The Claiming of the Shrew (Survivors, #5)

by Galen, Shana

  ONCE WARD WAS LOCKED out, Catarina began to shake. But losing her head would not keep her alive. She grabbed Ines, who sat motionless on the couch and yanked her up and behind her. “If you get the chance, run.”

  “I am not leaving you.”

  Juan Carlos turned back to them. “Let her go. I am not interested in your little sister.”

  Catarina didn’t wait for another chance. She shoved Ines toward the door leading to the dining room. Ines shook her head, but Catarina glared at her. “Get out now. I do not want you here.”

  “I cannot leave you.”

  “Get out!” she yelled in a tone she’d never used with her sister, or with anyone, before.

  Shocked, Ines opened the door. Catarina held her breath until Ines closed it again.

  “This is your fault, you know,” Juan Carlos said, moving toward her. “If you had just done what I asked. What we agreed upon.”

  “You mean if I had just married Miguel and given up everything I had ever worked for.” She slid along the side of the room, not wanting to allow Juan Carlos to corner her. “I did not want to give it up. I created Catarina lace.”

  “You do not deserve it,” he sneered as he attempted to close in on her. “My family has been making lace for centuries. We have lived and worked in Barcelona for hundreds of years. Who are you? No one. Some little Portuguese peasant girl who should know her place!” He lunged at her, the knife clutched tightly in his hand. Catarina flung herself to the side, tripping on her skirts, but jumping to her feet in time to round the couch in the center of the room.

  “I am in London now. Go back to Spain and make your lace. No one will remember me.”

  But he was too angry to listen to reason. He was breathing hard, circling the couch as she circled on the other side. She doubted he had even heard her. He wanted vengeance and would not stop until he had it. She’d hurt his pride. Juan Carlos had been a spoiled and pampered child, just as he had spoiled and pampered his son. He felt entitled to her shop and her lace, and like a child who has had the thing he wants taken away, Juan Carlos was striking out in anger.

  “You think you can keep away from me forever?” He was breathing hard now as he chased her around the couch, reversing directions and lunging over the top. “I will catch you.”

  He would. It was only a matter of time. She would move too slowly or trip on her skirts or one of his wild lunges would succeed. She needed a weapon, but as she looked about the square room, she saw nothing. The room was bare of anything not related to her lace. Even the top of the desk was clean. The clock on the mantel was the only embellishment, and she could grab it, but it was heavy and would be of little use if she tried to throw it. She would have to be very close to Juan Carlos in order to slam him over the head with it.

  She jumped back as Juan Carlos slashed his knife over the top of the couch and almost caught her arm. Without warning, he stepped on the couch and leaped over the back, landing in front of her.

  She screamed and scrambled around the side, but not before he caught her skirts with the knife. The fabric rent as she tore away, leaving her panicked at the close call and Juan Carlos even more confident than before. He ran after her and she ran too, pushing a chair over to slow his progress. The door was so close, but he’d moved the table in front of it, and it would take too much time to move it. She ran on, pushing a blue-and-white-striped chair between them.

  They faced each other, she breathing hard, her heart pounding with fear. He was red-faced and sweating, his teeth showing in a feral smile.

  “Adios, señora.”

  That was when Tigrino pounced.

  Seventeen

  “A harmless necessary cat.”

  The Merchant of Venice, William Shakespeare

  BENEDICT HADN’T WAITED for a hackney. Duncan had paused to hail one, but Benedict had not even looked back. The afternoon was cold and gray, and he wore no greatcoat or hat, but he didn’t feel the bite of the wind. He felt nothing but the slam of his heart against his chest.

  She could not die. He could lose everyone, had lost so many, but he could not lose her.

  He rounded a corner, running as fast as he could, shoving men and women out of his way, and still he knew he would not be fast enough. She might be dead already. Images of Juan Carlos sanding over her body, bloody knife in his hand, flashed in Benedict’s mind. He heard the commotion behind him, the screams and curses, but didn’t turn until a hackney coach came up alongside him, careening wildly as the driver barely managed to avoid hitting a fruit stall.

  “Hop on, will ye?” a Scotsman called.

  Benedict looked up at the wild-eyed, long haired man in the box. The jarvey was nowhere to be seen, but when Duncan held his hand out, Benedict took it and climbed up.

  “Hold on tae yer hat!” Duncan warned.

  “I’m not wearing a hat,” Benedict said as Duncan called to the horse and the beast lurched forward, the force of which almost knocked Benedict out of the seat.

  “Then just hold on!”

  Duncan was as much a lunatic in the driver’s seat as he was on the battlefield. He took no prisoners, endangering the lives of passersby, whether they be old or young, male or female, human or canine. How he managed to avoid injuring anyone or anything was beyond Benedict’s understanding.

  He lifted his hands from his eyes just as the stolen hackney arrived at his front door. And it was literally at his front door—one wheel having come to rest on the lowest step. With a war cry that all but stunned Benedict, Duncan jumped down and raced for the door. Benedict recovered and was right behind him. They burst into the shared hallway, which was eerily quiet. Duncan reached behind his back and pulled a sword—dear God, was that a claymore?—from what must have been a sheath hidden under his coat. “Which door?” he asked.

  “This one.” Benedict fumbled for his key, heart pounding as fear at what he would see on the other side of the door made his hands shake.

  “Move aside, Colonel.” Duncan gave Benedict about a half second to comply then lifted a leg and kicked the door in.

  Benedict rushed inside the receiving room just as a woman screamed.

  THE CAT LANDED ON THE back of Juan Carlos’s neck, claws extended, hissing and growling. Juan Carlos let out a howl and reached back to free himself from the cat’s sharp talons. Catarina took her chance, shoving the chair forward hard and slamming it into Juan Carlos’s legs. He growled at her, still grappling with Tigrino, and then time seemed to halt when the knife he’d held slipped from his fingers and clunked on the floor.

  Juan Carlos freed himself from Tigrino and tossed the cat against the wall like a rag doll then went for the knife. But he was too late. Catarina closed on it first, their hands brushing against each other. She stood, knife outstretched, and Juan Carlos lunged for it. Catarina’s hand jerked up and she felt warm, sticky blood ooze over her hand as she pulled it away from Juan Carlos’s coat.

  His face was too close to hers, so close his breath puffed against her cheek. And then he fell forward, and she jumped aside to avoid being trapped under him. He fell on his side, moaning, then turned and looked up at her. The knife was still embedded in his belly, a ring of red surrounding the black hilt.

  Catarina screamed. Juan Carlos gurgled then reached for her. She stepped back and screamed again, just as the door crashed open, half off its hinges, and a large man with long hair and an enormous sword burst into the parlor.

  Catarina was too stunned to scream. She scampered backward as the man moved to the side and Benedict rushed in. “Catarina!” He seemed to leap over furnishings to be at her side in a moment. He pulled her into his arms then up and away from Juan Carlos’s body. Carrying her across the room, he reached the door before she realized what was happening.

  “Wait. Tigrino.”

  “You’re not safe in there.”

  She struggled and he set her down just outside the parlor door. “I am not hurt. Tigrino is injured. He saved me.”

  “Stay here,” Benedict
ordered, clearly not listening to her. “I’ll kill that Spaniard.” He rushed back into the room, and Catarina followed. The large man had lowered his broadsword and stared down at Juan Carlos’s body.

  “I’d say he’s just aboot deid.” The man looked at her. “Did you do this lass?”

  “H-he fell forward. I did not mean to.”

  Benedict knelt next to Juan Carlos’s body. “He’s still alive. Call for a surgeon, Duncan.”

  “Aye.” He stomped out, and Catarina snapped out of her stupor. She gazed around the room, spotted Tigrino laying in a heap of fur on the floor.

  “No!” Rushing to him, she knelt beside him and took his limp body in her arms. “No.” She buried her face in his soft fur, feeling the warmth of his little body. Benedict knelt next to her. She didn’t see him so much as feel him beside her.

  “Let me see him.”

  She sobbed and held Tigrino tighter. “He saved me. He leapt on his back and gave me a distraction.”

  Benedict rubbed her back. “Listen for his heartbeat. I don’t see any blood. He may just be stunned.”

  But she was sobbing too much to hear anything, and Benedict gently took the cat from her arms. He bent his head and pressed it to the animal’s chest. He was perfectly still for three heartbeats, and then he smiled up at her. “He’s still alive. His heartbeat is strong. Let’s keep him warm and see if he won’t wake on his own.” He took off his own coat and wrapped the cat in it, still holding Tigrino in his arms. “Come with me. I want you out of this room. Where is Ines?” he asked as he led her into the receiving room.

  “I do not know. I told her to run.”

  “Safe then.”

  “Ward was injured. I do not know what happened—”

  “He came for me. He’ll be fine.”

  Catarina’s legs couldn’t support her any longer, and without warning, she crumpled to the ground and burst into sobs.

  Benedict knelt before her, still holding the cat. “What’s all this?”

  “I do not know,” she sobbed. “I cannot stop shaking.”

  He pulled her into his arms, the cat between them. “It’s shock. Cry it out. It’s the best thing. I’ve cried plenty of times after a battle.”

  She looked up at him, finding it difficult to imagine him crying.

  “I killed him. I killed Juan Carlos.”

  “He’s not dead yet.”

  She gave him a look.

  “It was self-defense. He would have killed you.” His voice faltered. “And now I want to start crying. God, Catarina, I was so afraid I would lose you.”

  “You came for me.”

  “And you didn’t need me after all.”

  “Of course, I need you!”

  “And I need you. I love you.”

  The words startled her, and she stared up at him. This man with shining eyes and her injured cat in his arms, looking down at her with an expression of love so clear she didn’t know how she couldn’t have seen it before.

  “I love you too.”

  “I was wrong to try and keep you locked up. That’s not what I want.”

  “I know.”

  “I want you to be free and independent.”

  “I know.”

  “I bought you that shop and then I was an idiot and tried to take it all away.”

  “You were an idiot, yes.”

  That shut him up. “You’re not supposed to agree with that.”

  “I will agree to anything if you will only kiss me.”

  “Catarina,” he whispered and pulled her against him, kissing her deeply and tenderly.

  Tigrino let out an annoyed sound and they both laughed and moved apart. The cat wriggled, trying to free himself from the coat.

  “Slowly now,” Benedict said, unwrapping the coat. Tigrino squirmed out, limping slightly when he put weight on his back leg. “We’ll have the surgeon look at him too.”

  The big man clomped back into the receiving room, his steps making the floor shake. “The surgeon is coming, and I found a maid and another lass huddling together in the back.”

  “Maggie and Ines! Bring them in, please.”

  “Come in!” he called, and the two women rushed inside, Maggie clutching her skirts and asking about Ward and Ines throwing herself against Catarina. She held her sister, crying with her then shaking when the surgeon arrived and announced there was nothing he could do. Her teeth chattered when, several hours later, some men came and took the body out.

  Benedict was at her side the entire time. He answered questions and held her hand as she answered them. Others came and went. Some she recognized and others she didn’t. Finally, everyone except Ines, Benedict, and Catarina were gone. Catarina, who had finally been moved to a chair in the dining room, leaned her head back and closed her eyes. Just for a moment.

  When she began to fall, Benedict caught her.

  SOMETIME AFTER MIDNIGHT her eyes fluttered open. Benedict lay beside her on his bed, and he brushed her hair back from her forehead as she opened her eyes and looked about in confusion.

  “I’m here,” he said. “You’re safe.”

  “Ines?”

  “Is sleeping in her bed chamber. And”—anticipating her next question—“Tigrino is sleeping by the fire. The surgeon splinted that back leg, and he’s finally given up trying to tear the wrapping off and fallen asleep.”

  Her dark eyes focused on him. “And you?”

  “I’m watching over you.” Of course, he was. Why had she ever doubted him?

  “What time is it?” She struggled to sit, but he pulled her back down.

  “It’s a little after midnight. Go back to sleep, my love. You need to rest. Tomorrow will bring more questions, more inquiry.”

  She gripped his hand tightly. “I want to stay with you.”

  She’d been strong today, answering the magistrate’s questions with surprising brevity and clarity. She’d been so strong, and she must be exhausted now. “I won’t leave your side. I’ll be right there.”

  “That is not what I mean. Benedict, when I said I would not marry you—”

  “We don’t have to speak of that now. I know I was an idiot. I want you to give me another chance, but if you can’t, if I’ve lost your trust forever, I won’t try to keep you from leaving.”

  She raised a brow. “You will let me walk out of your life?”

  The idea made him feel ill. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t follow you.” He’d been a fool once and let her go. Age had given him wisdom, and he wouldn’t make the same mistake again.

  “You will not have to follow me.” She put her arms around his neck. “I am not leaving you. You are not the only one who was an idiot. I should have known you were acting out of fear.”

  He pulled back. “Me, afraid?”

  She laughed. “Then maybe I was acting out of fear.”

  He cupped her face. “Or we both were. I need to ask you. Will you marry me? Again? Forever—until death do us part?”

  “Forever? That sounds wonderful to me.” And she kissed him.

  He didn’t want to take her then. It hadn’t been his intention. He’d wanted her to sleep and regain her strength, but her hands slid under his shirt, pulling it over his head. And when he protested, she told him she needed to touch him, to be close to him. He tried to object when she slid out of her chemise, but the sight of her body made his mouth go dry. By the time she reached for the fall of his trousers, he was in no mood to argue with her. In fact, Benedict would argue that the lady should have whatever it was she wanted.

  Right now she wanted him.

  He stroked her body with a fervor he could hardly contain. Her skin was so warm, so silky, so soft and full. She moaned and arched and responded to every caress, every touch until they were both out of breath and struggling to keep control.

  She wrapped her legs around him. “Show me again how much you love me.”

  He slid into her, slowly, his eyes locked on hers, giving her all of himself—his every emotion. They moved tog
ether as though they had done this hundreds of times before. The way she looked at him filled him with warmth and gave him as much pleasure as the feel of her body wrapped around him. When she finally closed her eyes and whispered, “Yes,” he watched the orgasm ripple through her, lighting her face until it was shining in the dim light of the bed chamber. His own release followed, so strong he could barely keep from collapsing on top of her when it was over. Instead, he rested his head on her shoulder, closed his eyes, and breathed in the scent of her.

  “You have to marry me now,” she murmured, her voice sleepy.

  “I always had to marry you,” he answered. “You were meant for me.”

  “And you for me.”

  He would not argue with that.

  Eighteen

  “Thou art sad; get thee a wife, get thee a wife!”

  Much Ado about Nothing, William Shakespeare

  THE WEDDING WAS AT eight o’clock in the morning in the church Benedict had attended as a child, the one that bore a pew with the Draven family name on it. His younger brother officiated, and his older brother served as one of the witnesses. The breakfast was held at Somerford Lodge, the Draven family home in Bedfordshire. It sounded rather grand but was small and dark and rather damp and cold in winter.

  Still, it was his family home, and he wanted Catarina to see it. “I’ll bring you back in spring,” he said as they sat down to breakfast with Ines, his family, and a few of his men. “It’s too cold to show you anything now.”

  “I would like that,” she said, smiling up at him.

  His breath caught when she did that. She always looked lovely, but today in her pale-yellow gown with sleeves and a collar of white Catarina lace, she looked absolutely breathtaking. He must have looked at her too long, because her brow furrowed.

  “Is something the matter?”

  “No.” Everything in his life was absolutely perfect. “I was only admiring your lace. I hope you did not have to make your own wedding lace.”