36. Piper on the Grounds
Chapter thirty-six
Piper on the Grounds
Imeet Tristan in the stables forty minutes later wearing jeans, boots, a jacket Mrs. MacLeod insisted was “sensible enough if I didn’t do anything daft” and my expression of a woman who’s about to pretend she has more equestrian confidence than she actually possesses.
Murphy trots beside me, delighted by the entire concept of outside.
The stables smell of hay, leather, rain, horse, and old wood. It’s a good smell. Solid. Earthy. Normal enough to make the last twenty-four hours feel like a fever dream.
Tristan Sinclair steps out of one of the stalls, one hand resting on the neck of a dark bay horse, and normal collapses like cheap shelving.
He’s dressed for riding and should I say he’s gorgeous.
Black boots. Dark riding coat. Open collar. No tie. His hair stirred slightly by the damp air. He looks less like a vampire castle owner and more like a dangerous painting somebody should have roped off in a museum.
The horse beside him is magnificent. Tall, glossy, faintly judgmental. I stop.
“Piper?”
I clear my throat.
“Sorry. I was just deciding whether you or the horse looks more expensive.”
“Bramble would be offended by the comparison.”
The horse tosses his head as if insulted by my tone.
“He came with the name.”
“That is not a Bramble. That is a warhorse wearing a Bramble costume.”
“He’s very gentle.”
“Everyone says that right before a horse senses weakness and ruins a woman's afternoon.”
Tristan laughs softly and gestures to the horse in the next stall.
“That’s Fern, chosen for you. She’s calm, forgiving, and unlikely to ruin anything.”
Fern is smaller than Bramble, chestnut, with kind eyes and a white stripe down her nose. I step close to her. She looks at me, exhales, and nudges my sleeve.
“Oh,” I say. “You’re pretty.”
“She likes compliments.”
“Finally, someone in this castle with normal emotional needs.”
Tristan smiles. My stomach does something stupid. I ignore it aggressively.
“I should mention,” I say, “that I have ridden horses before.”
“Good.”
“But not recently. And not over dramatic Scottish terrain. And mostly at summer camp when I was thirteen and deeply convinced my horse understood my soul.”
Tristan sighs.
“What was his name?”
“Pancake.”
Tristan goes very still. I narrow my eyes.
“Do not laugh at Pancake.”
“I would never.”
“You are absolutely laughing internally.”
“Violently.”
His smile deepens, and for one sharp second I forget everything about blood and vampires and danger. Everything except how beautiful he is when he’s not trying so hard to be careful.
Then his gaze drops to my mouth. Only for a breath. Barely even a glance. But I feel it everywhere.
He looks away first.
“Shall we?”
No, my body answers.
Yes, my mouth says.
Fern stands patiently while Tristan checks the saddle. He explains the basics without making me feel like an idiot, which is wildly inconvenient because I’m trying to remain angry at him.
Then he holds out his hand.
“To mount,” he says.
“I know what the hand is for.”
“Of course.”
“I’m just emotionally preparing.”
“For the horse?”
“For the loss of dignity.”
He steps closer. I put my hand in his. Big mistake. His fingers close around mine, strong and cool. His grip is steady. The contact runs up my arm like a match struck in a dark room.
I put my boot in the stirrup.
“Ready?” he asks.
“No.”
He lifts anyway.
It’s effortless, like I weigh no more than a feather. Deeply annoying. One second I’m on the ground, and the next I am in the saddle, gripping the reins with both hands and trying not to look impressed.
Tristan steps back, eyes traveling over me quickly.
“You’re secure?”
“Physically? Maybe. Emotionally? Don’t ask.”
“I won’t.”
“Coward.”
“Survivor.”
He mounts Bramble with a fluid ease that should be illegal. There’s no other word for it. Beautiful. He doesn’t swing into the saddle so much as become part of the movement. In a split second, faster than my eye can register. Vampire thing, of course.
Now I look at him. Horse and man, dark and elegant, the Highland hills behind him. My mouth goes dry.
Vampires should not ride horses well. There should be a limit. One supernatural advantage per person.
Tristan catches me looking. I immediately look at Fern’s mane.
“She has very nice ears,” I mutter.
“She does.”
The amusement in his voice is unbearable.
Mrs. MacLeod appears through the stable doors carrying a wicker basket large enough to feed a small wedding party.
“I said lunch for two,” Tristan tells her.
“And I packed lunch, for three,” she says, her gaze moving to Murphy. Justin follows with a folded blanket and straps it behind Tristan’s saddle, and then the lunch.
Justin looks perfectly healthy. No pallor. No weakness. No visible evidence of yesterday. He catches me studying him.
“I’m fine, Miss Monroe. Mom gave me two breakfasts that would revive the dead.”
Tristan gives him a look.
Justin’s smile widens before he heads back into the stables. Apparently, everyone here becomes funnier once the American discovers the household vampire.
“You’ll avoid the eastern ridge. The ground is still wet. And the old bridge,” Mrs. MacLeod says.
“Yes.”
“And—”
“Margaret.”
She stops. Tristan rarely uses her first name. Something passes between them. Concern. Affection. Centuries of her family keeping him alive and apparently telling him where not to ride after rain.
Mrs. MacLeod looks at me.
“Make certain he drinks what I packed.”
She pats Murphy, tells him to behave, and walks away with the dignity of a woman who has packed enough food to survive a siege and considers the matter closed.
“Are you sure you’re comfortable riding?”
“I can remain on a horse under favorable market conditions.”
“This is not property investment.”
This is ridiculous. Yesterday I learned he drinks human blood every five days. Today, apparently, my greatest danger is staying on a horse and stilling my heart when I look at him.
Murphy trots between us as we leave the stable yard and follow a stone lane away from the castle.
The grounds of Glenhaven open around us. Rolling hills stretch beneath a vast sky. Heather darkens the slopes in purple-gray patches. Ancient trees lean over low stone walls, their branches dripping from the morning rain. Beyond them, small mountains rise through mist.
I’ve seen the property maps. I’ve studied survey lines, acreage, drainage routes, access roads, and every dry detail that turns land into numbers.
None of it explains this. The estate feels endless.
“You planted those,” I say, pointing toward a stand of tall trees lining the ridge. “How long ago?”
“About three hundred years.”
I turn in the saddle.
“You say that like someone else says they planted tomatoes last spring.”
“They were considerably smaller then.”
We ride along the ridge at an easy pace. Tristan remains close enough to reach me if Fern decides to test the limits of my equestrian education, but not so close that I feel watched.
It should annoy me. Instead, it feels safe.
He shows me the old tenant cottages, abandoned now but structurally sound. A walled orchard. The remains of a mill beside a narrow stream. A hill where, according to Tristan, signal fires once warned the castle of approaching armies.
“You own all this,” I say in wonder.
“Piper, you own it. Several hundred years of deferred maintenance.”
“You see ruin where I see history. And possibility.”
He glances at me. “That may be why Glenhaven needs you.”
The path narrows as we enter a grove of ancient yew trees. Their branches knot overhead, turning the day dim and green. Murphy slows, curious. The air changes. It’s cooler and still.
Then the little chapel appears.
It sits in a hollow between the trees, smaller, built from stone nearly swallowed by ivy. Its glass cloudy with age and it’s but somehow sturdy and ancient.
A rusted iron gate is open. A cemetery stands behind it, apparently marking generations of Sinclairs and MacLeods.
“This is the little chapel I’ve wanted to see,” I say.
Tristan dismounts and comes to Fern’s side to help me.
“I can manage.”
“I’m certain you can,” he says as he lifts his hands. I place mine on his shoulders and swing my leg over the saddle. His hands catch my waist. This time, when my boots touch the ground, he doesn’t release me immediately.
Neither do I release him. His shoulders are solid beneath my palms. His face is close. Too close to pretend I don’t notice his mouth.
I remember our kisses. His lips against mine. His hand at my back. The clean smell of him.
Then Murphy shoves his nose between us and looks pleased with himself. Tristan clears his throat.
“The chapel. Shall we take a look inside?”
“Yes. We should probably look at the ancient building rather than stand here behaving strangely.”
The hinges groan as it opens. Inside, the chapel smells of dust, stone, and old rain.
There are no pews, only several simple benches along the walls. A small altar stands beneath the eastern window. The floor is made of flagstones worn smooth in the center.
“When was it built?”
“It predates the castle.”
“By how much?”
“No one knows precisely.” Tristan walks toward the altar. “The earliest references call this place the sanctuary at Glenhaven. The castle was built much later.”
“So, it was sacred ground.”
I run my fingers over a carved symbol on the wall. A circle crossed by nine narrow lines.
“What’s this?”
“A mark that was used here when it was built. I adopted it when we drew up the Accord. It seemed to … fit. Nine lines, nine Houses…”
I glance toward the far end of the chapel, where a narrow iron gate is set into the stone floor.
“Is that where you locked yourself away?”
“Yes. The crypt.”
I walk closer. Beneath the gate, stone steps descend into darkness.
“You stayed down there without blood for eleven days? Until Ewan found you?”
“Yes, he’d been searching for me.”
I look through the iron bars.
“What would have happened if he hadn’t?”
“I would eventually have become too weak and then…”
Tristan is silent. He would have died. I grip the cold iron.
“You were trying to protect everyone.”
“I was afraid.”