The Claiming of the Shrew (Survivors, #5)

by Galen, Shana

  “How can you blame yourself? It is not your fault you were attacked!”

  “Ines, hush!”

  “No one can understand Portuguese here.”

  “We cannot be too careful. If you expose me, you do Juan Carlos’s work for him.”

  “Good. Then he cannot force you to marry Miguel.”

  “I would rather marry his son than dangle on a scaffold.”

  “You wouldn’t—”

  Ines was interrupted by a knock on the door, which turned out to be the footmen carrying water and a standing tub. Catarina went to the dressing room, as she wore only a blanket, and Ines directed them to place the tub behind a screen and fill it. When they were finished, Catarina discarded the blanket and poured the water over herself, warming her skin and washing away the mud and dirt splashed on her from the rains.

  By the time she was in her night rail again, she hoped Ines had fallen asleep. But Ines, as usual, was full of energy. “Tell me how he looked. What did his house look like? What did the woman look like? Or do you not wish to discuss her?”

  “I do not wish to discuss any of it,” Catarina said. She was exhausted, having barely slept the night before because she’d been worried about seeing Draven today. And now after seeing him, she didn’t think she’d sleep very well tonight. “I am tired.”

  “But you haven’t eaten any supper. I sent for soup and a vegetable tart. It’s waiting on the table.” She indicated a small table in the corner of the room with a plate under a dome on top.

  “I will eat tomorrow. I am too tired tonight.”

  Ines gave her a look of incredulity. “May I eat it then?”

  “Yes.”

  And Ines scampered away to have her second dinner of the night. Catarina did not know how the girl stayed so thin when she ate so much. It seemed no matter how many times Catarina skipped a meal, her hips stayed round. But she was honestly not hungry tonight. Her stomach roiled, and she didn’t know if it was because she wouldn’t see Benedict tomorrow or because she would see him the day after.

  At some point Tigrino curled up at her feet, and Catarina fell into a light sleep. Her thoughts were fraught with worry. How could she escape Juan Carlos and his son Miguel? How could she keep her business? And what would she say when she saw Benedict again? Finally, she dreamed, her mind returning to its favorite subject—that first, and only, kiss.

  Two

  “Marriage is a matter of more worth

  Than to be dealt in by attorneyship.”

  Henry VI Part I, William Shakespeare

  HE SHOULD NEVER HAVE kissed her all those years ago. He hadn’t needed to. He could have left her with money and a farewell handshake.

  But he’d wanted to kiss her. How could he be expected to resist when she had such lush, red lips? He had to leave her the same hour he’d married her. Perhaps the kiss had been selfish, but he’d wanted something for himself.

  But two days later, as Draven made his way to Mivart’s hotel, he wished he’d had some compassion on his future self. How many nights had he lain awake, nervous about the battle to come, remembering that kiss? That kiss had sustained him on those endless nights when he hadn’t known if he would live or die the next day. That kiss had given him solace when he’d issued orders to his men, orders he knew would mean certain death for many of them. That kiss had given him strength when he’d written letters of condolence to wives and mothers. That kiss had tormented him when he’d returned to London and tried to remember what it was like to exist without the constant threat of attack.

  And that kiss had taunted him when he’d returned to Portugal, just to look in on Catarina—nothing more—and found she had left her small village and the home of her aunt years before. Even her own father did not know whether she lived or where she had gone.

  So he’d returned to his life in London. He’d retired from the army and had promptly been asked to take a position in the Foreign Office. He mostly acted in an advisory capacity, but the threat of foreign spies or plots was ever-present, and he was often called upon to ferret them out.

  Fortunately, he kept in contact with the surviving men of his troop, and their respective skills were useful when he needed them. His men were a loyal lot, more like his sons or younger brothers now than subordinates. Not that he ever let them know he saw them as equals. Still, he enjoyed watching their new endeavors. Recently, he’d funded Ewan Mostyn’s boxing studio and spent his free afternoons there, watching the large man teach the art of pugilism. Other days and nights he spent at the Draven Club, where his men often whiled away their free hours.

  In short, Benedict had done what he could to forget Catarina Neves. He’d resigned himself to the fact that all he would have to remember her by was that kiss.

  Until two nights ago.

  Two nights ago, she’d walked back into his life in very much the same way she’d entered it the first time. And Benedict had thought of her every single waking moment thereafter.

  Now he was here. Now he would see her again.

  Now he would officially and properly sever their relationship. If one could call it that.

  He should have been overjoyed to have that last loose end from his time in Portugal tied, but as he stepped into Mivart’s sumptuous lobby, joy was the last emotion coursing through him. He felt...annoyed. He had not set a time for their meeting and did not expect that she would be waiting for him. He approached the desk where the concierge stood and was immediately greeted by an older gentleman with thinning white hair and a long nose. “How may I serve you, sir?”

  “I’m here to see a guest, a Miss Catarina Neves.”

  The concierge gave Benedict a long look before opening his guest register and perusing the contents. “And is the lady expecting you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hummm.”

  Benedict shifted impatiently as the man flipped back and forth between pages.

  “Hemmm.”

  “What does that mean?”

  The concierge looked up at him. “Sir?”

  “Why are you dithering? Just give me her room number.” He hadn’t planned on going to her room. It didn’t seem appropriate, but now he did not wish to sit in the lobby with this man hemmming his disapproval.

  Besides Benedict was her husband. If he couldn’t go to her room, no one could.

  “I don’t seem to have a Miss Neves on my guest registry. Perhaps you have mistaken her place of lodging.”

  “No. This is it. Her surname is N-E-V-E—” Then the thought occurred to him that perhaps she used his surname. In her eyes, they were wed. “Hold. Try Draven. Catarina Draven.”

  “You are here to see Miss Draven?” Clearly the man knew her since he did not need to consult his book. “May I ask your name, sir?”

  “Colonel Benedict Draven. Her husband.”

  The man’s eyes widened. “You are her husband?”

  Benedict knew he was older than Catarina. He was probably too old for her, but he wasn’t some feeble, doddering ancient. “I am. Is that a problem?”

  “No. I—No. I’ll have Barrows here escort you.”

  “I don’t need an escort.”

  “It’s our policy, Colonel. Barrows!”

  Barrows was a young man with spectacles and wavy brown hair. He loped more than walked, but Draven made sure to keep up. He wasn’t too old to climb a flight of stairs. Barrows stopped in front of a door and bowed, palm up. “Here you are, sir.”

  “Colonel.”

  “Here you are, Colonel.”

  “Thank you.”

  Barrows cleared his throat and wiggled his hand. Benedict blew out a breath and dropped a halfpence into the outstretched palm. Now the hotel staff could call him old and miserly.

  Barrows looked at the coin and wrinkled his nose. “Colonel.”

  When he was gone, Benedict knocked on the door. It opened a moment later and a young woman stood on the other side. Benedict had been expecting Catarina, and for a moment he worried Barrows had led him to the
wrong room. This woman’s skin was lighter, her face narrower, and her form thinner. Upon seeing him, her eyes widened and her mouth formed an O.

  “Is Catarina Nev—Draven here?”

  The woman said nothing, merely stared at him.

  “I asked if—”

  The door closed in his face.

  Benedict rocked back on his heels. What was he to do now? Knock again? Would Barrows have taken him to the wrong room? Benedict was about to knock again, but the door opened. The same woman stood there. Now she was breathing rapidly, as though she had run a great distance while he’d been standing in the corridor. “Colonel Draven?” she asked, her accent almost certainly Portuguese.

  “Yes. And you are?”

  “Ines Neves. The sister of Catarina. Come in, please.”

  Anxious as he was to see Catarina, Benedict was the son of a gentleman. He bowed respectfully. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Neves.”

  She blushed and giggled then stepped out of the way, giving him a view of a comfortable chamber fitted with chairs, a table, and a couch settled near a hearth. The door to the bed chamber was closed, but he didn’t need to wonder if Catarina was in bed. She was seated in one of the chairs, still arranging her skirts, as though she’d hurriedly moved there. A glance at the table showed him a slip of fabric had been thrown over the work being done there. Letters? Sewing? He didn’t know why women felt obliged to give men the impression they spent all day sitting about doing nothing.

  Their eyes met, and Catarina rose. She wore a deep yellow gown with a wide neck that showed her lovely collarbone. Though it was not cut low, Benedict was aware of heat rising in his cheeks at the sight of her neck and upper chest. He dared not look any lower.

  “Senhor. You have come, as you promised.”

  “I’m a man of my word.” He moved forward, entering the parlor.

  “You have met my sister?”

  He looked back at Ines for a moment, but it was Catarina who held his gaze. The younger sister said something in Portuguese. He knew a bit of the language, but he wasn’t paying enough attention to translate. Then the younger sister exited to the bed chamber and he and Catarina were alone.

  They looked at each other for a long time. Finally, Catarina said, “I will ring for tea.”

  “There’s no need.”

  “I know your customs. It is appropriate to serve a caller tea.”

  “I’m your husband. I think we can dispense with the social customs.”

  Her dark eyes flashed fire before she quickly lowered her lashes. There was the temper he knew so well. She was attempting to control it for the moment.

  With a savage yank, she pulled the bell summoning a servant. “So now you wish to acknowledge me as your wife.”

  “I’ve never denied you.”

  “Nor did you claim me. Do you know how long I waited for you to return?” Her brows rose in challenge.

  She’d waited for him to return? He hadn’t known that. He’d always assumed she’d used their marriage to escape. Had she felt something for him? Perhaps he wasn’t the only one who’d been affected by that kiss.

  “If you waited—”

  A knock on the door interrupted them, and Ines hurried out of the bed chamber to answer. Benedict fell silent as the young woman ordered tea and cakes before slipping back behind the door, where she was most certainly eavesdropping.

  “Please sit down,” Catarina said, indicating the couch across from her. “If I must look up at you for any length of time, my neck will ache.”

  “I thought we were following convention.”

  Her brow creased in a way he found quite adorable.

  “I cannot sit until you do, Mrs. Draven,” he explained.

  She gave him a withering look but took her seat. He followed, sitting on the couch she’d offered him. They sat in silence for a moment, the sound of the crackling fire the only respite. She was so lovely. When he’d first met her, there’d been something wild and fierce about her beauty. Now she looked perfectly polished and sophisticated. Only her eyes gave a hint that she was that same untamed woman he’d married all those years ago.

  The moment dragged on, as she too looked at him. He wondered if she wished he were young and dashing. He cleared his throat and she shifted restlessly. And then they spoke at once. “You look beautiful,” he said at the same time she said, “I need an annulment.”

  Silence descended like a shroud. He’d known an annulment was what she wanted. He’d come willing to grant it to her. After all, the marriage wasn’t valid. He’d never considered it so, but he understood that her religion was important to her. She considered the marriage valid and could not in good conscience marry another man without annulling it.

  “You have papers for me to sign?” he asked.

  Her eyes widened. “Yes.” She might have been surprised at his easy acquiescence, but she didn’t let that forestall her. She jumped to her feet, forcing him to rise as well, and collected a sheaf of papers that had been sitting on a side table. “I do not have a pen,” she said, looking about distractedly.

  “We can send a servant for one. Let me see them.” He held out his hand. She gave them and took her seat again. He sat as well, looking over the request to the Pope for the granting of the annulment.

  But he could hardly focus on the words. His eyes kept returning to Catarina. She sat nervously pleating her skirt. Was she nervous he would not sign or nervous he would?

  “You said you want to marry someone else.”

  Her chin jerked up. “Yes.”

  “Who is it?”

  “No one you know, senhor.”

  “Why don’t you ever call me Benedict?”

  She blinked at him, her long lashes a veil. “I suppose because I don’t feel I really know you, sen—Benedict.”

  She didn’t know him, and he didn’t know her. Well, he knew she had a temper. He knew she could be impulsive and stubborn and determined.

  He knew her lips were like silk when he kissed them.

  He’d come willing to grant the annulment. He should grant the annulment. She was young and at the very beginning of her life. He had already lived what felt like two lifetimes. She’d only married him because she’d been desperate to escape the abusive man her father had promised her to, and his name would give her protection.

  She hadn’t wanted him. She did not want him. What could she possibly want in a man old enough to be her father?

  But how would he ever know if there could be something more than desperation between them if he granted the annulment?

  And was he hoping to be humiliated? That was exactly what would happen when she laughed at the very suggestion of giving their marriage a chance.

  Not that he was entertaining that suggestion.

  Was he?

  “And you know this man you plan to marry?”

  “I...I fail to see how that is any of your concern.”

  Benedict narrowed his eyes. “That’s an unusual response.”

  “Is it?”

  “It would have been easier to say you know him well or you love him. Why refuse to discuss it?” Why did he care? Why not sign the papers and let her go?

  She rose, the skin of her neck coloring. “Because it is not your concern.” The flush rose from her neck to her chin and her cheeks.

  “I’m your current husband. I think my successor is my concern.”

  “I knew you would make this difficult!” She extended her arms wide. “Please just sign the papers!”

  He raised a brow at her show of temper. She wanted this badly, but something was not right. He had the same sensation now that he’d often felt when a battle did not end in his favor. In battle there was a point when he realized he’d been flanked or the reserves would arrive too late or his enemy had a better position. At that moment, he felt a wave of dizziness. It wasn’t enough to unseat him from his horse or make him stumble, but it was enough to disconcert him.

  Benedict felt dizzyingly disconcerted
now.

  “I still don’t have a pen,” he drawled.

  Her expression turned from anger to fury, and he wondered if she would throw something at him. He also wondered if she could possibly look more ravishing than she did at this very moment. But before she could reach for the closest object, a tap sounded on the door. Catarina smiled in triumph.

  “Our tea. And very soon, a pen.”

  She lifted her skirts, but Benedict held up a hand. “Allow me.” He strode toward the door and opened it.

  But a servant with a tea tray did not wait outside. Instead, a man a few years his senior stood there. “You must be Colonel Benedict,” he said. Benedict immediately recognized the Spanish accent.

  “I am. And just who the hell are you?”

  Three

  “I am as vigilant as a cat to steal cream.”

  Henry IV Part I, William Shakespeare

  CATARINA CLOSED HER eyes. Of course, Juan Carlos had to interrupt now. Now Benedict Draven would have even more questions. And more reason not to sign the annulment papers.

  And if he didn’t sign them, what then? She was lost, and she refused to believe Benedict Draven could help her. She’d believed that once before. She’d thought he was her knight in shining armor—the hero who would ride in and save her.

  He’d never come.

  “I am Juan Carlos de la Fuente. I have been wanting to meet you, Colonel.”

  Benedict looked over his shoulder, his gaze meeting hers. She could read his thoughts perfectly. This is the man you wish to marry?

  “Juan Carlos—”

  But before she could find a pretext on which to send him away, Juan Carlos shouldered his way into the room. “Have you signed the papers already?” he asked, his greed evident to her by the way he rubbed his fingers together, almost as though he was already counting the money.

  “No, we have not. Why don’t you come back later, so we might discuss it privately?”

  Juan Carlos moved away from the door, and Benedict slammed it shut.

  The older man turned to face Benedict. “Why have you not signed the papers?”