The Claiming of the Shrew (Survivors, #5)

by Galen, Shana

  She felt her cheeks heat. “I am well. You were very gentle,” she said quietly.

  “I’ll have Maggie prepare a bath for you tonight.”

  The idea of a warm bath was appealing. “Thank you. And how was your day?”

  “I was called into the Foreign Office on a matter I cannot discuss. I was there most of the day, reading documents. I’m hungry and tired.”

  “Then I will see what’s keeping dinner.”

  She gave Ines several warning looks before they went into dinner, but she still scowled and stabbed at her food with her fork.

  “Is something wrong?” Benedict looked from Catarina to Ines.

  “No,” Catarina said at the same time Ines said, “Yes.”

  He set his wine glass down. “What is it?”

  “We were supposed to go to buy thread today. Catarina and I have no thread to make lace. I told you this morning.”

  He nodded. “I said I would take you if I could get away. I couldn’t.”

  “You can go tomorrow, Ines.”

  “But what about all the orders due?”

  “There is nothing due tomorrow. I can finish everything if you two go early.”

  Benedict shook his head. “That’s not possible. I’m wanted at the Foreign Office again first thing in the morning.”

  Now Catarina’s stomach cramped, and she set down her fork. “When will you be back?”

  “By midday, I hope.”

  “And if you are not?” Ines asked.

  “Then you will have to tell your customers their orders will be late.” He gave Catarina an apologetic look. “I’m sorry, but there’s nothing for it.”

  “It seems a very bad way to start a business in a new city—late orders,” Ines announced.

  Catarina agreed. “Is there no one else who could go with us? I’ve never promised to have a piece ready and then not fulfilled my promise.”

  “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  “What about Lord Phineas? Could he go with us?” Ines asked.

  Benedict scowled. “Lord Phineas may have served under me, but he’s the son of a duke. I can’t ask him to shepherd you about on Bond Street.”

  Catarina sighed. “I am sure if you are home by three tomorrow we will manage.”

  But he was not home by three and as the afternoon grew later, Catarina knew the shops would close soon. If she did not have the thread, she would not be able to complete the pieces she’d promised. Worse still was that she had nothing to do. She had always been able to fill idle hours with lacemaking. Now that she had no thread, she’d instructed Ward to tell anyone calling on her that she was not at home. She couldn’t take more orders with no way to fill those she had.

  She tried to take an interest in the household affairs. She remembered her mother cooking and cleaning and mending almost every waking hour, but there was a cook to prepare meals, a maid to clean, and she and Ines could do their own mending.

  In short, she found herself staring at the bracket clock on the mantel and wondering how Benedict could neglect her two days in a row.

  “If we don’t go now, the shops will have closed,” Ines said, speaking out loud what Catarina was thinking.

  “I know.”

  Ines rose, her pink skirts swishing angrily as she paced the small parlor. Tigrino, who had been sleeping under Ines’s chair, lifted his head and opened one eye. “And you do not care?”

  “Of course, I care. But what can I do?”

  “What can you not do? We can go ourselves. We are perfectly capable. We did not have a man to accompany us in Barcelona.”

  “We did not have Juan Carlos trying to hurt us then.” Catarina stood now too, tiring of looking up at Ines. “And Barcelona was smaller than London. We were known. Here I feel as though we could disappear, and no one would know what had happened or who we were.”

  “But that is exactly my point. It is easy to disappear. We wave down one of the coaches for hire and no one would be able to distinguish us from any other coach for hire. We will go to the shop and then come right back.”

  “And if Juan Carlos sees us?”

  Ines gave her a dubious look. “How will he see us? Unless he is watching the house, he will never know we have left. We will be in and out of the coach in a few minutes’ time. We know just where to go for the thread.”

  “But what if he is watching the house?”

  “Your Benedict has men watching him. They would have told us if Juan Carlos was watching.”

  “You are right,” Catarina said. Moreover, if they did encounter trouble, she was no fainting miss. She could use a knife and had her grandfather’s pistol for show.

  “Then we go.”

  Catarina hesitated for a moment. Benedict would not want her to go, but she had not made her way in the world up until now by being timid and staying hidden. Not to mention, she’d taken care of herself for years without Benedict. If they were quick and careful, there was no danger.

  “We go,” she said, rising and pulling on her gloves.

  Fifteen

  “I will be master of what is mine own:

  She is my goods, my chattels; she is my house,

  My household stuff, my field, my barn,

  My horse, my ox, my ass, my any thing.”

  The Taming of the Shrew, William Shakespeare

  BENEDICT RUSHED INTO the door, apologies on his tongue. “Catarina! I know I am late, but I have something for you. Catarina?”

  Ward appeared, holding out a hand for Benedict’s hat and gloves. “She is not here, sir.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Ward assisted him in removing his great coat.

  “Mrs. Draven is not in residence at the moment.”

  Benedict froze and then tore through the flat, his coat still hanging off one arm. “Catarina! Ines!” But the flat was empty except for Tigrino, who was curled up in the center if Ines’s bed. Benedict rounded on Ward. “Where are they?”

  “They went out to buy thread.”

  “What?” Benedict roared. “And you allowed this?”

  Ward straightened his already stiff shoulders. “I am at a loss as to how I was to stop them. They were determined to go.”

  “Bloody hell. Why would they act so stupidly?”

  “They are but mere women, sir.”

  Benedict gave his butler a disgusted look. “And why did you not go with them?”

  “I?” Ward lifted his bony chin. “I am not a footman.”

  Benedict closed his eyes and tried to remember how faithfully Ward had served him over the years. He told himself he would be sorry tomorrow if he strangled the man tonight. “How long have they been gone? How did they go, and so help me God, Ward, if you say on foot, I will have your head.”

  Ward swallowed. “I acquired a hackney for them and put them in it myself. No one was watching. Not that I saw, at any rate.”

  Ward had traveled with Benedict all over the Continent as they fought Napoleon’s forces. His instinct for danger and for traps was as good as any man’s.

  “They have been gone about an hour,” his butler added. “I expect them to return any minute now.”

  Which meant it would not be prudent for Benedict himself to go chasing after them. He’d probably pass them coming back as he drove away. Nothing to do but wait then. He sat in his favorite chair in the parlor. Looking around the room, he hardly recognized it now. It was still painted blue and square in shape. He’d chosen the furnishings, but an India shawl was draped over on chair and several pieces of lace lay on a table. A pair of women’s slippers were tucked under another chair, and a pillow with an unfinished lace design sat on the couch. Tigrino lay on the carpet near the low burning fire. He stretched and yawned when he saw Benedict looking at him, seeming quite unconcerned with all the yelling.

  “Shall I take your coat, sir?”

  “What?” Benedict looked up a Ward, holding out a hand, and realized his coat was still hanging off one shoulder. He rose and slipped out of
the coat, shoving it at Ward.

  “Will that be all, sir?”

  Benedict slumped back in the chair. “Actually, I feel rather like throttling someone at the moment. Your neck looks as good as any.”

  Ward huffed and marched away, the great coat hung over his arm.

  Benedict could recall feeling this helpless many times in his life. The night before a battle there was often nothing to do but wait for the sun to rise and see what waited. Then there was the helplessness of charging across a battlefield, facing a seemingly insurmountable wall of the enemy and hacking and fighting one’s way through it, knowing that one wrong turn, one slow reflex, and he would be dead. Worse had been the years when his troop had prowled the Continent. Benedict would open an order from Wellington and know it would mean certain death for some, if not all, of his men. He’d spent many nights like this one, sitting and waiting for news. And when the missive came from Wraxall, the troop’s leader, his fingers would shake to open it and read the names of the dead.

  But nothing struck terror into the very core of him like the thought of losing Catarina. He should never have left her alone today. He should have hired ten men to surround her and keep her safe. He should have held her last night instead of trying to be a gentleman and giving her time to recover from their lovemaking the night before.

  If Juan Carlos touched her, Benedict would kill the man with his own bare hands. The thought didn’t ease the terror coursing through him. And even the act of murdering Juan Carlos wouldn’t fill the hole Catarina left in his life if something were to happen to her.

  For years, Benedict hadn’t known if she’d been alive or dead. He had lived his life, thinking of her but not frantic at her whereabouts. Now she had been out of his protection for an hour and he felt panic welling inside him. He remained seated, remained outwardly calm. Pacing the room and tearing his chairs apart would solve nothing. He was Lieutenant Colonel Benedict Draven. He was calm and controlled. A seasoned soldier.

  He would bloody well act like one.

  Another quarter hour passed, the hands on the bracket clock, moving excruciatingly slowly before he heard the sound of horse hooves outside the house. He did not rise from his seat. He was not the only one who lived at this address. The upper floors were also taken. It might have been one of his neighbors returning home.

  But he knew it was Catarina. His neighbors had their own routines that did not include returning home in a hackney. He heard her voice, then that of her sister, and something inside him broke. Part of him wanted to rise, meet her at the door, and take her into his arms.

  But another part wanted to yell at her and shake her until she realized what a risk she had taken. Knowing this last option would cause more harm than good to their fledgling marriage, but feeling the strong pull of it nevertheless, he sat in the chair, his hands gripping the arms as he tried to leash his temper. Tigrino rose at the sound of the door and the ladies’ voices. The cat jumped on Benedict’s lap, but Benedict brushed him off. With a flick of his tail, Tigrino sauntered to the parlor door, managing to walk past it just as it opened, admitting Catarina and Ines.

  “Benedict, you are home!” Catarina said, her lovely face, red with cold, breaking into a smile. “I am so glad. It is just now starting to rain.”

  Ines took one look at him and halted in the doorway. “I forgot something in my room. Excuse me, Catarina. Colonel Draven.” She left, closing the door so Catarina and Benedict were alone.

  “Where were you?” he asked, his voice flat. “At the shops, I suppose.”

  “We needed thread, and it was obvious you would not be home in time to take us.” She moved near the fire, warming herself. She must have seen he was angry, but she didn’t seem overly worried about it. She moved gracefully and spoke calmly. “We took a hackney because we knew that was an easy way to blend in. We went straight to the shop where we acquired the thread before and back again. We took no chances.”

  “You took a chance just by leaving this house.” He didn’t turn his head, merely moved his eyes.

  “I realize that, but we were as careful as we could be. We are not prisoners. We cannot say locked up forever.”

  “Is that how you feel? Locked up?” He rose now, but she didn’t shrink away. Instead, her chin notched up.

  “I do not feel that way, but Ines is only eighteen. We cannot expect her to stay inside all the time.”

  “I took her to a garden party. No one expects either of you to stay inside all the time. But I do expect you to use common sense. I do expect you to stay where I put you.” It was a bad choice of words. He knew it as soon as the phrase spilled out of him, but he couldn’t think of another, and he was angry enough not to try.

  She stiffened. “Where you put me? As though I am a clock or a lamp? I am not just another thing you own. I do not have to stay put.”

  “And so you risk your life for thread. Were you a least successful?” He already knew the answer.

  Her shoulders sagged. “No. The woman we bought from before was not at her stall. I suppose we were too late. And we did not want to risk being seen and going to other shops.”

  “I’ll save you the trouble.” He withdrew a package from his coat and dropped it on the chair.

  “What is that?”

  “Open it.”

  She lifted the package, untied the string, and unwrapped the paper. Her gaze rose to meet his. “The thread. How did you—”

  “You seem to think I forgot about you, but when I realized I would be late, I stopped at the stall and bought you all the thread the seller had. She must have gone home after that sale.”

  “And then you came home, and we were not here.” She sat on the chair. “I am sorry I did not trust in you. I suppose I am not used to having to rely on others.”

  Her admission and her obvious contriteness should have mollified him. It didn’t. He’d spent the longest half hour of his life, worrying he would never see her again. He’d been scared and vulnerable, and no sword or rifle could protect him. If something had happened to her...

  “And I am not used to having my directives disobeyed. You knew the danger and you knew my wishes, and you went anyway. From this moment on, I order you confined to this house. You are not to leave unless I give you strict permission.”

  She blinked up at him, her remorseful expression slowly hardening into anger. “Are you saying I am a prisoner here?”

  “Do not be ridiculous. I am trying to keep you safe.”

  “By making me a prisoner.”

  “You are overreacting. This is only until Juan Carlos is no longer a threat.”

  She rose. “Or until you find a new threat. I am not a convict. I will not be imprisoned.” She stood, gazing up at him, face pink with anger. “I knew I could not trust you! I knew marriage would mean the end of my freedom.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You trust me to keep you safe, and I will. If that means confining you here, then that is my decision.”

  For a long moment, she said nothing. Finally, she shook her head. “You may keep me here for a few weeks until Juan Carlos travels back to Spain, but you cannot force me to marry you. Once he is gone, I will be too.”

  And she swept out of the room with her words hanging in the air between them.

  “I CANNOT BELIEVE I ever thought I would marry him,” she told Ines, pacing back and forth in their small bed chamber. Tigrino looked up from the bath he was giving himself to watch her march in one direction and turn. It had been two days since she and Benedict had fought, and neither had spoken more than a word or two to each other in that time.

  “You are married to him,” Ines said, barely looking up from the pillow she was using to make lace.

  “Not according to English law.” She’d been such a fool. How could she have believed he was different than other men? As soon as she had given herself to him, he’d taken advantage and began to try and control her. She never should have trusted him to treat her as an equal.

  “But you care abou
t the law of God. You said he will not grant you an annulment now that you lay with him.”

  “I do not need an annulment. I do not plan to ever marry. For twenty years I lived under the thumb of Papa. I had no choice in even the most mundane details of my life. He told me what to wear, what to eat, and where I could go.”

  “Which was nowhere.”

  She stopped and pointed a finger at Ines. “Exactly. Now here is another man who wants to control me, to keep me from going where I want and doing what I want.”

  Ines set her bobbins down. “Surely it is not the same. Papa was cruel. He loved to have power over us and made ridiculous demands just to exercise that power. Draven is not like that. He only wants to protect you. He bought you a shop. Surely, he does not intend for you never to visit it.”

  Ines was right. Draven was not like her father, but neither was he treating her as his equal. How could she marry a man who might, on a whim, demand she stop making lace or no longer see her sister? And he could demand whatever he wanted of her. Because the truth was that once she was married to him under English law, she was his property. He could do whatever he wanted to her.

  “I still think it’s best if we go.”

  “Where? We cannot go back to Barcelona.”

  “Perhaps France or Belgium? When our lacemakers arrive, I will tell them the situation and ask where they want to go.”

  Someone tapped on the door, and Tigrino growled. That meant it was not Benedict. Tigrino still liked him, despite Catarina’s anger with him. But the cat steadfastly disliked everyone else.

  “Mrs. Draven?” Ward said on the other side of the door. “The colonel would like you to come into the parlor.”

  “And now he thinks to summon me?”

  Ines bit her lip thoughtfully. “Perhaps he wants to apologize.” She clasped her hands together. “Oh, would it not be romantic if he begged your forgiveness and proclaimed his undying love?”

  Catarina sighed. She would respond to the summons simply to escape Ines’s hopeless romanticism for a few minutes.

  “Tell him I am coming, Ward.”

  She smoothed her hair and dress and thought about making Benedict wait. Her hair was tied back in a simple tail, and her dress was a work dress of dark blue. But what did she care how she looked for him? She made her way to the parlor, stopping just outside the door as she heard two voices speaking. One was Benedict but the other belonged to another man.