at any point intended to, Sarah had no idea what to make of him.

Sarah’s bewilderment only increased when the Guardian Seamus had taken her not to
a dank cell carved out of the stone beneath the castle but had instead deposited her
in a spacious bedchamber appointed with Tudor furnishings. Massive tapestries upon
which entire bestiaries frolicked covered the stone walls.

There was also a large fireplace, and Sarah considered whether scaling the chimney
was a viable means of escape. It had potential, but Sarah suspected that escape wasn’t
her best course of action. At least, not yet.

She was in the castle and she was about to have access to the master of this secret
isle. She could think of no better way to continue and fulfill her mission. The chimney
would still be there after she learned more about this place. The drawback to her
plan remained that she wouldn’t return to the fisherman’s boat the following night,
and Ian would report to Sarah’s fellow Searchers that she’d been lost. Sarah hated
to think of how distraught Anika would be, but she wasn’t worried that Micah would
send a rescue team after her. This wasn’t the sort of mission one could be rescued
from. Sarah had known that when she volunteered for it.

If Sarah played this game of Tristan’s, and could avoid harm while gleaning knowledge
from the Keeper, she could return to the Roving Academy having accomplished the mission.
It meant that her friends would suffer for the time being, but Sarah decided that
the end goal trumped that point. She’d also have to find another way off the island—but
Sarah knew that food and other sundries had to arrive at Castle Tierney by some means
of transportation. If she could locate a boat, she could devise a way to commandeer
it for her own escape or possibly stow away on one of its trips to the mainland.

A knock at the door turned Sarah from the window—yet another strange moment in this
most bizarre of days: who knocked on a prisoner’s door?

Another knock and Sarah fumbled for a reply, settling on “Yes?”

“May I come in, miss?” The voice was young and female, and more than a little nervous.

More curious than anything, Sarah called, “Yes. Come in.”

The door opened and a girl who Sarah guessed could be no more than sixteen meekly
edged into the room. The girl made a quick curtsy. She was dressed in a gray smock
and apron. Bright copper curls peeked out from beneath her starched white cap. Looking
at the girl, Sarah had the sensation of being transported back in time at least a
century.

“My name is Moira, miss,” the girl told Sarah, keeping her eyes downcast when she
spoke. “I’m to attend you while you’re a guest of Master Tristan.”

“Attend me?” Sarah frowned.

“Yes, miss,” Moira replied, dipping into another curtsy. “As your lady’s maid.”

Sarah gave a snort of disbelief and Moira looked at her with wide eyes.

“Have I offended Your Ladyship?”

“Dear lord.” Sarah shook her head. “First of all, you cannot call me Your Ladyship.”

“But—” Moira wrung her hands, glancing at the open door behind her as if she wanted
to run. “What am I to call you?”

“Sarah is fine.”

Moira appeared even more distressed. “But . . . miss . . . I’m just a servant. To
use your Christian name would be a sign of great disrespect. Master Tristan would
be cross with me.”

Frustrated, Sarah considered the girl. She certainly didn’t want to force Moira to
behave in such a way that could land her in trouble.

“Is ‘miss’ okay?” Sarah asked.

Moira nodded.

“Let’s go with that, then,” Sarah told the girl. “Just no Lady or Ladyships.”

“Yes, miss.” Moira curtsied again, and Sarah had to stop herself from telling the
girl to knock off the curtsying, but she didn’t want to get into another discussion
about propriety.

An awkward silence filled the space between them. Sarah had no idea what to do with
Moira, and Moira was obviously waiting for instruction.

At last Moira offered, “Would you like me to escort you to the baths before you retire
for the night?”

“Excuse me?”

Moira’s freckled cheeks bloomed with a blush. “The baths are located in the lowest
part of the castle.”

“I don’t think I need a bath tonight.” That wasn’t quite true. The climb, her capture,
and fear had left her sweat-covered and grimy. Even so, Sarah wasn’t ready to embrace
this role that Tristan seemed to have molded for her. Lady of the manor? Was that
how he intended to play things?

Unwelcome thoughts of dollhouses and serial killers sprang into Sarah’s mind.

“Would you like me to help you prepare for bed then, miss?” Moira tried again.

“Uh”—Sarah glanced at the bed—“what exactly does that entail?”

Moira covered her mouth to stifle a giggle, and then cast a horrified glance at Sarah.
Sarah quickly offered her a reassuring smile—she was glad that the girl seemed to
be less frightened than when she’d first appeared.

Casting Sarah a shy smile in return, Moira said, “I will lay out your nightgown and
turn down the bed. Then if you like, I will brush your hair so it isn’t tangled when
you go to sleep.”

“Does Master Tristan have his hair brushed every night before bed?” Sarah asked.

Moira gasped, then clapped her hand over her mouth again, though she couldn’t completely
muffle her giggling.

With a conspiratorial grin, Sarah said, “I’m happy to have your company, Moira, but
I don’t have a nightgown or a brush. You’re welcome to turn down the bed.”

“I’ve been told that clothing is being brought up for you, miss,” Moira replied brightly.
“That’s part of the reason I thought you could go to the baths. I’m sure your things
will arrive in the meantime.”

While getting cleaned up had appeal, Sarah wasn’t keen to be naked and exposed in
this strange place just yet. The memory of being stripped and tied down was still
too fresh.

“Maybe some hot water and a washcloth for now,” Sarah told Moira.

The girl curtsied yet again and scurried from the room, leaving Sarah alone once more.
Her gaze strayed to the fireplace. The chimney wasn’t going anywhere.

As she waited for Moira to return, Sarah went about inspecting the non-escape-related
features of her quarters. The bed was carved of dark wood, clothed and canopied in
burgundy velvet. And it was enormous; Sarah thought she was just as likely to drown
in it than sleep. In addition to the tapestries, stout wooden chests and tall armoires—all
carved as intricately as the bed—huddled against the walls. Sarah opened a few of
the chests and found spare bed linens and towels, but when she checked the armoires
she discovered they were completely empty.

Continuing her exploration, Sarah was pleased to find that a windowed alcove in the
room had been retrofitted with a thick wooden door to offer privacy for a quarter
bath.

Medieval castle, yes, but not without modern amenities. Though apparently no showers
in the en-suite bathrooms.

“Miss?”

Sarah exited the bathroom at Moira’s call. “I’m here, Moira.”

Steam rose from a ceramic pitcher in Moira’s grasp and she also held a matching bowl.
The ridiculousness of the scene made Sarah curse under her breath. Moira could have
pointed out that there was a sink with hot and cold running water in the small bathroom,
but apparently the young girl had been trained to do exactly what her master or mistress
asked, not offer more pragmatic alternatives.

Moira smiled at Sarah. “Where would you like these, miss?”

Sarah couldn’t help herself. “Ummm, probably in the bathroom is best.”

“Yes, miss.” Moira breezed past Sarah into the alcove, oblivious to Sarah’s sarcasm.

Someone coughed politely at the still-open door to the room. Sarah was startled to
see four women, dressed in servants’ uniforms similar to Moira’s, carrying armloads
of boxes.

“May we put your things away, Your Ladyship?” the woman at the front of the group
asked.

Sarah started to object to the unwanted title, but gave up and shrugged. The women
trotted into the room with their boxes and began to unpack them with remarkable efficiency.

Moira reappeared from the alcove and clasped her hands in delight. “Oh, good, they’ve
arrived.”

Turning to Sarah, Moira said, “Miss, if you want to wash yourself now, I can have
your nightclothes laid out for when you’ve finished.”

“
Tsk,
Moira!” One of the other servants narrowed her eyes at the serving girl. “You’re
to address her as Your Ladyship.”

Moira cupped her hands over her mouth and loudly whispered, “She doesn’t like it.”

“She’s right here!” Sarah exclaimed, deciding that this whole charade was likely some
new form of interrogation by befuddlement. “And what is all this?”

She pointed to the clothes, some of which were carefully folded and placed inside
the once-empty drawers while others were hung in the armoires.

“Master Tristan arranged for you to have proper attire while you’re a guest in the
castle,” Moira told her.

Inching forward to peer at what sort of clothing constituted “proper attire” to her
captor, Sarah had to stifle a gasp when she saw the wardrobe that was being put away.
The items being hung were gowns. Not dresses, but gowns of silk brocade, chiffon,
taffeta, and velvet. Sarah had never worn anything resembling such dresses. Nor was
she certain she wanted to. Her eyes moved to the fireplace as she considered the logistics
of scaling the chimney in couture.

While her surprise upon seeing the gowns was substantial, the swirl of confusion turned
to dread when the servants opened new boxes from which sprung lingerie of the most
sensual variety.

Why would I want or need lace and silk bras and panties? And how the hell did they
get the right size?

“Does the selection please you?” an unpleasantly familiar voice purred from doorway.

Sarah had to swallow bile at the sight of Lana. The succubus smiled and flapped her
wings, making Sarah work hard to tamp down her violent emotions. She knew any distress
she felt was akin to spoon-feeding the nether creature.

Straightening her spine, Sarah said to Lana, “This is your work?”

“I was tasked with providing you an appropriate wardrobe,” Lana answered, crossing
the room to pick through one of the boxes. She lifted a bra of creamy silk and sheer
paneling for inspection. “It’s all a bit tame, if you ask me, but you struck me as
a little meek.”

Sarah’s chest tightened. “You don’t know me very well, then.”

“I suppose I don’t,” Lana replied, dropping the bra into the box. “Would you like
me to find some more daring items to add to this collection?”

“I’m sure all of this is fine,” Sarah replied. “No. Forget that. It’s unnecessary.
What is this circus you’re subjecting me to?”

Lana’s eyebrows shot up. “I’m not subjecting you to anything, lovely. I simply do
as my master orders.” Her ruby lips curved. “As you will as well . . . soon enough.”

That made Sarah shudder, and Lana licked her lips.

“Get out of here.” Sarah turned away from the succubus.

“Your pleasure is my command,” Lana replied. “Enjoy your new things.”

A wave of relief poured over Sarah when Lana was gone, but not only because of that.
Sarah felt a bit more at ease knowing that this wardrobe had been put together by
the succubus and not specifically requisitioned by Tristan. The lingerie, the gowns—all
of it was calculated to exacerbate Sarah’s distress for Lana’s enjoyment. But that
was to be expected from a creature such as Lana, and Sarah could cope with Lana’s
petty provocations.

Tristan, on the other hand, Sarah needed to handle with cool confidence, to interact
with him as normally as possible in order to surmise who he was and what was so important
about this castle.

“Are you all right, miss?” Moira was peering at Sarah. The girl’s face was noticeably
paler.

Sarah nodded, then glanced from Moira to the other women. “But you’re all human,”
Sarah blurted.

Moira glanced around uncomfortably, and seemingly not knowing what else to do, dropped
into a teetering curtsy. “Yes, miss.”

Trying to recover from her outburst, Sarah stammered, “I just meant, um, what I’m
trying to say is, how do you accept the strange creatures who live and work beside
you?”

She thrust her finger in the direction in which Lana had just departed. “You did see
that she had wings, right? What the hell are you doing here? Any of you?”

“We don’t speak of it, miss.” Moira’s voice dropped low, and she twisted her fingers
together anxiously. She cast a quick, worried glance at the other servant women.

Biting back further questions, Sarah nodded and said, “I think I’ll wash up now.”

“Very good, miss.” Moira brightened. “I’ll get you a towel and dressing gown.”

“Thank you.”

Sarah managed to keep herself collected until she closed the bathroom door. Then she
pivoted, gripped the basin, and bent her head, trying to sort through her cluttered
thoughts. That humans worked as servants in a Keeper household shouldn’t have come
as a surprise, but Sarah still found it unnerving. It also explained why Castle Tierney
operated as if it were still the nineteenth century. The Keepers held human beings
in contempt, and while they were happy to manipulate anyone for their benefit, the
one thing Keepers would not suffer was the treatment of humans as equals.