Captive (6 page)

“Good luck!” Ian shouted over the shrieking wind.

Sarah waved in reply and then ducked into the cabin. She crouched in a corner of the
cramped quarters, deciding it best for both the fisherman and herself to stay out
of the way for the duration of the journey.

The captain stomped into the cabin. He gave Sarah a cursory grunt that was a sound
of the barest tolerance rather than welcome. The boat’s engine rumbled to life and
then lurched away from the shoreline.

Sarah remained huddled in the corner as the boat pitched and rolled along the waves.
She made herself as small as she could, not because she was seasick or frightened
but because it seemed that the best chance to make it across the channel lay in the
captain giving his complete attention to piloting the ship. Withdrawing into herself
for the duration of the trip would also offer Sarah a chance to gather the strength
and resolve she’d need to complete the mission.

About an hour had passed when the fisherman’s gravelly voice drew Sarah out of her
own thoughts.

“That water’s cold as ice.” He didn’t look at her as he spoke. “You sure about the
swim?”

Taking his words as the cue that they’d soon reach the drop point, Sarah unzipped
the duffel and pulled out her dry suit and fins. She stuffed her jacket into the bag
and then pulled the suit on over her clothes. Once she was zipped in, she slipped
her arms through the duffel’s straps.

The boat slowed until the engine was idling. The fisherman didn’t turn around or tell
Sarah that they’d arrived. His white-knuckled grip on the wheel told Sarah she was
exactly where she needed to be.

“Thanks,” Sarah said.

The captain flinched. “Tomorrow. Midnight. I’ll be back to pick you up. Same place.”

“I’ll be here.”

Sarah stepped out of the cabin onto the lurching deck. She grasped the boat rail as
she donned the fins. Checking one last time that the straps of the duffel were snug,
Sarah hopped over the rail and into the turbulent sea.

The dry suit protected Sarah’s body, but the waves punched the bare skin of her face
like a frozen fist. Sputtering through the frigid saltwater, Sarah churned toward
the shore with powerful strokes. It wasn’t easy going, but she was thankful to see
that despite his misgivings, the fisherman had dropped her as close to the island
as he could without running afoul of the sharp rocks banking its shores.

After ten minutes of struggling through the choppy waters, Sarah reached the island.
Though the waves grabbed at her, wanting to tow her back out to sea, Sarah hauled
herself onto the slippery rocks coated in seafoam. She traded her fins for climbing
shoes from her pack and kept her body flat against the rough surface as she slowly
crawled toward the cliff face that composed the south wall of Castle Tierney.

The medieval structure used the island’s natural features for its own defense. Carved
into the very rock wall that enclosed three-quarters of the island’s circumference,
Castle Tierney offered only two approaches. The first required an overland path from
the one sheltered harbor on the western shore, and that route required several miles
of travel through both dense forest and open moors. If something truly important was
hidden within the stone keep, that territory would undoubtedly be overrun with Guardians
or worse. Thus, the Searchers had elected to pursue the second approach: scaling the
one hundred-plus-foot rock wall to reach a long-unused cistern that would give access
to the castle’s interior.

When Sarah reached the wall, she stripped out of her dry suit, stashing it in a crevice
below the cliff. She slipped into a climbing harness and gathered the ropes and cams
she’d need for the ascent. It would be a slow, arduous climb. Not only was the surface
slick with rain and sea spray, but she also couldn’t risk drawing the attention of
anything that might be watching from above. Given how imposing and impenetrable the
cliff appeared, Sarah hoped that it would be unguarded, but she couldn’t take any
chances.

Slipping the duffel back over her shoulders, Sarah found her first holds. Years of
battering from the wind and sea had left the rock wall pitted and grooved—one of the
few things working to Sarah’s advantage. Forcing herself to take calm, steady breaths,
and careful never to look down, Sarah made her way up the cliffside. She placed cams
as she needed them but was careful to keep them tucked into the rock face.

By the time she reached the round hollow of the cistern, Sarah was drenched with moisture—a
mixture of saltwater, rain, and her own sweat. Her muscles were shrieking from the
exertion. She rolled into the dark tunnel and coiled up her rope. After she’d shimmied
out of the climbing harness, Sarah put her equipment into the duffel, retrieving a
headlamp before she stowed the bag.

The wind beat mercilessly at the entrance to the cistern, heavy and rhythmic like
the beating wings of an immense bird. The climb had been tricky, but her next moves
would be trickier still: she had to navigate the crumbling, uncharted labyrinth of
tunnels that would lead her into the castle. Sarah switched on the headlamp and turned
away from the sea. She didn’t see the shadow swoop past the hollow in the rock. Neither
did she sense the creeping presence at her back until it was too late.

TRISTAN DIDN’T KNOW
how long he’d been staring at the frescoed ceiling of his bedroom, but he was fairly
certain the sleep he hoped for would continue to elude him. He rolled out of bed,
not minding the cold of the floor on his feet. Neither did he bother with a robe before
he left his room.

Seamus caught up with him halfway down the hall. Though currently in his human form,
Seamus still moved with the cautious grace of the predator whose shape he preferred.

Does the old wolf never sleep?

“Restless night, eh?” Seamus asked with genuine concern.

Tristan shrugged. He hadn’t taken the time to check a clock before he left his bedroom,
but the wolf’s presence informed Tristan that he’d been tossing and turning for at
least a few hours—long enough for Seamus to have enjoyed and returned from his nightly
run across the island.

“Where are you headed now?” Seamus asked.

“I thought a bath might help,” Tristan replied.

Seamus nodded and slowed as Tristan’s destination made it clear he was in the mood
neither for company nor conversation.

When he reached the stairs, Tristan glanced over his shoulder. “Get some rest, you
mangy beast,” he said, offering Seamus an apologetic smile.

Seamus laughed and the sound deepened Tristan’s melancholy. The wolf was as close
as Tristan had to a friend, but Seamus was a servant—here on orders like all the others.
Tristan didn’t doubt Seamus’s loyalty; he even believed the Guardian held some affection
for him. But their respective stations threw up an obstacle to true comradeship.

His sour mood worsening, Tristan made his way from the uppermost floor of the castle
to the subterranean space that was home to the baths. A hot bath was actually Tristan’s
second objective. His first was to tire the hell out of himself with a long swim.

The castle’s pool was narrow, but long and deep—ideal for laps. The natatorium itself
wasn’t particularly to Tristan’s liking. Clad in ebony, the chamber featured sleek
columns around which twisted giant tentacles that were far too lifelike. He’d learned
to ignore the creeping sense that a great slumbering beast rested beneath the turquoise
and jade mosaic of the pool floor.

Tristan pulled off his cotton pajama bottoms and dove into the pool. The cold water
snatched his breath, but he welcomed the shock. It was the most alive he’d felt all
day and it was the reason he ordered that the pool be maintained at such a low temperature.

He swam hard, stopping only when the burning in his shoulders, chest, and legs was
unbearable. Hauling himself out of the pool, Tristan dripped water as he left the
natatorium and went into the adjoining chamber.

Steam from the baths swirled around him, so thick Tristan could barely see. While
the pool had been laid in severe, sharp lines, the baths were designed for soaking.
Tristan waded into one of the sunken bowls, following its sloping floor until he was
waist deep in the hot water. Then he slid onto the submerged shelf that ringed half
of the bath. He let his head tip back and his eyes close as the heat sapped tension
from his spent limbs.

When exhaustion had sufficiently cleared Tristan’s mind to the point where he thought
sleep inevitable, he lazily climbed out of the bath. He toweled himself off and slipped
his pajama bottoms on. As he slowly made his way back to his bedroom, Tristan was
pleased to find himself genuinely drowsy. Perhaps he’d even pass the night without
troubling dreams.

At that late hour Castle Tierney was quiet, but Tristan knew better than to believe
he moved through its halls without notice. There was never a time when all the creatures
within the castle walls slept. It was a place of wariness and watching.

Tristan stepped into his room and welcomed the long yawn that signaled how soon he’d
be asleep. He was halfway across the room when he froze. His bed wasn’t empty.

The woman was on her stomach. She wasn’t wearing a stitch of clothing, but a single
black calla lily rested on the small of her back.

Chains at her wrists and ankles bound her spread-eagle to the bedposts. The sound
of Tristan’s footsteps caused her to lift her head from the pillow, and Tristan saw
that she’d been gagged. Her dark hair spilled across the pale skin of her shoulders.
Her eyes widened when she saw him, but she didn’t make a sound.

Who was she?

That she was tied down and gagged made it clear that the woman wasn’t there by choice.

Tristan pivoted on his heel and went right back out of the room. He found Seamus on
the other side of his bedroom door. And the bloody wolf was grinning.

“Seamus,” Tristan said, keeping his voice level, “there is a woman tied to my bed.”

“Yes, sir.” Seamus had the decency to tamp down his grin and nod solemnly.

“She’s naked.”

“I assumed so, sir,” Seamus replied. “Given her being tied to the bed and all.”

Tristan let that pass. “Do you happen to know how she got there?”

“It was Lana’s idea.” Seamus’s mouth turned downward enough for Tristan to know the
old wolf disapproved.

The woman on his bed had been chained facedown. The black calla lily lay upon her
like some dark offering. Of course Lana was the architect of this scheme.

“Where is she?” Tristan asked Seamus.

Seamus lifted his grizzled face and sniffed the air. “She headed toward your study.”

As Tristan turned away, Seamus asked, “What do you want me to do about this one?”

“For the moment, nothing,” Tristan answered. “Just guard the room. No one goes in.
I’ll be back soon enough.”

However ready for sleep Tristan had felt a few minutes earlier, he was now wide-awake.
And furious.

When he slammed through the study door, Tristan found Lana curled up on a sofa with
a snifter of brandy.

“Hello, Tristan.”

“What the fuck, Lana?” Tristan glared at her. “What did you do?”

“I left you a gift,” Lana purred. “I hope you don’t mind that I unwrapped it for you.”

“Hardly necessary,” Tristan replied curtly. “And by that I mean both the gift and
its unwrapping. Who is she?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Lana rose so she was kneeling on the sofa and spread her wings
in a way that was almost menacing. “She’s a Searcher. Most likely an assassin. Owen
caught her climbing the seawall. Nimble little thing.”

“Assassin?” Tristan rested his elbows on the back of the divan. “You think the Searchers
sent someone to kill me? I thought no one knew I was here.”

“Perhaps someone found out,” Lana replied, folding her wings once more as she settled
back onto the cushions. “And perhaps you should be asking
her
these questions. That
is
why I left her for you.”

“You captured a Searcher and you want me to interrogate her while she’s naked on my
bed?”

“That was the idea.”

“I thought that’s what we had wraiths for.”

“This way is a bit more creative.” Lana smiled. “And of course more hands-on for you.
And more delicious for all the loyal servants of your household.”

Tristan grimaced. “How very thoughtful.” He didn’t want to consider how delighted
the succubi and incubi of the castle would be at the prospect of gobbling up the captive’s
distress and torment. No doubt Lana had made quite a meal out of stripping and binding
the Searcher.

Degradation was something Lana craved, but Tristan had no taste for violation. He
desired only a woman in his bed who wanted to be there, who was as hungry for his
touch as he was to caress her skin. Explaining that to Lana would be pointless, of
course, so Tristan simply said, “I’ll deal with the Searcher.” He reached out his
hand. “Give me the key.”

“Shall I inform Lord Mar that she’s here?” Lana twirled one of her glossy curls around
a long red fingernail before dipping her hand into her bodice and drawing out a large
iron key.

Tristan hesitated. If he said no, Lana was sure to run straight to Bosque and tell
him that Tristan was trying to hide the woman’s capture. If he said yes . . . Tristan
wasn’t sure he wanted to deal with Bosque until he’d decided how to handle the prisoner
himself.

“Whatever pleases you, Lana.” Tristan smiled, taking the key, and then leaned in to
kiss the succubus on the cheek before he left the room.

That would confuse the hell out of her. And it would likely buy Tristan some time.

Tristan returned to the hall outside his bedroom and found Seamus standing watch.

“Do you know where her clothes are?” Tristan asked.

Seamus shrugged. “I can track them down.”

“Do that quickly,” Tristan told him. “Then come back here. I’ll wait for you.”

“Shall I summon any other Guardians?” Seamus lifted a bushy eyebrow.

It was a prudent question, but Tristan wished it wasn’t. He had no idea what he would
do with his captive, but he did know he wanted to handle it himself, and quietly.

Reluctantly, Tristan nodded. “Just make sure it’s someone who can hold his tongue.”

“Understood.” A moment later, a wolf trotted down the hall and Tristan was alone.

He looked at the door, half tempted to enter.

He couldn’t, though, not until Seamus returned. Prisoner or not, Tristan had no desire
to humiliate this woman. He wouldn’t ogle her while she was chained up. It wasn’t
as though the sight of her hadn’t been seared onto his mind’s eye.

Even the brief glimpse of the Searcher had been arresting. Whoever she was, she was
beautiful. It was too easy to recall the slope of her back and the lovely curves of
her bare ass. The sight had been far too sudden and startling to be forgotten. If
he’d been another sort of man—the sort Lana wanted him to be—he might have been grateful
to come upon that scene.

As it was, however, Tristan was uneasy that the memory of the naked Searcher made
his cock twitch with lust. A life that granted his every wish had made Tristan wary
of sinking into hedonism. He acknowledged the fact that Bosque would encourage such
a lifestyle was likely the reason he resisted it—but the truth remained that he did
resist it.

Turning a prisoner of war—if that was who this Searcher was: a soldier from the enemy
lines—into a sex slave was neither a fantasy of his nor did he want it to become a
reality. If she belonged in Tristan’s dungeon, so be it. But she had no place in his
bed.

Tristan paced in front of his bedroom door. His choices left him unsettled. As much
as Lana had gotten under his skin that night, Tristan couldn’t help but wonder if
summoning Bosque was the best course of action. After all, a Searcher had breached
the castle, his hiding place. If nothing else, that fact alone signaled that Tristan’s
enemies had somehow learned of his whereabouts. What if this woman was only the first
of an impending attack?

That’s why I’ll have to interrogate her.

Though he knew he had no way around it, Tristan didn’t savor the idea of torturing
the woman to uncover her intentions.

But there was no other way, was there?

The sound of toenails clacking on the stone floor drew Tristan’s attention. Seamus’s
brown and gray was accompanied by a younger, russet-hued member of the pack.

Tristan addressed the red wolf. “Good evening, Joseph.”

The wolves shifted into their human forms, and Tristan took the folded clothes Seamus
offered while Joseph dipped into a bow.

“This is what she was wearing,” Seamus told Tristan. “Owen also recovered a pack full
of climbing gear and a dry suit. She swam here.”

Tristan raised an eyebrow when he noted the leather harness lined with gleaming silver
knives.

Definitely an assassin. Maybe I’m a fool to even consider keeping her alive.

Tristan grimaced, accepting that he’d kill the woman if he had to, but he wouldn’t
do so before he knew who she was and how she’d found him.

“Be as wolves and stay close to me,” Tristan ordered. “Don’t attack unless she makes
the first move.”

Joseph cast a nervous glance at Seamus, but the older wolf nodded. Without further
prompting the Guardians shifted forms.

Still not entirely certain of what he was about to do, Tristan gritted his teeth and
opened the bedroom door.