The Claiming of the Shrew (Survivors, #5)

by Galen, Shana

  Catarina tried to swallow the lump in her throat. What if Ines was not simply being kind? Was she, Catarina, beautiful? Did Benedict think her beautiful? She could hardly feel her feet as Benedict led her out of the door and into the street. Would he truly kiss her later? She wanted that and the thought terrified her all at once.

  Outside, a carriage waited, and it took her a moment to realize it was not a hackney. “Is this your carriage?”

  “I suppose you could say that. It’s my club’s carriage. I thought we could use it tonight.”

  A servant opened the door for her and handed her up. Inside, the carriage was more luxurious than the home she had grown up in. The seats were cushioned and their velvet matched that of the draperies. The wood shone in the lantern light and the brass knobs and ornamentation gleamed. Benedict took a seat across from her.

  “This vehicle looks as though it were made for a king.”

  Benedict smiled. “I recently had it refurbished. I’m glad you approve.”

  The carriage started away, and Catarina peered out the window, watching as London streamed by. It was almost dark, but the streets were still filled with people. Many of them stopped to peer at the carriage, pointing at her.

  “They think I am royalty,” she said.

  “And why not? You’re a beautiful woman passing them by in a carriage. Of course, they wonder who you are.” She did not know if he was serious or teasing.

  “A few years ago, I would have stood where they do, gazing up at a carriage like this with my mouth hanging open. It is difficult to believe I am the one in the carriage now.”

  “You don’t have a coach in Barcelona?”

  She closed the curtains, uncomfortable with all the eyes on her. “I have no need of one on a regular basis. I have thought of buying one, so I could have the opportunity to buy thread from markets other than those in Barcelona. A carriage and horses are so expensive.”

  “From what I hear, you are doing well for yourself and can afford the expense.”

  She gave him a long look. So he had investigated her. She could hardly blame him as she did not trust easily—or at all—and now he must know that she had told him the truth.

  “But is a carriage necessary? I do not like to be frivolous. I have women counting on me for their livelihoods.”

  He nodded, and she thought she saw approval in his eyes. “You grew up poor and know the value of money.”

  “I like to think so. There is no reason to spend money on things I do not need.”

  “No wonder you’ve done so well.” He studied her for a moment. “Have you ever thought about opening up a shop here in London?”

  She had thought about it, but it seemed an impossible dream, even when she did not take Juan Carlos’s threats into account. But why would Benedict mention it? Did he want her to open a shop here? Did he want her to stay close to him?

  “I think that is a wonderful dream, but I do not know if I could ever make it a reality,” she said, finally. Then, because she wanted to change the subject to one more comfortable, she peered out the window again. “Which theater are we attending?”

  “Drury Lane,” he answered. “Edmund Kean is performing in A New Way to Pay Old Debts. It’s supposed to be quite an amazing play. I do hope you weren’t expecting Shakespeare.”

  “The only performances I’ve seen are those on the street, and they are generally puppets hitting each other in the head to make children laugh.”

  “Then I’ll be eager to hear your opinion on this production.”

  They arrived at the theater, and Benedict escorted her inside. Immediately, she was surrounded by more people than she’d ever seen in her life. She could barely move, but Benedict led her confidently through the crowds and up the stairs to a curtain. He pushed it aside, and Lord Phineas rose.

  “Colonel Draven and Mrs. Draven.” Lord Phineas bowed. “How good to see you again.”

  Benedict put his hand on the small of her back and led her inside the box, which overlooked the stage. For a moment, Catarina simply stared at the theater. It was enormous and lit by so very many chandeliers. Across from her, there were four tiers of boxes and below were the floor seats. The theater itself boasted lovely arches soaring high above the patrons. Deep red curtains ornamented the stage.

  “Thank you again for the use of your box,” Benedict said. Catarina turned back to the conversation.

  “I’ve been offering it for months, but you never agree. Thank you, Mrs. Draven, for finally persuading him.”

  The box curtain swayed again, and a lovely woman with blond hair and blue eyes entered. “Oh, hello!” she said with a smile.

  “Lady Philomena, may I present Colonel Draven and his wife, Mrs. Draven? My sister, Lady Philomena.”

  Benedict and Catarina bowed and said all the appropriate words, but just as Lord Phineas was offering her a seat, Lady Philomena gasped. “Your lace!”

  Catarina glanced down at her sleeves, where Lady Philomena’s attention seemed riveted. She feared she had stained or torn it.

  “No, no. It’s quite fine. But I would swear on my father’s grave that is Catarina lace.”

  “It is,” Catarina told her.

  The woman was instantly at her side. “May I look more closely?” She gasped again. “You have it on your bodice as well!”

  Catarina nodded and held up her sleeve for Lady Philomena’s inspection. Lady Philomena turned her arm this way and that. “Oh, my. It’s simply exquisite. So delicate and intricate. The workmanship is beyond anything else I have ever seen”

  “Thank you,” Catarina said. “I do my best.”

  “You?” Lady Philomena looked away from the lace then back again.

  “Mrs. Draven is Catarina,” Benedict said. “The woman who designed the lace and creates it.”

  Lady Philomena looked as though she would stumble backward. “What? Why, I am in the presence of greatness! You cannot know how much I love your lace. It is very difficult to acquire here in London.”

  Catarina felt her cheeks warm. It always made her both proud and self-conscious when she received praise. “I would be very happy to give you a length or two. Or perhaps you would like me to make you something?”

  “Would you?” She clapped her hands together. “I would simply die for a handkerchief.”

  “Then consider it done.” It was the least she could do and something she would enjoy. “What is your favorite color? And I will want to personalize it with your initials as well.”

  “Oh, you are simply lovely.” Then her expression fell. “But I don’t know how I will ever pay for it. My brother, the duke, insists on managing my money, and he keeps his purse closed tight.”

  “No, no. It is a gift. For allowing me to sit in your beautiful box.”

  “Oh, thank you! You will make me the envy of every woman in London. I cannot wait until the next ball.”

  “No doubt you’ll accidentally drop the handkerchief ten times so it will be seen,” Lord Phineas muttered.

  His sister smacked him playfully on the shoulder. “Oh, hush!”

  “Will you let the woman take her seat now?” Lord Phineas gestured to a cushioned chair. Catarina took it, and Benedict sat beside her. The play had not yet begun, and she surveyed the crowds of people across from and below her. Everyone looked so sophisticated. Fans fluttered and jewels sparkled. More than one lady or gentleman held a small spy glass held to his or her eye to better see the people in the theater.

  Her gaze skimmed over most of the people seated on the floor as they were not as elaborately dressed, but then she dragged her eyes back to a man staring at her with so much hatred she could feel it all the way across the theater. Catarina reached over and grasped Benedict’s hand.

  “What is it?”

  “He is here.”

  He didn’t need to ask who. “Where?”

  “There.” She didn’t want to point, so she inclined her head in Juan Carlos’s direction., toward the seats near the back of the floor.


  “I see him. He can’t hurt you.” Benedict squeezed her hand. “You’re safe with me.”

  She was safe with him. She knew that, but the way Juan Carlos looked at her made her stomach churn.

  “He’s seen you. That’s what we wanted. Now we have to hope he tries to approach us. We’ll leave the box during the intermission.”

  Catarina wanted to grasp her chair and refuse to go anywhere. Logically, she knew hiding would only prolong the inevitable. She had to face Juan Carlos. But instinctively, she wanted to climb under her chair and cower.

  The play began, though it seemed to Catarina no one was watching the actors on stage. She certainly couldn’t pay much attention, and although Benedict seemed to watch, Lady Philomena whispered in her ear, pointing out this person or that, throughout the first act. Intermission came too soon, and Benedict rose immediately.

  “I want to take Mrs. Draven for some air.”

  “Oh, but my friends will want to meet her,” Lady Philomena protested.

  “Some other time, Mena,” her brother said. Then turning to Benedict, he warned, “You’d best go now. I can hear the stampede coming this way.”

  Benedict took Catarina’s arm and escorted her out of the box and back down the stairs to the lobby, where refreshments were being sold. He bought her a measure of wine and one for himself, then situated himself with his back to a pillar.

  “What are we doing?” she asked.

  “Waiting.”

  They didn’t have to wait long. Juan Carlos spotted them not long after Catarina saw him emerge from the theater. He stalked across the lobby, aiming for them like an arrow.

  “Señor de la Fuente,” Benedict said, not giving Juan Carlos the courtesy of a bow.

  Juan Carlos glared at Catarina. “What do you think you are doing? We had an agreement.”

  Benedict angled so his shoulder was slightly in front of Catarina. It was a protective gesture she appreciated. “My wife no longer wants any part of your agreement.”

  Juan Carlos’s face hardened. “I would be careful, if I were you, Colonel. I could ruin your wife with a few words.”

  “My understanding of the situation is that you would ruin yourself too. Or is burying a body and not reporting a death to the authorities acceptable practice in Spain?”

  “You stay out of this,” Juan Carlos said, his face turning red. He focused his dark eyes on Catarina again. “Who do you think the judge will believe? My family has owned a business in Barcelona for decades. We are well-respected members of the community.”

  “And she was a lone woman defending herself,” Benedict inserted. “Surely the court will have compassion.”

  Juan Carlos sneered at him. They both knew courts had little compassion where wealthy men were concerned.

  “What occurs to me,” Catarina said in Spanish, her voice low, “is that if you report me to the authorities, your reputation will not go untarnished. After all, if you suspected me of a crime, why would you not report it? Instead, you sought to benefit from my misdeed and use it to blackmail me.”

  “No one will believe that.”

  Catarina translated for Benedict.

  “They will believe it if I stand at her side and make sure they listen.” Benedict put his arm about Catarina’s waist. “She has a protector now, de la Fuente. She has her husband at her side. I think it’s best if you return to Spain and forget all about Mrs. Draven.”

  Juan Carlos’s face was dark crimson, and he shook with anger. “What about your shop? Your business? You will abandon it?”

  “That is not your concern,” she told him.

  “Why not sell it to me?”

  “Never. It is mine. You will never have any part of it.”

  “Go home, de la Fuente,” Benedict said.

  Juan Carlos looked at both of them in turn, hate burning in his eyes. “This is not over.” And he stalked away.

  “YOU DIDN’T ENJOY THE play, did you?” Benedict asked when they were once again inside his flat, cozy and warm in the blue-papered room. She sat on the cream couch and Benedict built up the fire in the hearth. He’d given Ward permission to retire, and since Maggie had reported Ines had gone to sleep early, it was just Benedict, Catarina, and Tigrino in the blue parlor.

  “I confess I could hardly pay attention to it. I could feel Juan Carlos staring at me during the first act, and then he was gone after the intermission, and I half feared he would come into the box.” She shivered, as though she had been cold and was only now warming up.

  “He would have never been allowed in the box. And he will never be allowed near you again.”

  Her shoulders seemed to relax at those words, and she leaned back against the couch and stroked Tigrino, who closed his eyes as though in bliss. “And what if he tells everyone what I did? No one will buy the lace of a murderer.”

  Benedict leaned an arm on the mantel, where a fire burned low. “There’s nothing we can do to keep Juan Carlos from telling everyone what happened. If he does, then we will counter with the truth—that you were protecting yourself. I will take the blame for you, since I wasn’t there to protect you.”

  She looked up from Tigrino sharply. “You cannot blame yourself, senhor.”

  “Senhor?” He gave her an exasperated look. “I thought you were calling me Benedict now.”

  “Very well. Benedict, you should not blame yourself.”

  “And yet I do. I should have been there to protect you. I knew when I took my vows they were not legally binding, and yet I still felt bound by them. I couldn’t protect you then, but as soon as I was free, that was my chief concern.”

  “And then you couldn’t find me.”

  Tigrino jumped to the floor and rolled on his back, showing the soft fur of his belly. She stroked him.

  “That too was not your fault. Ow!” She yanked her hand away as Tigrino grasped it with his claws and nipped at her fingers.

  Benedict shooed the cat away and knelt in front of her. “Are you hurt?” He took her hand in his, examining it.

  “No. He is just playing, but I fall for his tricks every time.”

  “You want to believe everyone is as well-intentioned as you. But sometimes men, like cats, are just waiting for a chance to strike.” As he spoke, he rubbed his thumb along her fingers, making her skin tingle. “But Juan Carlos will find that lashing out at you only hurts him.”

  “Perhaps that is so here, where he has little influence, but in Barcelona, no one would dare go against him.”

  “You’re not in Barcelona now,” he said quietly.

  “But I will have to return.”

  “Not necessarily.” His thumb roamed in lazy circles on her bare flesh. “I like having you here.”

  She swallowed and licked her lips as though they were dry. “My sister and I must be an inconvenience.”

  “Your sister is a sweet girl, and you are surprisingly little trouble.”

  She smiled. “You mean compared to the way I behaved when we first met.”

  “You certainly garnered my attention.” He took her hand in his. “You still do.” He tugged her arm gently, pulling her closer to him. “I’d like to kiss you, wife.”

  Her breath hitched. Dare he believe she wanted this? That she was attracted to him, even if it was only half as much as he was attracted to her?

  “By virtue of our marriage, I do not think you are required to ask, husband.”

  “And yet I want to ask. I want you to want to kiss me.” His hand ran up her bare arm. “Do you?”

  She nodded, her face blushing a pretty pink. That was all the encouragement he needed. Since she’d stepped foot into his house—hell, since he’d stood beside her in the rain storm—he’d imagined this moment. He released her arm and took her chin between his thumb and forefinger. Her skin was so soft. He had the urge to cup her face and pull her close, run his fingers over her silky face and thread them through her hair, freeing it. When they’d first met, she worn it long and loose about her shoulders. He misse
d seeing it that way.

  “Then kiss me,” he said. He was an old fool to make her prove she wanted him, but he’d always had a little too much pride.

  “I should kiss you?”

  Benedict laughed quietly. “I never knew you to be afraid of a challenge. Where’s the girl who pointed a pistol at me and demanded I marry her?”

  “She is older and has hopefully outgrown some of her impulsiveness.” Her breath was warm where it brushed against his hand. God, how he wanted her.

  “That’s too bad.” He released her chin, but before he could drop his hand, she caught it. His heart raced along with his hopes.

  “There are benefits to losing one’s impulsiveness.”

  “Such as?”

  “Taking the time to think about what one really wants.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “This.” She took his face in her hands and pressed her lips to his. It was a soft, sweet kiss. He wanted more, but he was in no mood to rush her. So he would have to content himself with this peck tonight. She drew back, lowered her gaze and, to his surprise, kissed him again.

  This time the kiss was longer and warmer. He had time to return it. When she pulled away, her breath came more quickly. He hadn’t done this in some time, but he could still recognize the signs of a woman’s arousal. Taking a chance, he slid his arms around her waist, pulling her close. Her soft body melted into his. She followed his lead, wrapping her arms around his neck and weaving her hands into his hair. She ran her hands through the wild red sections. “I have been wanting to do this all night,” she whispered.

  He frowned. “You’ve been wanting to muss my hair?”

  “Exactly. I like it wild and unruly.”

  “Then I’ll never tame it again.”

  When she kissed him this time it was hot and open-mouthed. His hands tightened on her waist as he tried to control his desire to touch her more intimately. She leaned forward, kissing him deeply, and lost her balance, having reached the edge of the couch. He fell back, and she tumbled on top of him.