Captive (11 page)

Watching the flurry of thoughts register on Sarah’s face, Tristan sighed. “You don’t
like duck.”

“No,” Sarah blurted. “I mean, yes. I mean—duck is fine. I’m not a fussy eater.”

When Tristan still looked uncertain, Sarah quickly cut herself a small bite of the
sliced duck breast. Genuinely pleased by the meat’s rich flavor, Sarah smiled at Tristan.
“It’s delicious.”

The stiffness eased from Tristan’s shoulders. “I’m glad.”

They fell into a quiet enjoyment of their meal, though Sarah remained distracted by
the contradictions presented by both this castle and her captor. If no other Keepers
resided here, and yet a pack of Guardians as well as nether creatures had been deemed
necessary defenses on the island, then the intelligence that sent Sarah on this mission
had proven accurate. Something about this place was of great value to Bosque Mar and
the Keepers.

But what was it?

Sarah was also distracted by the dissonance of giving a Keeper as young as Tristan
charge of a castle that held something of such import. Most of the Searchers’ skirmishes
with Guardians took place near the four sacred sites within which pieces of the Elemental
Cross rested. The Keepers who secured those sites around the globe were always among
the eldest of their kind. Not only was Castle Tierney nowhere near any of those sites,
but Tristan was also close to a century younger than his counterparts in similarly
authoritative roles.

It didn’t add up.

“How old are you?” Tristan’s question broke the silence of the room so abruptly that
Sarah dropped her knife.

“I’m sorry?”

“You asked me my age,” Tristan replied. “I’m simply returning the favor.”

“I’m twenty-one,” Sarah answered.

“Isn’t that a bit young to be scaling castle walls without backup?” Tristan asked.

Sarah stirred in her chair, uncomfortable that his line of thinking so closely mirrored
her own.

“I believe our agreement was that I don’t have to answer your questions unless I lose
a challenge,” she dodged.

“That’s true.” Tristan nodded, though his eyes were disappointed.

Not willing to give ground, Sarah added, “And I have two days to name your favorite
book.”

Tristan smiled. “Care to venture any guesses yet?”

“How about ‘The Pit and the Pendulum’?” Sarah answered, but regretted provoking Tristan
when he flinched.

Tristan’s voice was flat when he said, “That’s actually a short story.”

“That actually was a joke,” Sarah replied.

“I don’t want to hurt you, Sarah,” Tristan said quickly and very quietly. “I don’t
want you to be afraid of me.”

Those words, so unexpected, made Sarah grip the edge of the table. He sounded so sincere,
but he couldn’t possibly be. How could she not fear him?

Having no clue how to respond, Sarah focused on finishing her meal despite the uncomfortable
weight of silence in the room. Even after plates from their main course had been cleared
and a dessert of fresh fruit and artisanal cheeses was offered, neither Tristan nor
Sarah had ventured another word.

Without warning, Tristan pushed his chair back and rose. “If you’ll excuse me, I have
some business to attend to. Good night.”

Sarah had no time to respond as Tristan swiftly crossed to the door and was gone,
leaving Sarah to sit alone, utterly perplexed. By all appearances, she’d achieved
her aim for the evening—to throw Tristan off balance and thereby gain an advantage.
But Sarah didn’t feel triumphant, only confused.

Castle Tierney and its master remained a puzzle to be solved, but Sarah had a nagging
suspicion that the solving could prove treacherous in ways she’d never expected.

TRISTAN DIDN’T KNOW
he was heading for the stables until he reached them. All he’d known was that he needed
to get out of that room and away from Sarah and that any delay would mean disaster.
He went to the tack room and grabbed Ares’s bridle, then headed for the horse’s stall.

Scenting his master, Ares bellowed and knocked at the stall door with his iron-clad
hoof.

“Easy, lad,” Tristan said. “You’ll be out of there soon enough.”

Tristan slipped into the stall and bridled the stallion. He shed his jacket and vest,
tossing them onto the stall floor without a second thought.

Once he’d led Ares through the stable and into the castle courtyard, he swung up onto
the stallion’s back. Gripping Ares’s mane in his fist, Tristan lightly touched his
heels to the stallion’s flank. For a moment the great horse’s muscles bunched up and
then he exploded forward.

Though he knew it was risky, Tristan didn’t bother to check Ares’s stride, instead
letting the stallion have his head as they plunged into the night.

At least there’s a bit of moonlight to guide us,
Tristan thought. Galloping at this breakneck pace after dark was foolhardy for both
the horse and his rider, but Tristan needed to burn away the turmoil that felt like
poison in his veins.

I don’t want to hurt you, Sarah. I don’t want you to be afraid of me.

The wind carried away Tristan’s string of curses.

Why in the bloody hell had he said those things to her?

In truth, the problem wasn’t that he’d said them. The problem was that he’d meant
them.

When Tristan arrived at the dining hall, he’d felt he had the situation well in hand.
Sarah had fled the library earlier that day confused and wary—exactly the way he wanted
her. But the sight of her at dinner, the way the firelight played on her porcelain
skin when she turned to reveal the open back of her gown, had made his entire body
tighten.

Their conversation had only made things worse. All signs of Sarah’s discomfiture had
vanished, while Tristan found himself fumbling for confidence. It wasn’t simply her
beauty that stole his wits. Her very presence radiated something Tristan hadn’t known
he’d been longing for until he was face-to-face with it.

Companionship.

Sarah was the only person he’d spoken with in seven years who hadn’t been sent to
“befriend” him on Bosque Mar’s orders.

She’s not here because she likes you, you idiot,
Tristan reminded himself.
She’s a prisoner. She’s
your
prisoner.

But anytime Sarah had raised that point over dinner, Tristan felt as if she’d plunged
a blade into his belly and was slowly twisting it.

That was when he realized he wanted her to be there voluntarily. He wanted Sarah to
choose to be with him. What he’d described to Lana as a means of trickery—a cruel
ploy intended to make Sarah divulge the information Tristan needed—had in the space
of hours become something he desperately hoped for. The madness of that desire nearly
undid him.

So he’d fled, not knowing what else to do in that moment of panic.

Tristan leaned into Ares’s neck, letting the stallion take them where the horse willed.
Closing his eyes, Tristan lost himself in the rhythm of Ares’s hoof strikes on the
moors, the scream of the wind around them. He straightened only when Ares slowed to
a trot and then a walk. The shrieking wind died, replaced by the crash of surf.

Ares had run the length of the island; now his hooves sunk into the sand of the only
shoreline not made treacherous by rocks. Steam rose from the stallion’s coat, his
neck bowed with exhaustion. Tristan sucked in deep breaths of the salt air, letting
its cool yet pungent flavor still his rioting spirit.

Tristan had to suddenly grasp Ares’s mane and grip the stallion’s sides with his thighs
when the horse tossed his head and shied. Ares gave a sharp whistle of alarm and began
to prance along the shore. Familiar enough with the stallion’s behavior to know the
cause of Ares’s fear Tristan called out, “Change forms and get over here!”

From within the shadows of a copse of trees a wolf slunk into the moonlight.

Ares snorted and pawed the sand, even after the wolf was gone and a man walked toward
them. Guardians could change their shape, but they still smelled enough like wolves
to frighten some of the horses.

Tristan jumped down from Ares’s back and flipped the reins over the stallion’s head.
If he gave the horse a few feet of space from the approaching wolf, Ares wouldn’t
bolt. Probably.

“Seamus,” Tristan greeted the pack leader.

Seamus nodded, scratching at the rough whiskers on his chin. “You know I don’t like
it when you disappear.”

“I don’t think I could ever really disappear on your watch,” Tristan replied. “Don’t
try to tell me you weren’t keeping an eye on things all night.”

“It’s my job.” Seamus shrugged. “Even so, you could have broken your horse’s leg or
your own neck riding like a
dullahan
in this dark.”

“There’s a moon,” Tristan argued.

“Barely.” Seamus glanced at the dimly lit sky. “Can I ask what happened? If something’s
wrong, you know I can deal with it.”

Tristan rolled his shoulders, uneasy at the thought of any Guardians “dealing” with
Sarah.

“It’s not that kind of problem.”

Seamus fell silent, then coughed uneasily. “Might you tell me what kind of problem
it is?”

Tristan regarded Seamus. Could he confess his troubles to the wolf?

Of all his servants, Seamus was the one he most trusted and was the closest to offering
a real friendship despite their respective stations.

“I’m unsure what to do with the girl,” Tristan said haltingly. “My sense of who she
is has become . . . complicated.”

Seamus nodded thoughtfully. “Because you want to fuck her.”

“That’s not—” Tristan gripped the reins tighter.

“You don’t want to fuck her, then?” Seamus cut him off.

The moonlight was just bright enough for Tristan to catch the curve of the wolf’s
lips. The damnable Guardian was goading him into a confession. And it was working.

Looking out at the waves, Tristan let himself admit, “Yes. But it’s more than that.”

“It’s more than that because you could fuck her now, but she’d hate you for it,” Seamus
continued for Tristan. “And rightly so, if you’ll pardon me. But you don’t want her
to hate you.”

“You should be a fox, not a wolf,” Tristan said. “How did you manage to put all that
together? I haven’t been able to get there myself.”

“That’s because your head’s too full of what you think you should be doing to see
clearly what you want,” Seamus answered. “And Guardians serve, but we also watch.
I’ve been watching for a long, long time now. Things are clear to me faster than for
most. Particularly in the case of pups like you.”

“Did you just call me a pup?” Tristan gave Seamus a sharp look.

The grin Seamus answered him with was so wolfish, Tristan gave a little shudder.

Feeling the urge to defend himself, Tristan said, “I may not be as old as my fellows,
but I’m still the master of this castle.”

“I never said you weren’t,” Seamus replied. “And that makes it all the more true that
you have the power to do as you wish. But first you have to know what your wishes
are. Lana and Owen will try to make those decisions for you. Stop letting them.”

“I didn’t let Lana persuade me into violating Sarah,” Tristan objected.

Seamus nodded. “And that was a good first step. But it was only one.”

Tristan suddenly felt exhausted. His shoulders slumped and he looked at Seamus, not
knowing what he hoped the wolf would say. Tristan was taken aback by the genuine concern
in the Guardian’s eyes.

“You’ve always been too hard on yourself.” Seamus looked away and kicked at the sand.
“Just because others will try to make choices for you, it doesn’t mean you can’t ever
make your own.”

“Except when it comes to Bosque,” Tristan said quietly. “If he gives me orders about
Sarah . . .”

“Don’t borrow trouble before it’s on your doorstep,” Seamus told him. “If you want
the girl, then win her. If she’s come around to your way of thinking by the time Lord
Mar returns, you’ll have a good bargaining chip to use.”

Tristan nodded slowly. “Yes. Yes, that’s true.”

“Wolves don’t lie.” Seamus growled, but it was a playful sound. “If you don’t mind,
I’d be grateful for your return to the castle. Though there’s no need to run that
beast of yours into the ground this time.”

“I’ll keep it to a canter.” Tristan smiled ruefully. “Ares and I are both exhausted
from the run out here.”

“And I’ll try to keep enough distance so your horse doesn’t spook,” Seamus said. He
walked off the beach, not shifting forms until he was half hidden by darkness.

Tristan’s mind still churned with ideas, their source no longer fear but possibility,
as he gently tugged on the reins and beckoned Ares to approach. Ares remained a bit
skittish after Seamus’s departure, but stopped prancing long enough for Tristan to
mount. He turned the stallion away from the shore and set off at an easy, rolling
gait toward Castle Tierney. Toward a different sort of challenge from the one he’d
first set out to overcome.

SARAH DISMISSED THE
idea of sleep as she climbed the staircase to the upper floor of the castle. Her body
remained taut even though it had been nearly an hour since Tristan’s abrupt departure.
She hadn’t waited for anyone to collect her from the dining room.

When she reached the top floor, Sarah paused, weighing her options. She could return
to her room. Given that dinner had ended so suddenly, Sarah wouldn’t have been at
all surprised to find Moira still awake. Perhaps Sarah could share a cup of tea with
the girl and learn more about how she came to serve at Castle Tierney.

Sarah quickly abandoned that idea. As much as such a conversation would be useful,
Sarah knew she was far too distracted to pursue it. Instead, she went to the library—for
within the book-filled rooms lay the most likely salve for her mind’s current ailment:
the solution to Tristan’s first challenge.

She stood at the door for a moment, letting the tips of her fingers rest against the
carved wood. Tristan would likely be inside. Since he’d told Sarah that the study
was his favorite place in the castle, it only made sense that he’d seek refuge there.

Does that make me cruel for not giving him respite? He obviously wanted to get away
from me.

Sarah quickly curbed that thought, reminding herself that Tristan’s feelings were
no concern of hers. She also ignored the nagging unhappiness that he seemed so desperate
to part ways. Resolved, she opened the door, ignoring the sudden uptick of her pulse
and hating the twinge of disappointment she felt upon finding she had the spacious
rooms to herself.

After she’d taken a leisurely turn through both rooms, Sarah paused to gaze at the
floor-to-ceiling shelves. Tristan had designed the task to either be impossible or
to nudge her a bit closer to the edge of insanity. Thinking about how ridiculous the
challenge was could only work against her, so Sarah decided to bury any thoughts of
the end goal. Instead she tried to start by browsing the shelves, hoping she would
at least glean a bit of enjoyment from exploring the library.

The books at least appeared to be shelved according to subject, then alphabetized
by author, giving Sarah the chance to do a quick survey of the whole library to gain
a sense of the types of books Tristan had collected. She quickly noted a predominance
of philosophy, with a particular strength in the works of medieval and early modern
scholars. Perusing the volumes further, Sarah discovered a large section of the library
dedicated to cartography. She found atlases from the ancient world and nautical charts
from the Age of Exploration. Near the cartographic collection were volumes on art
history, then a variety of books focused on natural history—including an original
edition of John James Audubon’s
The
Birds of America
.

Next came history, and Tristan’s interest in the subject appeared wide-ranging. Texts
from the nineteenth century appeared, as well as the latest publications from renowned
university presses. The books covered every era and every corner of the globe. Though
Sarah could appreciate the depth and breadth of the collection, she had a hard time
imagining anyone’s favorite book being a history text.

When she came upon her first shelf of fiction, Sarah felt a surge of anticipation.
Surely Tristan’s favorite book would be a novel—though she noted several shelves filled
with poetry, particularly the works of Irish poets, that gave her pause. Given that
the castle’s chambers were named after figures from Irish mythology, perhaps Tristan
had an affinity for the literature of his homeland.

Once she had a vague sense of the library’s holdings, Sarah puzzled over her next
step. Should she narrow options by title, making her best guess about what Tristan
would be drawn to in a narrative?

She scanned some of the possibilities: a political thriller à la John le Carré, an
Agatha Christie murder mystery, a saga like
Beowulf,
or perhaps a classic of Irish literature—something from James Joyce’s oeuvre.

Sarah ground her teeth in frustration. Guessing which of these books was Tristan’s
favorite made her feel like she was groping around helplessly in a pitch-black room.
She peered more closely at some of the book spines. Maybe she could discern what books
had the most wear, and thus had likely been read the most times.

It didn’t take long for Sarah to dismiss that strategy. The age of the books varied
too widely, making it nearly impossible to differentiate between books that had been
taken from the shelves and read frequently and those that were simply, well, old.
Her head began to ache.

Though Sarah told herself she hadn’t given up yet, she decided to take a break. Returning
to the part of the library that Tristan used as a study, Sarah dropped into a leather
club chair. Exhaustion spread through her limbs, but her mind remained far too frazzled
for Sarah to believe she’d be able to sleep. Her gaze wandered to the polished wooden
bar near the fireplace.

Maybe a nightcap would help.

Sarah poured herself a brandy from one of several crystal decanters on the bar. She
settled against the soft leather of the chair and sipped her drink. After a few swallows,
Sarah roused herself for another stab at finding Tristan’s favorite book. She set
the glass on the accent table beside the chair . . . and noticed the book that had
been left there.

Like so many of the other volumes in Tristan’s collection, this book was old and likely
of great value. Sarah flipped the pages until she reached the title page:
The Book of a Thousand Nights and a Night,
published in 1885.

Sarah spent several minutes gazing at the title. It couldn’t be that simple, could
it? She recalled one of her favorite short stories by Edgar Allan Poe, “The Purloined
Letter,” in which the detective solved the crime by pointing out to his more hapless
peers that the best means for hiding something was to leave it in plain sight.

Had Tristan pulled this book from the shelves, leaving it in the open for Sarah to
find? Was this yet another means for him to toy with her?

Her gut told her this wasn’t the right book; its presence was too precious for serendipity.
But finding it nudged her thoughts in a new direction.

Why would Tristan shelve his most-loved book alongside all the others? A favorite
book was one returned to again and again. It belonged near the reader, not hidden
within the library stacks.

Sarah pushed herself up from the chair and strode out of the library. When she reached
Tristan’s bedroom door, she paused. Steeling herself, Sarah lifted her hand and rapped
sharply on the door.

No answer.

She knocked again and was met with silence once more. Tentatively, she reached for
the doorknob and was surprised to find it unlocked.

He rules this castle and lives here alone,
Sarah reminded herself.
Why would he need to lock his door?
Her arrival obviously hadn’t rattled his sense of security one bit.

Tristan’s bedroom had been turned down in anticipation of his arrival. The chamber
was softly illuminated by a bedside lamp and well-banked fire. Ignoring her sudden
urge to snoop through Tristan’s things, Sarah crossed quickly to the bedside table.

She’d opened its single drawer only a crack when the sound of the door opening turned
her around.

“What are you doing here?”

Tristan stood in the doorway, his tall figure framed by the brighter light of the
hallway. His crumpled coat and vest hung from the crook of his arm. Tossing both aside,
he crossed the room in a few long strides and grabbed Sarah’s wrists.

Sarah lifted her chin, defiant. “Solving your riddle.”

He didn’t fight her when she pulled her right arm free. Reaching for the drawer, she
opened it and drew out the book that rested within, just as she’d hoped—though she
was surprised at how small and light the book was; she’d been expecting a much stouter
novel.

Tristan didn’t let Sarah go; instead, he drew her closer. “Well played.”

Sarah’s nose crinkled up. He smelled of sweat and hay—not an unpleasant scent, but
also not one she’d expected.

“I went for a ride.” Tristan laughed softly at her scrunched face.

“Do you often go riding in the middle of the night?” Sarah asked. Tristan’s grip on
her wrist loosened, but Sarah didn’t pull away. She didn’t want to.

“I try not to make a habit of it,” Tristan answered. “I apologize for leaving dinner
so abruptly.”

“No worries.” Sarah smiled. “It gave me a chance to visit the library, and while it’s
a lovely collection, no one keeps their favorite book so far out of reach.”

Tristan returned her smile. His fingers moved along the inside of her wrist. It was
a whisper of a caress, but Sarah had to fight off a thrilling shiver from that light
touch.

What the hell?
She quickly raised the book between them to distract herself.

“So what is the winning book?” She glanced at the cover. “Seriously?”

“What’s wrong with my book?” Tristan asked, sounding rather injured.

“Nothing,” Sarah told him, still eyeing the book with disbelief. “It’s just . . .
unexpected.
The Tale of Peter Rabbit
?”

“That was a gift on my fourth birthday—it was the first book I read on my own,” Tristan
said, still defensive. “And if you look again, you’ll find there’s another book in
the drawer.”

With her free hand Sarah reached into the drawer and drew out a much thicker book.
“
The Count of Monte Cristo
. Why these two?”

Tristan released her arm and took a step back. “You found the book—or rather, books.
Congratulations. You don’t have to answer any of my questions tonight, but this challenge
is done.”

“Hang on.” Sarah frowned. “I won this round. Answer
my
question.”

“No.” Tristan squared his shoulders.

Sarah knew he was attempting to intimidate her, but she refused to back down. “You
want me to keep playing this game of yours, then you need to give me an incentive.
You’ve made it clear that my freedom isn’t in play.”

“I’ve promised not to resort to less pleasant modes of interrogation,” Tristan countered,
though she noted the way his gaze shifted away from her, uneasy.

“Am I going to stay here, then, in your castle, and be subjected constantly to one-sided
conversations?” Sarah glared at him. “You asked me to find your favorite book. I did.
Now you won’t tell me how it is that Beatrix Potter and Alexandre Dumas won that honor?”

Tristan’s jaw clenched, but Sarah’s gaze was unrelenting. “Why are they your favorites?”

“Because they both manage to escape.” When Sarah didn’t say anything, Tristan added,
“I mean Peter and Edmond.”

“I know who you mean,” Sarah said quietly.

They both manage to escape.

Tristan had uttered the words as if they were a terrible confession. Sarah considered
his uneasy stance, the way he no longer could meet her eyes.

“Thank you,” Sarah murmured. “Since I’m the intruder here, I should bid you good night.”

Tristan nodded but kept his gaze averted. Sarah sidled past him and moved quietly
toward the door.

“Sarah.”

She half-turned, looking at Tristan.

“Tell me what your favorite book is.”

“I will,” Sarah answered. “When you win.”