Captive Page 9

  “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 H
ercules.”

  “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.

  What an adventure this will be. Full of a deep satisfaction he’d never experienced before that moment, Tristan pulled a random volume from one of the shelves. Flipping to the title page, he discovered that fate chanced to give him an 1885 edition of The Book of a Thousand Nights and a Night.

  Laughing quietly to himself, Tristan settled into a chair and began to read.

  10

  THE TEA MOIRA prepared proved much more comforting than Sarah had imagined it would be. Steam curled from the porcelain cup as Moira hovered nearby.

  “Can I get you anything else, miss? Biscuits. A scone?”

  “This is fine, Moira,” Sarah replied. “I’ve been told I’m expected for dinner.”

  “Yes, miss.” Moira went to one of the armoires. “Do you know which gown you’d like to wear?”

  Sarah glanced down at the sweater and leggings she was wearing. “What’s wrong with this?”

  “Nothing, miss.” Moira tittered, opening the armoire. “But you’ll be expected to dress for dinner.”

  “And will Tristan be wearing a gown as well?” Sarah asked bitterly.

  Moira giggled, and Sarah gave her a pointed look.

  “Master Tristan will likely wear a suit to dinner,” Moira explained. “That’s his custom when he entertains guests.”

  “I am not a guest!” Sarah set her teacup down with a bit too much force, and its saucer clattered on the silver tray. “I’m a prisoner. Doesn’t anyone in this castle understand how different those two things are?”

  Inching away from the hanging gowns, Moira ducked her head. “I’m sorry, miss. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “Don’t apologize, Moira.” Sarah rubbed her temples. “I shouldn’t have shouted at you. None of this is your fault.”

  “I’m instructed to give you anything that will make you more comfortable,” Moira offered meekly. “You’re meant to enjoy your time here, miss.”

  Sarah had to grit her teeth to keep from snapping at the girl again. Her brief interaction with Tristan had left her deeply unsettled. She wasn’t simply a prisoner in this castle; she worried she might be at the mercy of a psychopath.

  You grow to like it here and decide to stay.

  The mere suggestion of such an outcome was preposterous, but more disturbing had been the smooth confidence with which Tristan had spoken, as if what he’d said was perfectly reasonable.

  I’d say it’s your best option. You get to survive.

  Had he meant it as a threat? Or was it just a twisted joke, a way of telling her that she wouldn’t leave the island alive?

  Who the hell is he? Why would he ever want me to stay?

  “Are you unwell, miss?” Moira asked.

  Sarah didn’t answer. She had to pull herself together. If Tristan intended a slow, cruel unraveling of her sanity, she couldn’t succumb to fear. That he could make her quail even a little infuriated Sarah.

  Seizing upon that flare of outrage, Sarah stood up and went to the armoire. She would beat the Keeper at his own game. And then some.

  “I’m fine, Moira. Help me find a dress.”

  When a knock sounded at the door several hours later, Moira was close to swooning from giddiness.

  “Oh, miss, oh, miss. You’re so lovely!”

  Sarah gave Moira an indulgent smile. For the girl, Sarah’s gown represented a beautiful dream of romance and luxury, but Sarah knew she was about to do battle of a different kind. Silk would simply be her armor this evening.

  Moira skipped across the room to answer the door. Sarah couldn’t help but wonder if there were any other girls or boys near Moira’s age in the castle. The girl had shown such enthusiasm when helping to pick a gown for the evening, Sarah suspected that Moira was starved for female companionship.

  “Oh!” Moira’s cry yanked Sarah out of her musing and brought her attention to the figure at her bedroom door.

  Though she didn’t voice her surprise, Sarah had expected Tristan to appear. Instead the Guardian Seamus stepped into the room. He nodded politely at Sarah.

  “I’ll escort you to dinner now.”

  Sarah noted that Seamus hadn’t made a request, but she offered him a smile. “Of course.”

  Moira curtsied when Sarah swept past her. “I’ll lay your nightgown out and turn the bed down, miss.”

  “Thank you, Moira.”

  Seamus walked stiffly and remained silent as they passed through the castle halls, so Sarah took the opportunity to make up for the tour she’d ended so abruptly.

  From what she could surmise, only one additional room occupied the castle’s uppermost floor beyond those she’d already seen.

  They descended a narrow stone staircase until they reached Castle Tierney’s ground floor. Sarah hadn’t given much thought to how hungry she was until rich scents wafted through the air and made her mouth water.

  “The kitchens,” Seamus jerked his head toward a door to their right. “The dining hall is this way.”

  He turned to the left toward a set of double doors. Seamus pulled one open and gestured for Sarah to enter. She stepped into the dining hall and heard the door shut at her back. The room stretched, long and narrow, the full length of the castle’s ground floor.

  The di
ning hall’s central feature was a table nearly as long as the hall itself, large enough to seat two dozen people for a feast. This evening, however, only two places had been set: one at the head of the table, the other to the right of the first. The table linens and fine china were the only signs that the room expected guests that evening.

  Sarah was alone.

  She walked the length of the table, trailing her finger along the mahogany surface, which had been polished to a mirror shine. Flames licked across kindling and logs that had been carefully laid in the fireplace set into the outer wall, casting a warm glow throughout the room.

  Sarah heard the door open and turned. Tristan strode into the room but halted abruptly when he saw her standing alongside the table. He’d changed from jeans and a button-down shirt into a dark, slim-cut, three-piece suit. Sarah might have found the look pretentious, but Tristan had neglected to wear a tie, instead leaving his shirt collar open.

  While he stood very still, watching her, two thoughts jumped to the fore of Sarah’s mind. The first: that she’d picked the perfect dress for her intentions that evening. The silk charmeuse gown draped beautifully over her figure, its bias cut clinging to her curves. The midnight blue of the fabric highlighted the contrast of her dark hair and pale skin.

  And Tristan couldn’t take his eyes off her.

  The second thought battling for her attention was that, once again, Sarah had become captivated by how strikingly beautiful Tristan was. Lean and tall, he exuded a strength that was graceful rather than brutish. The firelight emphasized the golden undertones of his skin and the honeyed shade of his light-brown hair. His gaze was riveted on Sarah, and she observed the clench of his jaw, the tension in his lips.

  Rather than greet him, Sarah turned away and was rewarded by the sound of his sharp intake of breath when he met with the sight of bare skin revealed by her backless gown. Sarah preferred to wage war with her daggers, but in this place her blades weren’t an option and her adversary had elected to meet her on a different field of engagement. She’d never used seduction as means to an end, but with little else to draw upon Sarah had determined it was her best path to freedom. Tristan was a Keeper, but at the end of the day he was also still a man.