Captive Read online

  I’m chained up and he’s lecturing me on how to treat his heirloom furniture? Sadist and pretentious asshole.

  But those characteristics were par for the course with Keepers, so it was hardly surprising. Had she not been gagged, Sarah would have cussed at him until she ran out of breath. He watched until she stopped struggling. Then, setting the folded clothing on a bedside table—though without her dagger harness—Tristan opened his hand to show Sarah an iron key.

  “I’m going to get you out of these chains,” Tristan said. His voice was low and steady, but not menacing, even when he added, “If you move, the wolves will kill you.”

  Whether this was some sort of trick, Sarah was compelled to obey. She had no doubt that the Guardians would tear into her if she threatened their master. Unarmed, she didn’t stand a chance against the wolves.

  Tristan went to each of the four bedposts and unlocked the manacles. Sarah remained perfectly still, even after she’d been freed of the chains. It took a lot of her effort not to shrink away when he bent down to remove the cloth that gagged her. Now that his face was close to hers, Sarah noticed that the arrogance she’d expected was absent from Tristan’s features. His expression wasn’t harsh or haughty, and she was surprised to find an anxious flicker in his gold-flecked eyes and that his mouth turned slightly down in a frown borne of worry, not irritation.

  “Get dressed.” Tristan stepped back from the bed. “I’ll return in a moment.”

  He retreated into an alcove across the room. Sarah rolled over, drawing her knees up to her chest. She couldn’t stop shaking.

  The wolves remained at the bedside, watching her closely. Sarah wanted to reach for her clothes, but she was frozen in a huddled ball against the pillows. The larger of the two wolves gave a low whine and then shifted.

  Sarah recognized Seamus from his encounter with Lana and Owen in the hallway. Seamus picked up the folded clothes from the bedside table and set them next to Sarah on the bed. Without a word, he shifted back into his wolf form and returned to his watch beside the second wolf.

  Managing to disentangle her arms from the way they’d locked around her knees, Sarah dressed as quickly as she could. She didn’t look at the wolves. She didn’t glance at the alcove into which Tristan had vanished.

  It was much easier to breathe now that she had clothes on.

  Tristan’s voice called, “Seamus?”

  The big wolf barked in reply, and Tristan reappeared. Sarah wasn’t the only one who’d gotten dressed. Tristan had swapped his pajama bottoms for jeans and a white T-shirt. He still had her dagger harness; it hung loosely in the crook of his arm.

  The Keeper crossed the room to stand between the two wolves.

  “I apologize for the state you were in when I first came upon you,” Tristan said.

  Sarah gazed at him warily, not feeling particularly compelled to respond.

  “This island is private property,” Tristan continued. “Would you care to tell me who you are and what you’re doing in my home?”

  Sarah remained silent. The smaller of the two wolves bristled and bared its teeth at Sarah. Tristan lifted his hand and the beast quieted.

  His hand still aloft, Tristan’s fingers danced through the air, leaving a flaming symbol in their wake. The fiery image trembled and shadows boiled out of it. Dark tendrils appeared in the air, building until a turbulent mass of smoke hovered beside Tristan, waiting.

  A wraith.

  Sarah shrank back against the headboard. She’d learned about the shadow creatures, knew they were impervious to harm. Stories of wraiths and the rare survival of an encounter with one usually involved unbearable pain and watery bowels. Facing the writhing mass of shadow, Sarah wondered how long she had to live—and longer didn’t mean better. Death delivered by a wraith wasn’t swift; it would be a slow, nightmarish ordeal.

  “I see you’re familiar with our usual means for dealing with your kind.” Tristan glanced at the wraith as if it were a bothersome, rather than terrifying, creature.

  Mustering what courage she could, Sarah straightened up and gave a brief nod.

  “We could go through the motions with my wraith,” Tristan said. “But I was thinking we might try something different.”

  He waved his hand and the wraith vanished. “Something more sporting.”

  “Sport” was the same word the succubus had used. Sarah stared at the Keeper. He was as twisted as the creatures that served him. That was the only explanation for this behavior. She was the prisoner of a complete nutter on a power trip.

  Tempted as Sarah was to point out just how crazy he obviously was, the wraith was gone and she didn’t want it to come back. For the moment she could only play along with whatever lunatic notion had caught the Keeper’s fancy.

  “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.”

  7

  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 b
ed, 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 unti
l 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.”

  8

  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.