Captive (9 page)

Why were Moira and the others here? Had they somehow been persuaded to accept employment
at the castle, or had they been coerced into service? Could some of the servants be
those men and women, like Ian’s wife, who’d gone missing?

The Keepers controlled those who served them through fear and lies, as well as bribes
and power plays. If she could figure out how the humans on this island had been co-opted
into Keeper service, Sarah might be able to use that to her advantage—possibly even
to the point of turning them against their master. It had been done in the past; fear
begat submission but not loyalty.

So Castle Tierney was home to humans, Guardians, nether creatures, and a Keeper. But
was Tristan the only Keeper who resided within these walls, wondered Sarah, or was
he simply the man in charge? In order to find a way out of her prison, Sarah would
need to know as much about the castle and its inhabitants as possible. And she’d have
to uncover that information while keeping herself alive. At the moment, Tristan wasn’t
interested in killing her.

Sarah still didn’t understand why that was the case, but it was clear that she’d have
to make sure the Keeper didn’t change his mind.

TRISTAN RARELY WENT
to the castle’s massive kitchens, but he was on his third visit of the day. He could
tell it was putting the cook and her staff on edge. They couldn’t help stealing nervous
glances at one another, as though they expected to receive the bad news that they
would soon be reassigned, or worse.

In an attempt to reassure his servants, Tristan kept a pleasant smile on his face
as he surveyed the evolving meal for that evening: fresh vegetables being prepped
for roasting; fragrant herbs piled into a mortar and pestle; gleaming copper kettles
and saucepans arranged on stovetops, waiting to be filled with ingredients.

“Duck, then?” Tristan asked the cook. He’d asked this question twice before.

“Is Your Lordship wanting to change the menu?” The cook frowned. “Does he perhaps
prefer venison? Or pheasant?”

“No,” Tristan replied with a shake of his head. “Duck is fine. Just stopping by to
see how it’s all coming together.”

“Very well, my lord.” With a brusque nod, the cook shooed her staff back to their
respective tasks.

Tristan watched them settle into their familiar roles and then retreated from the
kitchen, swearing to himself that he wouldn’t return. He found his sudden interest
in the evening meal’s preparation odd. He’d never had complaints about the food at
Castle Tierney. The cook was skilled, and Tristan could request any dish he craved.
However, having whatever he pleased, whenever he pleased, had encouraged a sort of
apathy to develop within him. He approached the fine cuisine set before him, meals
that he often took alone, as yet another duty.

But Tristan wouldn’t be dining alone that night. He had a guest.

A prisoner.
He corrected his thought, though he did consider Sarah to be something of a guest,
despite her captivity. This was all part of the game. Each piece had to be set up
and played perfectly, and that included the time Tristan and Sarah would spend sharing
meals.

So Tristan had been compelled to descend to the ground floor of the castle and ensure
that dinner would be both delicious and impressive. From the exasperation on the kitchen
staff’s faces, however, Tristan had to admit that his continued presence would hinder,
rather than help, the culinary efforts of the day.

Bidding the cook farewell and trying not to notice the relieved sighs he heard at
his back, Tristan trudged back up the stairs, wondering what to do with himself. He
was restless. Most of his days passed without incident. He read. He rode Ares around
the island. Sometimes he climbed the castle towers to gaze at the frothing sea. The
hours turned and Tristan simply was.

Now that Sarah was present in the castle, however, Tristan was filled with the compulsion
to
do
something. He’d planned for his first encounter with the Searcher to take place over
dinner, and he’d given instructions to the castle’s servants to let Sarah relax in
her room until the evening meal. He’d meant it to be an act of kindness, as he imagined
the woman must be exhausted from her ordeal the previous night.

What Tristan hadn’t anticipated was how much he’d want to see her. Thoughts of Sarah,
speculation about how she’d passed the night and how she’d fared thus far through
the day occupied him to the point of distraction.

Given the bent of his thoughts, it probably shouldn’t have surprised Tristan as much
as it did to find himself standing in front of Fand—the quarters he’d designated as
Sarah’s. His intention had been to retreat to his study and pass the time with a book,
but his feet had led him to Fand instead.

Tristan gazed at the tall oak door for a moment, then knocked. Was he not the master
of his own house? If his desire was to see his prisoner, then he would do so at will.

The door opened and Tristan was greeted by a slight serving girl whose eyes went very
wide at the sight of him. She curtsied so quickly that she almost fell forward into
Tristan’s arms.

“How may I serve, my lord?” The girl remained crouched in the lowest part of her curtsy.
It looked very uncomfortable.

Tristan searched his mind for the girl’s name but couldn’t come up with it. He didn’t
usually interact with the general staff of the castle; his orders were passed along
by Owen, Lana, or Seamus.

“Good afternoon . . .” Tristan paused, hoping that somehow the girl’s name would miraculously
spring into his mind.

“Moira,” a voice within the room answered drily. “Her name is Moira.”

Moira snapped to attention, her face going chalk white.

Sarah appeared at Moira’s shoulder. “Good afternoon, Tristan.”

A night of rest and a bath had transformed the Searcher. Not that Tristan hadn’t found
Sarah striking from the moment he first came upon her—how could he not, given the
way she’d been bared and splayed on his bed; now her presence emanated strength and
resolve. The frenetic, coiled energy of a captured wild animal that had pervaded her
limbs the previous night was gone. She’d plaited her dark hair and was dressed in
suede riding breeches and a cashmere sweater of dove gray.

“Stand up, Moira,” Sarah murmured to the girl. Moira’s eyes flicked nervously from
Sarah to Tristan, but when Tristan gave a small nod Moira popped up and backed away
to stand alongside Sarah.

Tristan met Sarah’s gaze and found her pale green eyes unflinching, ready for a challenge.
The sheer grit in her demeanor made Tristan question the wisdom of his desire to give
her so much freedom even as she remained his captive. But his curiosity about the
Searcher was unrelenting.

It’s not as if she won’t be watched whenever she moves about the castle,
Tristan reassured himself.

Guardians would skulk in the shadows wherever Sarah went, ensuring that any attempt
at escape or attack would be instantly quelled. Even knowing that, Tristan was unsettled
by the cool determination in the Searcher’s expression, but he was equally determined
not to reveal his discomfiture.

“You don’t bother to learn the names of the people who live here?” Sarah asked.

Tristan ignored her question, looking at Moira instead. “My apologies, Moira. Your
name slipped my mind.”

Moira looked startled and curtsied again. Sarah let out an exasperated breath.

Returning his attention to the Searcher, Tristan said, “I thought you might like a
tour of the castle.”

“With you?” Sarah eyed him for a moment, calculating.

“It is my home.” Tristan smiled coolly.

“Just you?”

The question startled Tristan, as did the slightly suggestive tone with which she
asked it. It only took a moment of staring at her in puzzlement for Tristan to realize
she’d been trying to provoke him . . . no, not provoke, test. She was already gauging
his words, his reactions, in order to situate herself and take advantage.

This discovery pleased Tristan more than it worried him. If she’d been sullen, he
would have doubted the viability of his plans. However, if Sarah approached his challenges
as a true competitor, things could prove more than interesting.

“Yes,” Tristan answered her. “Just me, more or less. I’m never without Guardians,
of course.”

Sarah nodded. “Okay. Let’s have a tour.”

Tristan offered his arm and Sarah balked. He smiled at the sudden break in her confidence.

Recovering, Sarah said tartly, “I can walk without assistance, thank you.”

“As you wish.” Tristan shrugged.

“Would you like tea when you return, miss?” Moira piped up.

Sarah stiffened a little.

She’s not comfortable with this sort of attention,
Tristan noticed with a small smile. That was good. He needed to keep her off balance
for things to go as he hoped.

“I suppose that would be nice,” Sarah answered Moira. “Thank you.”

Moira beamed, clearly relieved to have something to do.

“Shall we?” Tristan gestured toward the hall.

Sarah stepped out of the room, and Moira closed the door.

The castle keep was a stout block, constructed with the purpose of repelling enemies.
Its walls were thick and its windows were small. Tristan had done his best to imbue
the cold stone with some warmth, covering the walls with exquisitely woven tapestries
and keeping the halls well lit.

“The castle keep has four levels, including the sublevel where the baths are,” Tristan
told Sarah as they walked to the middle of the hall. “I spend most of my time here.
My quarters are there.”

“Yes,” Sarah said with a bitter edge. “I’m aware of that.”

He offered her an apologetic smile. “All the bedrooms in the castle are named for
major figures in Celtic mythology. My rooms are called Cú Chulainn. You’re staying
in Fand. The two rooms that I combined in a renovation to become a library and study
is Ogma.”

“Is your heritage Irish?” Sarah asked.

“The castle is Irish,” Tristan answered. His ancestry wasn’t a topic he felt inclined
to discuss. “Would you like to see the study?”

When Sarah nodded, Tristan quickly moved down the hall to the study. He opened the
door and stepped back to let Sarah enter first. Only a few steps in she stopped and
gasped.

Tristan came to stand alongside her, stealing a glance at her face. What he found
in her slightly parted lips and wide eyes was wonder. Tristan felt a sudden tightness
in his chest. Though he’d lived in the castle for years, the same fascination and
reverence took hold of him anytime he was alone in this room—his favorite of the castle.

Rather than taking down the entire wall that had separated two bedrooms, Tristan had
instructed that three archways be cut into the existing stone. The resulting effect
gave the larger space a cloisterlike atmosphere. Bookshelves had been built into the
walls of the room, stretching from floor to ceiling, with tall ladders on casters
giving access to the highest shelves. The only wall spaces not covered with books
were the two stone fireplaces, left in their original places in the onetime bedchambers.

“I spend most of my time here,” Tristan said quietly as Sarah gazed at the thousands
of books Tristan had carefully collected over the years. He’d stocked the library
with content in mind to complement his reading preferences—the volumes ranged from
seminal works of philosophy to all of Ray Bradbury’s works. There were, of course,
the other books too. The kind of books that find a home in the library of someone
whose life dovetails with the arcane and occult.

Sarah started at the sound of his voice. “I— It’s . . . it’s lovely.” She winced at
the insufficient word, but Tristan smiled.

“I’m glad you approve.”

Regaining some of her wryness, Sarah said, “I hope you’re a reader and this isn’t
just for show. Not that it isn’t a good show.”

“I’m a reader.” Tristan laughed. “And if you are as well, please feel free to make
use of this study whenever you like.”

“Okay,” Sarah replied with hesitation, but under her breath she said, “I don’t know
where I’d even begin.”

With a slow smile, Tristan said, “Let me help you with that.”

Clearly having meant her last words only for herself, Sarah gave Tristan a startled
look.

“Your first challenge,” Tristan continued, trying not to show his mirth. The idea
had been spontaneous. When Tristan had proposed this unusual set of terms for Sarah’s
captivity, he hadn’t fleshed out what his challenges would be, nor did he know how
they would play out. But the notion that jumped into his mind while standing with
Sarah in his study seemed like the perfect starting move for this game. Gesturing
toward the rows upon rows of books, Tristan said, “Find my favorite book.”

Sarah scanned the library, then returned her gaze to Tristan, frowning. “One book
out of all these? I take it my tasks are modeled after the labors of Hercules.”

“I do have stables you could clean,” Tristan replied. “I told you these are challenges.
The word itself reflects their difficulty.”

Her shoulders bunched up with frustration. “How long do I have?”

“I’ll give you two days,” Tristan said. “Use that time as you see fit to aid you in
the task.”

“Just to clarify”—Sarah’s eyes narrowed—“these challenges in no way offer me freedom?”

“That’s correct.”

“How many challenges will there be?” Sarah asked. “Ten? Fifty?”

Tristan folded his hands behind his back. “I don’t have a specific number in mind.”

“Oh, come on. Even Scheherazade got a reprieve after one thousand and one nights,”
Sarah said lightly, but then frowned. “God, how long is that . . . ?”

“A little under three years,” Tristan answered. When Sarah gave him a skeptical glance,
he added, “I looked it up once.”

“Three years . . .” She gave a little shudder. “Maybe she’s not the best example.”

“There are only a few ways this can end,” Tristan said with a smile. The moment had
arrived to show his winning hand.

“Really?” Sarah cast a suspicious glance at him.

“Only three ways, if I’m being truthful,” Tristan replied. “The first: you try to
kill me, fail, and my Guardians kill you.”

“How lovely,” Sarah murmured.

“The second,” Tristan continued, “you try to escape, fail, and I give you to a wraith.”

“And the third?” Sarah asked.

“You grow to like it here,” Tristan replied without missing a beat, “and decide to
stay.”

Sarah’s skin took on a chalky pallor. “Excuse me?”

“I’d say it’s your best option,” Tristan said, offering no reaction to her increasingly
anxious expression. “You get to survive.”

Backing toward the door, Sarah couldn’t hide her panic. “I think I’ll pass on the
rest of the tour.”

“Feel free to explore on your own,” Tristan told her. “Everyone in the castle knows
you have leave to move about the grounds without harassment—provided you aren’t trying
to escape.”

Sarah nodded mutely, then fled.

When she was out of sight, Tristan wondered if he’d gone too far. He needed Sarah
curious, not frightened. At the same time, he also wanted her to understand the gravity
of her situation. This castle was his domain, and as such Sarah was subject to his
rule. He could be a kind master, or cruel. The choice was hers.