Captive (3 page)

Jeremy groaned and reached down to unzip his fly. Sarah’s hand followed his. When
his fly was open she slipped her hand inside his boxers and grasped his erection.

Her pulse jumped. This was it. She was going to fuck Jeremy.

His cock hardened even more in her grip and Sarah smiled. Even if it was the first
time, she knew it was going to be good. From what they’d done short of sex, Sarah
knew Jeremy had some serious talent.

“You have no idea how much I want you,” Jeremy murmured as he began to push down her
jeans. “I love you, Sarah.”

Sarah went rigid. She couldn’t breathe and her body numbed.

I should say something.
Sarah didn’t know what she could say.
I have to say something.

“Sarah?” Jeremy touched her cheek. It only made Sarah feel worse.

“I think we should stop.” As gently as she could, Sarah pushed him away. Did she care
about Jeremy? Yes. A lot. But she wasn’t in love with him and she wasn’t willing to
lead him to believe she felt something that wasn’t there.

Jeremy flinched and Sarah felt like a heavy stone was pressing on her chest.

“I’m sorry.” Sarah rolled off the bed, grabbing her bra and shirt. “I’m not . . .”

She couldn’t find any words that didn’t sound pathetic, or worse, hurtful.

“I didn’t mean to—” Jeremy sat up, trying to get his pants back on with dignity.

“It’s not your fault,” Sarah interrupted. “I just don’t want to do this because I
think I might die.”

There it was. The truth, kind of. Sarah had been fully prepared to sleep with Jeremy
because she thought she might die. But she hadn’t been prepared for him to tell her
he loved her. Because she didn’t love Jeremy. Maybe she could at some point down the
road, but she didn’t yet, and she didn’t want to sleep with him and lead him to believe
her heart was somewhere it wasn’t.

“Okay.” Jeremy stared at the floor. “If that’s how you feel.”

“I’m sorry,” Sarah murmured. She threw on her shirt and forced herself to walk, not
run, from the room.

Her heart was pounding and her stomach churning as she retreated to her own room.

If I die a virgin, then I die a virgin. But at least I won’t die a liar
.

AS USUAL, TRISTAN
found the most challenging part of the hunt to be keeping Ares from throwing him.
Though one of the finest horses Tristan had ever purchased, Ares couldn’t settle around
the wolves. Despite the countless hunts the stallion had run alongside the Guardians,
Ares was always uneasy around them—especially once they’d made their kill.

While the stallion balked and pawed at the earth, blowing hard through his flared
nostrils, Tristan watched the Guardians tear the buck to bloody shreds. It wasn’t
a proper pack. Only five wolves served at Castle Tierney and they were veterans of
the war, older but no longer deemed suitable to serve on the front lines of battle,
although that was just as well. No one, including Bosque, expected the war to come
to the walls of Tristan’s home. His being hidden away was merely a precaution, and
a frustrating one at that.

Despite the frustrations of his isolated habitat, Tristan had neither expected nor
wanted to be one of Bosque’s pack masters. He’d always found the war and politics
that consumed the lives of a handful of his fellow Keepers to be tiresome. Particularly
since it wasn’t much of a war at all. The nuisance of occasional Searcher attacks
near the Keepers’ sacred sites was akin to summer flies that chanced to buzz around
Ares’s flank. The pesky creatures might irritate the stallion, but it was only a matter
of time before they’d be dealt with by the swat of his tail.

“I say, man,” Frederic called out. “Should we call them off and head back to the castle?
Looks to me like there’s nothing but blood and gristle left at this point.”

They’ll want the blood. Every last drop,
Tristan thought, but didn’t say.

Frederic waited for his reply sitting astride a Hanover gelding. Unlike Ares, Frederic’s
mount seemed to have misplaced its instinctual fear of predators. The horse chomped
placidly on grass while the wolves sated themselves a few meters away.

Tristan half snorted in disgust. Frederic preferred the easier ride. Nary a hair of
his shoulder-length, glossy brown locks had strayed from its place tied at the nape
of his neck during their hunt. It seemed to Tristan that Frederic had yet to abandon
the fashions and attitudes of the nineteenth century, wherein he’d come of age. He’d
insisted on donning traditional riding garb for this hunt, which Tristan thought made
him look like he was auditioning for a period film. Tristan preferred to ride in a
T-shirt, jeans, and the black oilskin duster he favored for keeping warm and dry in
the rainy weather so common to the island.

Frederic hunted for the sake of appearance; that, and the enjoyment he got out of
emptying his silver flask after the wolves made their kill. Without the challenge
of keeping Ares in check while they raced across the rugged island terrain, Tristan
wouldn’t enjoy these hunts at all.

“How many is that?” Frederic tilted his flask at the white bones poking out between
the press of growling, furred bodies wrangling for the remaining scraps of venison.

“This month?” Tristan pursed his lips. “Six, I think. No. Maybe eight.”

“You’ll need to replenish the herd soon,” Frederic told him. “I’ll have some yearlings
and does shipped over. They should last a bit longer. The Guardians prefer going after
the bigger kills, I’ve noticed.”

“More of a challenge.” Tristan nodded. It was one way the Keepers’ wolves differed
from their natural counterparts. Wolves in the wild would have picked out the easiest
kill. Guardians reveled in the fight.

Because it’s what they were made for,
Tristan thought with a grimace. Not that his Guardians got much of fighting beyond
these hunts. He often wondered if these wolf warriors assigned to watch over him were
as resentful of their charge as he was of being looked after.

“Seamus!” Tristan called out, and a hulking wolf with mottled brown and silver fur
lifted his head. “Time to head home!”

The wolf barked gruffly at his companions and the other wolves abandoned their meal
and disappeared into the brush. Though the wolves could easily beat the pair of men
on horseback in a race to the castle, Tristan knew that the beasts would run beside
them, just out of sight so as to keep Ares from spooking. But the wolves wouldn’t
stray from their charge, would never allow Tristan to wander too far from their watchful
eyes. Guardians had been created to follow orders, to serve and do battle at the Keepers’
bidding. The wolves did their work well. And some days it was too much for Tristan
to bear.

Though he lived alone—for no Keeper would count his servants as peers—Tristan rarely
claimed privacy. His movements were observed; his household carefully secured. Nothing
could be amiss. No surprises or impromptu actions were permitted.

Tristan could pass each day as he liked: a ride, a hunt, reading, writing, watching
films, or sleeping the hours away. But his life only bore the semblance of freedom.
He couldn’t leave the island, and neither could he abandon Castle Tierney to seek
his fortune or wander the globe. His fate was tied to this place as deeply as if he
were rooted to its soil.

Ares’s hooves threw up clods of dirt as they galloped back to the castle. Its gray
stone walls loomed large as the riders drew closer and Tristan’s mood soured. A hard
ride and a good hunt buoyed his spirit, but never for long. When the wind no longer
tore at his hair and he’d left the stallion in the stables, Tristan became too aware
of how confined he felt. Even when he wasn’t surrounded by the fortifications of the
castle, he was barricaded on all sides by a cold, turbulent sea that even the most
seasoned fishermen of the mainland tended to avoid.

With reluctance, Tristan reined Ares in, letting the stallion cool down at a walk
for the remaining distance. Frederic pulled the gelding up beside him.

“You’re off tonight, then?” Tristan asked his companion.

“I have business in Germany,” Frederic apologized. Looking pointedly at Ares, he added,
“I don’t suppose I could talk you into taking him with me.”

Tristan’s laugh carried an edge. “You come for a visit and then propose to steal my
best horse?”

“Not steal, borrow.” Frederic smiled, but his voice was tight. “I only meant that
it’s a shame to keep him here when his stud fee would be phenomenal.”

“Because you’re in need of funds?” Tristan asked archly. It was a snide, rhetorical
question at best: there was so such thing as a Keeper with pecuniary difficulties.

Frederic shrugged off Tristan’s acid tone. “There’s no need to get pugilistic. You
know as well as I do that withholding that stallion from stud is ridiculous. And there
are plenty of other horses in your stable to take on your hunts. He’d only be away
for a month or two.”

When they reached the stable, Tristan swung down from the saddle. Frederic dismounted
and handed the gelding’s reins to a waiting groomsman.

“Have you listened to a word I’ve said?” Frederic asked.

Tristan offered Frederic a cursory glance. “I’ll think about it.”

“Do.” Frederic pulled off his riding gloves. “I’ll need to prepare for my journey,
but I’ll say my farewells before I depart.”

“After I finish up here, I’ll have a drink in my study,” Tristan replied, flipping
Ares’s reins over his bowed neck. “You can find me there.”

Frederic gave a curt bow and headed toward the castle while Tristan led Ares into
the stable. After Tristan had tethered the stallion outside his stall, he went about
unsaddling and brushing the horse. There were groomsmen to perform this task, of course,
but Tristan preferred to look after his mounts himself. The only way to truly know
a horse and its habits was to do more than ride the beast and then put it away.

As he brushed Ares’s neck and shoulders until they were glossy, Tristan considered
Frederic’s suggestion. Maybe it wasn’t right to keep the stallion penned up on this
island. He was fine stock, from a nearly priceless bloodline that could be traced
back to the Godolphin Arabian. Not sending him to stud could well be a missed opportunity,
and the isle Tristan called home didn’t have the space to set up a proper broodmare
barn for rearing foals.

Of course, he wouldn’t ship Ares off to be bred to just any mare. The bloodlines would
have to be properly matched. Champion lines.

Tristan paused midstroke. A sick feeling twisted through his gut.

That’s all I am at the end of the day. A stud in Bosque’s stable. With the sole purpose
of continuing Eira’s ancestral line as he sees fit.

Tristan wondered, rather sardonically, how long it would be before Lord Mar suggested
a female Keeper for Tristan to wed and father children upon. Would Bosque order some
woman there to be sequestered from the world with Tristan? Perhaps he’d parade the
eligible Keeper ladies through the castle until Tristan found one to his liking.

Neither scenario was appealing.

A polite cough at his back turned Tristan from the horse.

“Yes, Owen?” Tristan greeted his steward.

To describe Owen Banks as an unconventional steward was generous. His dress—a leather
kilt and harness—gave him the appearance of a gladiator and revealed more skin than
it covered.

Tristan knew Owen’s wardrobe choice accommodated his broad, batlike wings, but Tristan
half suspected that Owen selected gauche attire to mock his own role at the castle.
As an incubus, Owen was accustomed to serving his master, but overseeing the mundane
business of Tristan’s household must have felt like a glorified babysitting post to
the nether creature, far less enjoyable than the usual work of incubi and succubi:
seducing and manipulating feckless humans to feed off their emotional torment.

“You’re needed in the castle,” Owen told Tristan. “I’ll have a groomsman finish up
for you.”

“I’ll finish myself,” Tristan said, irked by Owen’s presumption that he could so easily
be commanded. He gave the incubus his back and continued brushing Ares.

“Lord Mar is waiting in your study.”

Tristan went still. When he turned around, Owen offered a bland smile.

“But by all means,” Owen continued. “Take your time grooming the horse. Perhaps you’d
like to braid his tail?”

Tristan pivoted around and slammed the brush into Owen’s chest. The incubus stumbled
back. Where the brush had struck his bare skin, a red welt bloomed.

“You forget your place, Owen.” Tristan locked Owen in a cold stare. Anger made him
breathe hard. His fists clenched.

“Forgive me.” Owen bowed his head in submission, but Tristan could see his smile broaden.

Dammit.
Tristan knew better than to let Owen provoke him. The incubus was always eager to
stir Tristan’s darker emotions and make a meal of them.

Without any further acknowledgment of Owen’s apology, Tristan took long strides to
swiftly exit the stable. He hurried up the stone steps of Castle Tierney’s keep.

The study door was closed and Tristan heard no sounds emanating from within, but when
he stepped into the room a fire crackled in the hearth and Lord Bosque Mar—who reigned
over all the Keepers and was the very source of their power—leaned against the mantel.
His appearance was as meticulous as ever. A well-cut, yet conservative, suit; dark
hair neatly slicked back.

Bosque wasn’t alone. Frederic knelt opposite Bosque’s imposing figure. Frederic’s
head remained bowed, as if he were afraid to look directly at Lord Mar. The scene
was familiar to Tristan. He was used to his fellow Keepers cowering in the presence
of their overlord. Though he sometimes wondered if it was a fatal character flaw,
Tristan had never understood the inherent awe that his peers showed when they encountered
Bosque firsthand.

As Tristan crossed the room to greet Lord Mar his only emotion was resignation.

“Good evening, Tristan,” Bosque said.

Tristan inclined his head in reply. He couldn’t quite stop his derisive glance at
the still-simpering Frederic. Bosque noticed Tristan’s smirk and smiled.

“Rise, Frederic,” Bosque said with a wry, mocking tone. “Your obeisance is duly noted.”

“Th-thank you, m-my lord,” Frederic stammered as he awkwardly unfolded from his kneeling
position.

Bosque clasped his hands at his back. “I understand you’re leaving us.”

“I have business—” Frederic’s eyes widened, as if he expected an admonishment.

“Of course you do.” Bosque cut him off with a dismissive wave of his hand. “And I
know you would never neglect matters of great import.”

Tristan’s brow furrowed. Something in Bosque’s tone was off. His voice was smooth,
but beneath the surface it seemed coiled like a snake ready to strike.

“Tell me,” Bosque continued. “When did you last visit your Swiss château?”

Frederic blanched. “I’m not sure . . . a month ago, maybe two . . .”

“It is a vacation home, is it not?” Bosque’s silver eyes flared with cold light. “Your
visits are infrequent.”

“I suppose,” Frederic tittered.

“Guardians sometimes fail in their duty,” Bosque said. “As lower creatures, one can
only expect so much. However, in this case the failure lies with the master, not the
servant.”

“I’m sorry, my lord?” Frederic had gone very pale.

“What’s happened?” Tristan asked. The flat, unyielding clarity of Bosque’s tone set
Tristan’s teeth on edge. Something was about to happen, and it wasn’t good.

Bosque offered Tristan an apologetic smile. “Your guest saw fit to forbid his Guardian
retinue entry to his home. He also saw fit to reduce the patrol to one Guardian.”

“It’s just a château—” Frederic began.

“A château that Searchers broke into two days ago,” Bosque told him.

“Searchers?” Frederic blurted. “But why? There’s nothing—”

“Of course we don’t know why,” Bosque replied. “Because a single Guardian was unable
to repel the attack. The Searchers escaped and we have no idea what they may have
gleaned from their little excursion.”

Frederic collapsed to his knees and began blubbering.