Captive

by A. D. Robertson

  She was in the castle and she was about to have access to the master of this secret isle. She could think of no better way to continue and fulfill her mission. The chimney would still be there after she learned more about this place. The drawback to her plan remained that she wouldn’t return to the fisherman’s boat the following night, and Ian would report to Sarah’s fellow Searchers that she’d been lost. Sarah hated to think of how distraught Anika would be, but she wasn’t worried that Micah would send a rescue team after her. This wasn’t the sort of mission one could be rescued from. Sarah had known that when she volunteered for it.

  If Sarah played this game of Tristan’s, and could avoid harm while gleaning knowledge from the Keeper, she could return to the Roving Academy having accomplished the mission. It meant that her friends would suffer for the time being, but Sarah decided that the end goal trumped that point. She’d also have to find another way off the island—but Sarah knew that food and other sundries had to arrive at Castle Tierney by some means of transportation. If she could locate a boat, she could devise a way to commandeer it for her own escape or possibly stow away on one of its trips to the mainland.

  A knock at the door turned Sarah from the window—yet another strange moment in this most bizarre of days: who knocked on a prisoner’s door?

  Another knock and Sarah fumbled for a reply, settling on “Yes?”

  “May I come in, miss?” The voice was young and female, and more than a little nervous.

  More curious than anything, Sarah called, “Yes. Come in.”

  The door opened and a girl who Sarah guessed could be no more than sixteen meekly edged into the room. The girl made a quick curtsy. She was dressed in a gray smock and apron. Bright copper curls peeked out from beneath her starched white cap. Looking at the girl, Sarah had the sensation of being transported back in time at least a century.

  “My name is Moira, miss,” the girl told Sarah, keeping her eyes downcast when she spoke. “I’m to attend you while you’re a guest of Master Tristan.”

  “Attend me?” Sarah frowned.

  “Yes, miss,” Moira replied, dipping into another curtsy. “As your lady’s maid.”

  Sarah gave a snort of disbelief and Moira looked at her with wide eyes.

  “Have I offended Your Ladyship?”

  “Dear lord.” Sarah shook her head. “First of all, you cannot call me Your Ladyship.”

  “But—” Moira wrung her hands, glancing at the open door behind her as if she wanted to run. “What am I to call you?”

  “Sarah is fine.”

  Moira appeared even more distressed. “But . . . miss . . . I’m just a servant. To use your Christian name would be a sign of great disrespect. Master Tristan would be cross with me.”

  Frustrated, Sarah considered the girl. She certainly didn’t want to force Moira to behave in such a way that could land her in trouble.

  “Is ‘miss’ okay?” Sarah asked.

  Moira nodded.

  “Let’s go with that, then,” Sarah told the girl. “Just no Lady or Ladyships.”

  “Yes, miss.” Moira curtsied again, and Sarah had to stop herself from telling the girl to knock off the curtsying, but she didn’t want to get into another discussion about propriety.

  An awkward silence filled the space between them. Sarah had no idea what to do with Moira, and Moira was obviously waiting for instruction.

  At last Moira offered, “Would you like me to escort you to the baths before you retire for the night?”

  “Excuse me?”

  Moira’s freckled cheeks bloomed with a blush. “The baths are located in the lowest part of the castle.”

  “I don’t think I need a bath tonight.” That wasn’t quite true. The climb, her capture, and fear had left her sweat-covered and grimy. Even so, Sarah wasn’t ready to embrace this role that Tristan seemed to have molded for her. Lady of the manor? Was that how he intended to play things?

  Unwelcome thoughts of dollhouses and serial killers sprang into Sarah’s mind.

  “Would you like me to help you prepare for bed then, miss?” Moira tried again.

  “Uh”—Sarah glanced at the bed—“what exactly does that entail?”

  Moira covered her mouth to stifle a giggle, and then cast a horrified glance at Sarah. Sarah quickly offered her a reassuring smile—she was glad that the girl seemed to be less frightened than when she’d first appeared.

  Casting Sarah a shy smile in return, Moira said, “I will lay out your nightgown and turn down the bed. Then if you like, I will brush your hair so it isn’t tangled when you go to sleep.”

  “Does Master Tristan have his hair brushed every night before bed?” Sarah asked.

  Moira gasped, then clapped her hand over her mouth again, though she couldn’t completely muffle her giggling.

  With a conspiratorial grin, Sarah said, “I’m happy to have your company, Moira, but I don’t have a nightgown or a brush. You’re welcome to turn down the bed.”

  “I’ve been told that clothing is being brought up for you, miss,” Moira replied brightly. “That’s part of the reason I thought you could go to the baths. I’m sure your things will arrive in the meantime.”

  While getting cleaned up had appeal, Sarah wasn’t keen to be naked and exposed in this strange place just yet. The memory of being stripped and tied down was still too fresh.

  “Maybe some hot water and a washcloth for now,” Sarah told Moira.

  The girl curtsied yet again and scurried from the room, leaving Sarah alone once more. Her gaze strayed to the fireplace. The chimney wasn’t going anywhere.

  As she waited for Moira to return, Sarah went about inspecting the non-escape-related features of her quarters. The bed was carved of dark wood, clothed and canopied in burgundy velvet. And it was enormous; Sarah thought she was just as likely to drown in it than sleep. In addition to the tapestries, stout wooden chests and tall armoires—all carved as intricately as the bed—huddled against the walls. Sarah opened a few of the chests and found spare bed linens and towels, but when she checked the armoires she discovered they were completely empty.

  Continuing her exploration, Sarah was pleased to find that a windowed alcove in the room had been retrofitted with a thick wooden door to offer privacy for a quarter bath.

  Medieval castle, yes, but not without modern amenities. Though apparently no showers in the en-suite bathrooms.

  “Miss?”

  Sarah exited the bathroom at Moira’s call. “I’m here, Moira.”

  Steam rose from a ceramic pitcher in Moira’s grasp and she also held a matching bowl. The ridiculousness of the scene made Sarah curse under her breath. Moira could have pointed out that there was a sink with hot and cold running water in the small bathroom, but apparently the young girl had been trained to do exactly what her master or mistress asked, not offer more pragmatic alternatives.

  Moira smiled at Sarah. “Where would you like these, miss?”

  Sarah couldn’t help herself. “Ummm, probably in the bathroom is best.”

  “Yes, miss.” Moira breezed past Sarah into the alcove, oblivious to Sarah’s sarcasm.

  Someone coughed politely at the still-open door to the room. Sarah was startled to see four women, dressed in servants’ uniforms similar to Moira’s, carrying armloads of boxes.

  “May we put your things away, Your Ladyship?” the woman at the front of the group asked.

  Sarah started to object to the unwanted title, but gave up and shrugged. The women trotted into the room with their boxes and began to unpack them with remarkable efficiency.

  Moira reappeared from the alcove and clasped her hands in delight. “Oh, good, they’ve arrived.”

  Turning to Sarah, Moira said, “Miss, if you want to wash yourself now, I can have your nightclothes laid out for when you’ve f
inished.”

  “Tsk, Moira!” One of the other servants narrowed her eyes at the serving girl. “You’re to address her as Your Ladyship.”

  Moira cupped her hands over her mouth and loudly whispered, “She doesn’t like it.”

  “She’s right here!” Sarah exclaimed, deciding that this whole charade was likely some new form of interrogation by befuddlement. “And what is all this?”

  She pointed to the clothes, some of which were carefully folded and placed inside the once-empty drawers while others were hung in the armoires.

  “Master Tristan arranged for you to have proper attire while you’re a guest in the castle,” Moira told her.

  Inching forward to peer at what sort of clothing constituted “proper attire” to her captor, Sarah had to stifle a gasp when she saw the wardrobe that was being put away. The items being hung were gowns. Not dresses, but gowns of silk brocade, chiffon, taffeta, and velvet. Sarah had never worn anything resembling such dresses. Nor was she certain she wanted to. Her eyes moved to the fireplace as she considered the logistics of scaling the chimney in couture.

  While her surprise upon seeing the gowns was substantial, the swirl of confusion turned to dread when the servants opened new boxes from which sprung lingerie of the most sensual variety.

  Why would I want or need lace and silk bras and panties? And how the hell did they get the right size?

  “Does the selection please you?” an unpleasantly familiar voice purred from doorway.

  Sarah had to swallow bile at the sight of Lana. The succubus smiled and flapped her wings, making Sarah work hard to tamp down her violent emotions. She knew any distress she felt was akin to spoon-feeding the nether creature.

  Straightening her spine, Sarah said to Lana, “This is your work?”

  “I was tasked with providing you an appropriate wardrobe,” Lana answered, crossing the room to pick through one of the boxes. She lifted a bra of creamy silk and sheer paneling for inspection. “It’s all a bit tame, if you ask me, but you struck me as a little meek.”

  Sarah’s chest tightened. “You don’t know me very well, then.”

  “I suppose I don’t,” Lana replied, dropping the bra into the box. “Would you like me to find some more daring items to add to this collection?”

  “I’m sure all of this is fine,” Sarah replied. “No. Forget that. It’s unnecessary. What is this circus you’re subjecting me to?”

  Lana’s eyebrows shot up. “I’m not subjecting you to anything, lovely. I simply do as my master orders.” Her ruby lips curved. “As you will as well . . . soon enough.”

  That made Sarah shudder, and Lana licked her lips.

  “Get out of here.” Sarah turned away from the succubus.

  “Your pleasure is my command,” Lana replied. “Enjoy your new things.”

  A wave of relief poured over Sarah when Lana was gone, but not only because of that. Sarah felt a bit more at ease knowing that this wardrobe had been put together by the succubus and not specifically requisitioned by Tristan. The lingerie, the gowns—all of it was calculated to exacerbate Sarah’s distress for Lana’s enjoyment. But that was to be expected from a creature such as Lana, and Sarah could cope with Lana’s petty provocations.

  Tristan, on the other hand, Sarah needed to handle with cool confidence, to interact with him as normally as possible in order to surmise who he was and what was so important about this castle.

  “Are you all right, miss?” Moira was peering at Sarah. The girl’s face was noticeably paler.

  Sarah nodded, then glanced from Moira to the other women. “But you’re all human,” Sarah blurted.

  Moira glanced around uncomfortably, and seemingly not knowing what else to do, dropped into a teetering curtsy. “Yes, miss.”

  Trying to recover from her outburst, Sarah stammered, “I just meant, um, what I’m trying to say is, how do you accept the strange creatures who live and work beside you?”

  She thrust her finger in the direction in which Lana had just departed. “You did see that she had wings, right? What the hell are you doing here? Any of you?”

  “We don’t speak of it, miss.” Moira’s voice dropped low, and she twisted her fingers together anxiously. She cast a quick, worried glance at the other servant women.

  Biting back further questions, Sarah nodded and said, “I think I’ll wash up now.”

  “Very good, miss.” Moira brightened. “I’ll get you a towel and dressing gown.”

  “Thank you.”

  Sarah managed to keep herself collected until she closed the bathroom door. Then she pivoted, gripped the basin, and bent her head, trying to sort through her cluttered thoughts. That humans worked as servants in a Keeper household shouldn’t have come as a surprise, but Sarah still found it unnerving. It also explained why Castle Tierney operated as if it were still the nineteenth century. The Keepers held human beings in contempt, and while they were happy to manipulate anyone for their benefit, the one thing Keepers would not suffer was the treatment of humans as equals.

  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.

  9

  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.

&n
bsp; 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.