The Claiming of the Shrew (Survivors, #5) Read online

  The Claiming of the Shrew

  The Survivors: Book V

  Shana Galen

  THE CLAIMING OF THE SHREW

  Copyright © 2019 by Shana Galen

  Cover Design by The Killion Group, Inc.

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the author.

  All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  The Claiming of the Shrew (Survivors, #5)

  The Kissing of the Shrew | A Survivors Short Story and Prologue

  Part I

  Part II

  Part III

  The Claiming of the Shrew

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  About Shana Galen

  Also by Shana Galen

  This book is dedicated to the staff and volunteers at Houston Pets Alive! You save animals like Tigrino every day and are underappreciated and overworked. Thank you for all you do and for letting me be part of it.

  Dear Readers,

  After I sent out the short story with my newsletter, so many readers asked for more of Catarina and Benedict’s story that it gave me the excuse to write it. As soon as these characters jumped off the page, I fell in love with them and wanted to know more. So thank you for asking!

  Thank you as well to Donna Findley and Lee Garcia for the great title suggestions. And thank you to Kristy Birch who suggested The Claiming of the Shrew.

  I couldn’t create the book you’re reading on my own. Thank you to Abby Saul for the myriad of things she does, including editing and production, Kim Killion for the cover, and Gayle Cochrane for graphics and administrative work.

  Happy reading,

  Shana

  The Kissing of the Shrew

  A Survivors Short Story and Prologue

  Part I

  “I desire that we be better strangers.”

  As You Like It, William Shakespeare

  “ARE YOU AFRAID TO DIE?”

  “No.”

  Lieutenant Colonel Benedict Draven wasn’t surprised by the soldier’s answer. In as much as Benedict had seen of the young man’s conduct on the battlefield, Neil Wraxall wanted to die. “You behaved rather recklessly at Sabugal.”

  This was understatement. Major Wraxall had behaved like a lunatic, cutting down the enemy even after they were clearly in retreat and the order to stand down had been given.

  “I had nothing to lose.”

  “You have your rank. I could bring you up on charges for conduct unbecoming an officer.”

  The major’s hollow blue eyes didn’t blink. “Yes, sir.”

  “I won’t do it, Major. Do you know why?” Benedict stood, resting his hands on the table where maps and missives from General Wellesley were strewn about. Portugal’s April rain had finally abated, but the wind whipped against the walls of his tent with determination.

  “No, sir.”

  “I have a mission for you. A suicide mission, truth be told.”

  Wraxall’s expression didn’t change. He looked utterly and completely uninterested. Had they been in a drawing room, rather than an army encampment, Benedict would have called it ennui. And still Benedict wished Wraxall’s eyes would narrow and his nostrils flare in outrage. Benedict had felt outrage when Wellesley had delivered the orders from the King. But outrage or not, the orders were clear—assemble a troop of men to carry out impossible missions. Draven had been instructed to find the best, the brightest, and—most importantly—the expendable.

  Benedict had added his own criterion.

  He’d sat on the orders for the past fortnight until he’d woken early one morning with the knowledge of what he must do clear in his mind. He would recruit men who were survivors. Men who could, against all the odds, emerge alive from the treacherous missions they were given.

  On that Portuguese battlefield Major Neil Wraxall had proved he was a survivor.

  “We’re losing the war,” Draven said. “These are desperate times. Bonaparte must be defeated at all costs.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Draven fisted his hands, wishing he could scream at the man, shake him. Wraxall should be cursing him for sending him to his death. Instead the man appeared as resigned as an elderly mule when hitched to a cart on market day.

  He lifted a packet of papers closed with red wax, a D inside two circles pressed into the crimson seal. “These are your orders. You will be in command of twenty-nine men. I have already selected a dozen of those. If you choose to accept the assignment, I want the names of those you recommend.”

  Wraxall held out his hand, accepting the pages.

  “We need men with special skills. I’ve already tapped Ewan Mostyn. He’s as strong as an ox. You want him at your back in a fight. And he’s smart. He knows when to attack and when to hold back. Rafe Beaumont is another. He’s a bit of a rake, which works for us. He can ferret information out of wives of the enemy. Lord Jasper Grantham is a tracker. He can find anyone and anything.” He gestured to the papers. “It’s all there and more. I’ve found you a sharpshooter, a strategist, a negotiator. You fill in the remaining roles.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Draven gave Wraxall a hard look. “You don’t have to accept this assignment.”

  “No, sir.”

  “But you will anyway.”

  Wraxall made no answer.

  “Then you’re a damn fool, but if you’re determined to kill yourself, you might as well do it for a good cause.” Draven shuffled papers and stacked them. “I’ll want your recommendations in two days. Right now, go back to your tent and sleep. That’s an order, Major.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The major bowed then retreated through the tent flaps. Draven sank into his chair, head in his hands. Wraxall wouldn’t sleep, any more than Draven had slept since receiving those orders. It was a vile thing, sending men to their deaths. Vile and necessary, thanks to the bloody war and bloody Napoleon Bonaparte.

  The tent flaps rustled and Draven pushed his fingers against his burning eyes. His batman must have been waiting for Wraxall to depart so he might press Benedict to eat or sleep. Benedict wanted neither at the moment. He simply wanted a few moments of peace.

  “Go away, Ward,” he said, voice muffled behind his hands. “I told you not to come back for an hour.”

  No answer.

  Perhaps Wraxall had forgotten something and returned. Benedict dropped his hands, but the man before him was neither his batman nor Major Wraxall.

  It wasn’t a man at all.

  Draven would have jumped to his feet if the female hadn’t pointed a pistol at him.

  “Sit,” she said in accented English. “And keep your hands where I can see them.”

  Draven nodded. “Very well.” The pistol shook slightly, indicating her hands trem
bled. If the thing was loaded, he’d rather she wasn’t pointing it at his heart. “What is it you want?”

  Her dark gaze met his with a steadiness and determination he recognized quickly enough, having seen it all his life on the faces of generals and commanding officers.

  “What I want—no, no—what I need,” she said coolly, “is a husband.”

  CATARINA DIDN’T TRUST the soldier in front of her. By the same token, she had little choice but to trust him. Her time was up. Little as she liked it, this man was her only hope.

  “I beg your pardon, miss,” he said, one eyebrow arching upward. “I don’t think I heard you correctly.”

  She jerked her chin up. “You heard me.”

  “You need a husband,” he said slowly. He was more handsome in close proximity than he’d appeared on horseback and from a distance. She’d chosen him not for good looks but because he was in command. He was large and strong—a man who could stand up to her father.

  But now she saw he was not quite so large as he’d seemed when mounted. He was probably not even six feet. But she had not been wrong about his commanding presence. Even sitting and at the other end of the barrel of her pistol, he appeared calm and in control. His blue eyes, eyes that had crinkled slightly with confusion, met hers levelly and without any concern or anger. Only his red hair seemed immune to regulation. It jutted about his head in wild swirls and spikes. Catarina had the urge to tamp it down with her fingers.

  “I see.” He began to stand, but she shook her head and raised the pistol higher. The soldier lowered himself again. Slowly. “Miss—?”

  When she didn’t give her name, his expression turned exasperated, but only for a moment. “Miss, must we have this conversation with a pistol between us?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “I’d rather—”

  She waved the pistol. “I have no time to argue. I need a husband. Please.”

  “Yes, as you said. Help me to understand. Do you mean...ah”—he ran a hand through that wild hair, and she understood why it stuck up—“marido?” His Portuguese accent was horrendous but she was not one to judge. She doubted her English was much better.

  “Husband. That is what I said.”

  “Did one of my men—” He seemed to reconsider. “Has one of my men been too familiar?”

  “Familiar?” She knew the word. Unlike the rest of the people in the provincial town she’d had the misfortune to be born into, Catarina read. She read in four languages, including English. Familiar meant something or someone one saw every day, such as the path to the market. These English had only come to the area recently. They had come to fight the French, who were now in retreat. They were not familiar. “How do you mean?” she asked.

  He looked a bit sheepish, which rather intrigued her. “Perhaps I did not make myself clear. Has one of my men...ah...caused you trouble?”

  She frowned. She’d had to skirt his men in order to gain entry to the camp, but that had not been much trouble. “No.”

  “Has one accosted you?”

  She considered.

  “Attacked?” he said, clarifying.

  “Oh! No.”

  “Then perhaps one of them visited you in the village and did not pay for—er, services rendered.”

  She narrowed her eyes. Not paid? Her father was the mayor of the village, not a merchant. And then it struck her what the soldier meant, and she straightened indignantly. She must have swung the pistol about as well because the man flinched and jerked to one side.

  “I am not a prostitute.”

  He held both of his hands up. “I did not mean to imply that you were.”

  “My English is not so perfect when I talk, but I understand. You did more than imply, senhor.”

  “And you, miss, have more than tried my patience.” He stood, and even when she waved the pistol at him, he did not take his seat again. “Go ahead and shoot me. Put me out of my misery, I beg you, for I fail to see how any of this relates to me.” He came around the table and stalked toward her. Had she thought he was short? He seemed a giant in that moment as the space between them rapidly diminished. She could not back away. If she did, he would have the upper hand. And she did have the pistol, after all.

  “Stop!” she said, brandishing her weapon. To her surprise, he halted. “Do not come any closer.”

  “Is that pistol even loaded?” he asked.

  “Yes.” But she’d hesitated, and he’d seen it. His brows lifted with skepticism.

  “Very well then, shoot me.”

  “I would rather not, senhor. You are more valuable to me alive.”

  “You think to take me as your prisoner? Whom do you work for? The French?” He moved closer. “I assure you, I will never be taken alive.”

  “I do not work for anyone—French or English. And I do not wish to kill you. I need you alive so you can marry me.”

  He was close enough to touch the pistol now, but her words had stopped him in his tracks. “Say again?”

  “Do you not understand English? You will come with me now and be my husband.”

  He stared at her as though understanding for the first time. “You want me to marry you?”

  She cursed in her native Portuguese. Perhaps she had made the wrong choice after all. The man was not nearly as clever as she had thought him. She closed her eyes in frustration, and that was her mistake. The next thing she knew she was flat on her back, her wrist imprisoned in one his hands, rendering the pistol unusable.

  The soldier straddled her, his face dark and dangerous in the shadows. She bucked and struggled, but he simply grasped her other hand and held her in place easily. His broad shoulders were obviously not the result of a padded uniform but actual muscles.

  “Let me go!”

  “Not likely. I think we shall begin our conversation again. This time on my terms and with civility.”

  “I was civil. I said please.”

  His mouth turned up at one corner, and in that moment, she almost forgot she wanted him to get off her. She would have rather he kissed her. A strange thought to enter her mind since he was at least a dozen years older than she. But he did not seem such an old man at the moment. He seemed strong and virile—too strong, she thought as she tried, again and in vain, to push him off.

  “Yes, you did. But perhaps we might begin with introductions. Lieutenant Colonel Draven of the 16th Light Dragoons. And you are?”

  She did not see the harm in telling him. She would have had to give her name during the wedding. “Catarina Ana Marciá Neves.”

  “And is that your real name?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who sent you?”

  He still thought her a spy for the French. “No one. I came on my own. I told you, I need a husband.”

  His grip on her wrist loosened. “Are you with child?”

  Her instinct was to immediately deny it, but the release of pressure from her wrists gave her another idea. She raised her hands, ramming them into his chest. If he hadn’t been balancing precariously above her, the push would have been completely ineffective. Instead, it left him off balance and while he struggled to keep from toppling back she slithered from between his legs, crawled to her knees, and pushed off for flight.

  She was back on the floor in only one step. He’d caught her ankle and dragged her back. She tried to kick him. He swore and grasped her about the waist, locking her arms beneath his grip. Still kicking and fighting, he carried her across the tent and set her down, none too gently in a chair. She tried to jump up again, but he pinned her arms to the armrests.

  “Miss Neves, what did I say about civility?”

  “Let me go!”

  “Oh, no. You came into my tent. You threatened me with a pistol. Now it is my turn for some answers.”

  He dragged her, still trapped in the chair, toward a trunk, which he then flung open. He reached in and yanked out what appeared to be tack for a horse and used it to bind her wrists to the chair’s arms. When he attempted to secure her
ankles to the legs of the chair, she almost landed a kick to his nose. He managed to dodge it and grasped her leg in a firm grip. “That was unwise.”

  She gasped as his hand slid under her skirt to caress the bare flesh of her calf beneath her dress. “Do not touch me.”

  He raised a brow. “What, no stockings?”

  She tried to shake his grip off. “And where would I acquire them? This town is still living in the sixteenth century. I did not give you leave to touch me!”

  He eyed her warily. “Never let it be said I did not treat a woman with respect. I will release you if you give me your word you will sit still and allow me to bind you.”

  She shook her head. Her long, dark hair had fallen into her eyes. She must look as much a peasant as she felt. “And when I am bound, how am I to fight you should you take liberties?”

  He nodded as though considering the point. “Very well, I give you my word, as a gentleman, I will not touch you.”

  “You are a gentleman?” she asked.

  “I am not titled, but my father owned land and can trace his ancestry back over four hundred years. I am also an officer of His Majesty the King of England. I would not behave dishonorably.”

  She blew out a breath. She knew enough of these English soldiers to know they often behaved dishonorably. The rumor was that a girl in a village a day’s ride from here had been accosted by a group of English soldiers, and now all the women in Catarina’s village were to stay indoors and not go anywhere without a male escort.

  She’d disregarded that rule entirely in coming here. And she reminded herself that she’d come because she’d seen this officer and known instinctively that she could trust him. It was too late to turn back. She had no choice but to trust her instincts.

  “Very well. I agree.”

  He released her leg, and she found the removal of his touch and the warmth of his skin on hers more of a loss than she’d expected. Perhaps her mother was right, and she was a wanton woman who needed to marry sooner rather than later. While the soldier tied her ankles, Catarina said a prayer to the Blessed Mother, asking for forgiveness for enjoying the man’s touch.