The Claiming of the Shrew (Survivors, #5)

by Galen, Shana

  Finally, she parted her lips and Benedict had the urge to slip inside her sweet mouth and take the kiss even further. But he was already sinking. Holding her was like jumping into the surf and allowing the waves to wash over you until suddenly you looked about and had no idea where you were or how you could ever get back to where you’d begun.

  He pulled back, slowly, and her eyes opened. They were as unfocused as he felt.

  “Well?” she whispered.

  “I’m definitely not ready to give you that annulment.”

  Five

  “For what is wedlock forced but a hell,

  An age of discord and continual strife?”

  Henry VI Part I, William Shakespeare

  SHE WANTED MORE. SHE wanted him to kiss her again and kiss her longer and touch her and do so, so much more. But he was drawing away, and she had to squeeze her hands into fists to stop herself from dragging him back. The force of her longing for him was so strong she thought she might draw blood at the effort it took to restrain herself.

  His words finally penetrated the wool around her brain, and she scowled. Not at him, but at life. Her life. At the mistakes she’d made to end up here. Why was she torturing herself by kissing him? Why was she pretending this could be any more than a brief diversion?

  “You must sign the annulment,” she murmured.

  “So you may marry Miguel.” He raised his brows as he said it, looking dubious.

  She nodded.

  At the moment she couldn’t even remember Miguel’s face, much less think about marrying the man. He’d never kissed her. She didn’t even know if he wanted to, although knowing how low Miguel’s standards were, she assumed he would kiss anyone and anything with a pulse.

  “Because you love him.”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re lying. I don’t know why, but I know it as sure as I know my own name.”

  She was lying, but what good would it do to tell him he was correct? He couldn’t help her. No one could help her. So she didn’t answer. She didn’t like lying to Benedict.

  “Can you accept that I have my reasons and grant me what I ask?”

  He pulled his gloves back on, a gesture that saddened her as it seemed to indicate even more clearly he would not be kissing her any more today. “I can’t, no. I’m not usually a difficult man, and it’s not my intention to make you unhappy. But...” He looked away, staring blankly at the trees and, if she had to guess, seeing nothing.

  “But?” she prompted, curious to know what he would say.

  “But you’re mine,” he finally said, then seemed startled by his own admission. His eyes flicked to hers. “I mean, you’re my responsibility.”

  “I have no wish to be your responsibility. It would be easier for you if you signed the papers.”

  “If you want me to sign them so much, tell me what I want to know.”

  She pressed her lips together.

  “So we are at a stalemate.”

  “What do we do now?”

  “Dig in, I suppose. Eventually, one side will run out of supplies or be forced to retreat or”—he lifted his brows—“surrender.”

  “You must know I will never surrender.”

  “You should know I have never surrendered.” He held out his arm. “You’re beginning to shiver, and the sun is going down. I’ll take you back to the hotel.”

  She thought about what he said as they rode back to Mivart’s. They could both dig in, as though they were opposing armies, but he had all the advantages. He could draw this out as long as he liked, while she had Juan Carlos demanding progress. She would have to tell Juan Carlos something or risk him doing something unpleasant.

  “You haven’t yet told me what you were doing in Barcelona,” Benedict said from the seat across from her. “The last I heard you had plans that would lead you to Lisbon. Why did you go with a seamstress to Barcelona?”

  “Because she was a very good seamstress. I knew I could learn much from her.”

  “And did you?” He held up a hand. “Don’t answer. You can tell me tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Yes. I want to see you tomorrow. I don’t know what we’ll do yet. Do you like the theater?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Or perhaps a musi—you’ve never been to the theater?” His look was incredulous, and she felt, once again, like that peasant girl she once was.

  “No.”

  “Then I must take you. I’ll come for you tomorrow evening.”

  “Benedict, we cannot keep on like this.”

  “Juan Carlos won’t allow it?”

  “No, he will not.”

  He leaned forward, almost conspiratorially. “Then tell me the hold he has over you.”

  She looked away, staring out the window at the passing buildings and not really seeing them. When the hired carriage stopped before Mivart’s, Benedict helped her down again. But before she could sweep past him and sneak upstairs, he took her arm. “I can help you,” he murmured close to her ear. “If you’ll allow me.”

  And then he released her, and she was stepping into the lobby. Her whole body thrummed. She could still feel the light pressure of his hand on her arm and the caress of his breath on her cheek as she made her way toward the stairs. She was shivering and hot and wished she could go back to him.

  The bubble of pleasure she felt from being with Benedict popped when Juan Carlos stepped in front of her. “Where the hell have you been?”

  “Juan Carlos!” She jumped, feeling guilty. She was supposed to be in bed, too ill to come out of her room.

  “Your sister said you were ill. I knew she was lying.”

  Catarina was immediately on guard. “Do not blame Ines. I told her to lie. If you are angry, blame me.”

  “Oh, I will blame you. But I would rather not have this conversation in public. Go up to your room.”

  Catarina didn’t wait for him to say more. She took the stairs quickly, so quickly that she was out of breath by the time she reached her door. She didn’t have the key with her and tapped on the door lightly. “Ines, it is me.”

  The door opened immediately, Ines’s sweet face pale with concern. “You were gone for so long.”

  “Sorry.” Catarina closed the door and locked it. “I lost track of time. Did Juan Carlos come to see me?”

  Ines nodded. “I told him you were ill, but I do not think he believed me.”

  “I met him in the lobby.”

  “Oh, Catarina! What are we to do?” Her hands flew to her cheeks, her eyes wide.

  “Not panic.” She removed her bonnet and spencer. “He cannot fault me for meeting my husband and asking for the annulment.”

  “Did he agree?”

  Catarina sighed, and Ines’s hands slid to cover her face. “We are surely doomed!”

  A key turned in the lock, and Catarina grabbed her sister’s shoulder. “Get into the bed chamber and lock the door. Do not come out no matter what.”

  “But—”

  “Go!” Catarina scooped Tigrino into her arms and handed the unhappy cat to Ines. “Hurry!”

  The door opened just as Ines and Tigrino disappeared into the bed chamber. She knew it would be Juan Carlos. She and Ines had one key to the room and he had the other. What she did not expect was that he would have Miguel with him.

  At least she thought it was Miguel. The short, dark-haired man looked awful—bloodshot eyes, disheveled hair, bloody nose.

  “What happened, Miguel?” she asked.

  Juan Carlos waved a hand. “Do not worry about him. I want to know where you were.”

  “I was at the park with my husband, doing as you asked of me.”

  “Did he sign the papers?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Not yet!” he roared. He grasped her arm, his rough, pinching grip so much different than Benedict’s had been only a few minutes before. “You do not try hard enough.”

  “I am!”

  “Oh really?” He looked her up and d
own, causing her to shrink back. She didn’t like his eyes on her. “If you are trying so hard, where are the papers?”

  She pointed to the other side of the room.

  “Exactly. How can he sign them if you do not even bring them?”

  She opened her mouth then closed it again. Nothing she said at this point would help matters. She would only anger Juan Carlos further. He bore down on her, and she refused to shrink away from him, so she stood her ground until he towered over her.

  “Have you forgotten that I know your secret? Have you forgotten that one word from me and you will hang?”

  “We both know that is not your wish.”

  Behind Juan Carlos, Miguel slid to the floor, and she leaned to the side, giving Miguel a concerned look. Juan Carlos turned. “Stand up!” he bellowed. Miguel jumped to his feet.

  “I think you need an incentive.” He gestured to Miguel. “Grab her.”

  Miguel stumbled toward Catarina. She didn’t try to escape when he took her arm. Miguel was a puppy whereas his father a snarling wolf.

  “Miguel wants to marry me as little as I want to marry him. Why not just draw up contracts and we will be business part—”

  Juan Carlos raised a fist and both she and Miguel flinched back. “I will not share with the likes of you, even if I could trust you. As it is, you would sign a contract one day and kill me the next.” He wagged a finger at her. “You will marry Miguel, and all your property goes to me.”

  “And what makes you think that even if I marry your son, I won’t kill you?” she asked, her voice icy. “All of my property does you no good if you are dead.”

  “That’s a problem I will consider after you say your vows. But first you need to say them.” He moved forward, grasping her by the throat and pushing her backward until her knees collided with the couch. She fell back, but before she could scramble up, Juan Carlos grabbed her hands.

  “Let me go!”

  “Miguel, take her.”

  Miguel had followed them slowly, and now he stood at the end of the couch, looking perplexed. Catarina understood exactly what Juan Carlos had in mind—rape. But Miguel was either too drunk or too stupid to understand. “Miguel, take her!”

  “Where, Papa?” he said, words slurred.

  Juan Carlos swore. “Exercise your husbandly rights with her.”

  Miguel’s eyes opened wider and his gaze snapped to Catarina.

  “No, Miguel. No.”

  Miguel looked at his father. The son, for all his faults, was not violent.

  “Take her,” Juan Carlos all but growled.

  Miguel reached for the placket of his breeches, and Catarina began to struggle and kick. Juan Carlos’s hands were sweaty, and she was able to wriggle out of his grip. She rolled off the couch and tried to run, but her foot caught on the hem of her skirt, and she fell. Juan Carlos grabbed her ankle then put a hand on her back, pushing her down. She kicked and fought, but she couldn’t manage to free herself.

  The bed chamber door opened, and Ines peeked out. Catarina’s heart froze. She shook her head. “Get inside and lock the door,” she hissed while Juan Carlos berated his son. Her momentary stillness had given the men an advantage. She felt the hem of her dress lift and cool air on her bare bottom.

  “No!” she yelled.

  “Are you a boy or a man?” Juan Carlos taunted. “Take her.”

  She tried to crawl away and was prevented by the weight of Miguel who had come down on top of her. She felt his soft hands on her thighs, inching them apart. “Miguel, no!”

  He fumbled with his breeches, moved into position, and she squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for the invasion.

  But it didn’t come.

  “Do it!” Juan Carlos said from above them.

  She turned her head and looked up at him. He stood over them, sweat pouring down his face. But the more Miguel fumbled, the more she realized he couldn’t perform. He was impotent from either anxiety or too much drink—or perhaps both. He made a half-hearted jab at her with his limp member and then put his head on her back.

  “I can’t,” he muttered. “Too tired.”

  Juan Carlos had words for his son. He called him names Catarina had not ever heard before, but she didn’t wait to see if the father would cajole his son into finally performing. Instead, she wriggled out from under Miguel and fled to the bed chamber door. Ines opened it the moment she reached it, and then she was inside, panting for breath against the wood as Ines slid the lock into place.

  BENEDICT SAT IN HIS private room at the club that bore his name. Porter, the Master of the House, had brought him a light repast and a full pot of tea. He sipped the tea and stared into the fire, wishing he had brandy. But if he started drinking brandy, he might not stop.

  Benedict needed all his wits about him.

  He heard the step-thump-step-thump of Porter’s wooden leg as the man moved down the corridor and glanced at the door even before the man opened it. Porter didn’t knock. When you had known each other for over twenty-five years and been through as much as he and Porter, knocking was an unnecessary formality.

  “Is there anything else, Colonel?” Porter asked, peeking inside and showing only his face and silver hair.

  “Did you send for FitzRoy?”

  “He hasn’t arrived yet. I’ll send him up as soon as he does.”

  “Of course, you will. My apologies.”

  Porter stepped inside and closed the door. The reason for this became immediately clear. “Benedict, are you unwell?” Porter would have never referred to Benedict by his Christian name in public. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

  “You’re a good man, Porter, but you’ve done enough for a lifetime.” He would have added he wished Porter would simply retire or—hell—content himself to be waited on at the club. But to say as much would only insult Porter, who thought it an honor to serve Benedict and the Survivors. Benedict couldn’t say why. Logically, he knew it wasn’t his fault Porter had lost a leg. Porter had been his batman when he’d fought in India for the British East India Company under Wellesley. A group of the enemy had sneaked into camp one night and ambushed the sleeping men. Porter’s leg had been gravely injured. It later developed gangrene and had to be amputated.

  But Porter had refused to return home. He’d stayed at Benedict’s side and was there for the victory celebrations. Benedict had not allowed Porter to accompany him to the Continent when Wellesley asked him to fight the French with him. Instead, he’d taken on Ward. But when Benedict had returned from the fighting, he’d sought Porter out at the coffee house where he worked, enticing him to run the club he wanted to open as a refuge for the men who’d survived his suicide troop.

  “A man can always do more,” Porter said. It seemed to be his motto.

  “Why don’t you go visit your sister, Porter?”

  Porter’s nose wrinkled ever so slightly. “I will see her at Christmastime, as usual. That is soon enough.”

  “Is she still trying to see you married?”

  “She will never give up until she has inflicted the institution of matrimony on everyone of her acquaintance.”

  Benedict sat forward. “Do you really think so little of marriage?”

  Porter gave him a long look. “I think it is perfectly fine for some men.” Quite suddenly, Porter cocked his head. “Ah, perhaps that is Mr. FitzRoy now. Excuse me.” He left quickly, and Benedict listened to the quick step-thump as he retreated.

  The man had the hearing of a cat. Benedict hadn’t heard a sound. But just a moment later, Porter tapped on the door and admitted Colin FitzRoy.

  “Mr. FitzRoy is here, Colonel.”

  “Take a seat, FitzRoy. That will be all, Porter.” He looked at FitzRoy. “Unless you are hungry?”

  “I’ve dined.”

  Porter retreated again, and when they were alone, Benedict lifted the tea pot. “Tea?”

  “Thank you.”

  While he poured and served, Benedict studied FitzRoy. He’d been known as The Pret
ender when he’d served under Benedict. It wasn’t immediately apparent as to the reason. Colin was of medium height and build with curly dark hair and light green eyes. The eyes had turned the head of more than one woman. The hair probably had too. He had the look of one of the romantic poets.

  Or perhaps that was the look he cultivated tonight, because Colin FitzRoy could disguise himself as practically anyone he chose. When the troop needed information and there was no woman for Rafe Beaumont to seduce, Colin went to work. His French was flawless, as was his German, Spanish, and Portuguese. He might have other languages as well, but Draven couldn’t remember. There was a rumor that FitzRoy had an uncle or great-uncle who had scandalized the family by becoming an actor. Perhaps that was where Colin had inherited his ability to masquerade as practically any man—or woman—he’d ever seen.

  “You didn’t call me here to drink tea,” Colin said.

  “I need your help. It’s a personal matter.”

  One of Colin’s dark brows rose.

  “This isn’t an order. This isn’t official work, you understand,” Benedict went on.

  Colin waved a hand. “I understand.”

  “This would be a personal favor to me. I hate to even ask it of you.”

  “Sir, forgive me, but just tell me what it is. If we go on this way, one or both of us will be forced to say something embarrassing or emotional.”

  Benedict lifted his tea cup to hide his smile. He’d forgotten how much FitzRoy hated displays of emotion.

  “It’s a personal matter,” Colin went on, summing up. “I understand. I know how to keep my mouth shut. I’ll help in any way I can.”

  “I need you to get me information on a man named Juan Carlos de la Fuente. He and his son Miguel are staying at Mivart’s. They are traveling with two ladies, an Ines Neves and a Catarina Draven, formerly Neves.”

  Colin’s gaze flicked to Draven’s, but that was the only indication that he’d taken note of Catarina’s surname. “Is the party Spanish or Portuguese?” he asked.

  “The ladies are Portuguese, but I’d like you to disguise yourself as a Spaniard. Talk to this Juan Carlos or his son. Find out what they do, their business here, their interest in...Mrs. Draven.”