During the war, Lieutenant Colonel Benedict Draven had agreed to a marriage of convenience in Portugal to protect Catarina Neves. Benedict is shocked when she arrives in London, after five years, to ask him for an annulment. The one kiss they had shared still lingers on his mind, and he finds her even more beautiful than before. He want to have a go at their sham of a marriage, but she is adamant they end it. Catarina has become a very successful lacemaker, she has her own money, and she doesn't want a husband who will take everything away from her. She also has a very big problem, and only an annulment will solve it. If only there were another way, because Draven is very attractive and so kind to her, but her predicament is very serious and very real.
While THE CLAIMING OF THE SHREW stands entirely on its own, followers of The Survivors will recall the stunning scene when we learned that there was a wife in Draven's past. Now we get all the details of how it came to be, and I loved that it was logically explained. Catarina has known her share of abusive and domineering men and, while she knows deep down that she can trust Dreven, she still hesitates. She is an extremely strong woman, but men always have the final say, and she relishes her independence. But she doesn't know the honorable Draven as well as we do!
THE CLAIMING OF THE SHREW is one of those insidious stories where the quiet mood belies the turmoil that lies beneath. The pace is nice and steady, and the story captured my attention and never let go. There's something very intimate about the tone and a subdued sensuality and sparks fly when you don't expect them. There are some wonderful details about lacemaking, the author's eloquence shines in her vivid descriptions, and Shana Galen paints such an enticing picture of Barcelona that I wished more of the story had taken place there. It would not have been possible because Draven's life is in London, and we would not have had the privilege to see some of the other Survivors: Duncan, Phineas, and the charming Colin FitzRoy. Towards the end, I found one element of the rescue highly improbable but I liked the character a lot, so I won't make a fuss over that trifle. THE CLAIMING OF THE SHREW is one of Shana Galen's most romantic stories, it was lovely to see Draven find love, a love that is as delicate and lasting as the finest lace.
What happens when a marriage of convenience isn't
so
convenient?
Lieutenant Colonel Benedict Draven has retired from the
army
and spends most of his days either consulting for the
Foreign Office or whiling away the hours at his club with
his former comrades-in-arms. He rarely thinks about the
fiery Portuguese woman he saved from an abusive marriage by
wedding her himself. It was supposed to be a marriage in
name only, but even five years later and a world away, he
can't seem to forget her.
Catarina Neves never forgot what it felt like to be scared,
desperate, and subject to the whims of her cruel father.
Thanks to a marriage of convenience and her incredible
skill
as a lacemaker, she's become an independent and wealthy
woman. But when she's once again thrust into a dangerous
situation, she finds herself in London and knocking on the
door of the husband she hasn't seen since those war-torn
years in Portugal. Catarina tells Benedict she wants an
annulment, but when he argues against it, can she trust him
enough to ask for what she really needs?
EXCERPT
Catarina didnβt 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.
βI beg your pardon, miss,β he said, one eyebrow arching
upward. βI donβt think I heard you correctly.β
She jerked her chin up. βYou heard me.β
βYou need a husband,β he said slowly. He was more handsome
in close proximity than heβd appeared on horseback and from
a distance. Sheβd chosen him not for good looks but because
he was in command. He was large and strongβa man who could
stand up to her father.
But now she saw he was not quite so large as heβd 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.
βI see.β He began to stand, but she shook her head and
raised the pistol higher. The soldier lowered himself
again. Slowly. βMissβ?β
When she didnβt give her name, his expression turned
exasperated, but only for a moment. βMiss, must we have
this conversation with a pistol between us?β
βYes,β she said.
βIβd ratherββ
She waved the pistol. βI have no time to argue. I need a
husband. Please.β
βYes, as you said. Help me to understand. Do you meanβ¦ahββ
he ran a hand through that wild hair, and she understood
why it stuck upββmarido?β His Portuguese accent was
horrendous but she was not one to judge. She doubted her
English was much better.
βHusband. That is what I said.β
βDid one of my menββ He seemed to reconsider. βHas one of
my men been too familiar?β
βFamiliar?β She knew the word. Unlike the rest of the
people in the provincial town sheβd 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. βHow do you mean?β she asked.
He looked a bit sheepish, which rather intrigued her.
βPerhaps I did not make myself clear. Has one of my menβ¦ahβ¦
caused you trouble?β
She frowned. Sheβd had to skirt his men in order to gain
entry to the camp, but that had not been much trouble.
βNo.β
βHas one accosted you?β
She considered.
βAttacked?β he said, clarifying.
βOh! No.β
βThen perhaps one of them visited you in the village and
did not pay forβer, services rendered.β
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.
βI am not a prostitute.β
He held both of his hands up. βI did not mean to imply that
you were.β
βMy English is not so perfect when I talk, but I
understand. You did more than imply, senhor.β
βAnd you, miss, have more than tried my patience.β He
stood, and even when she waved the pistol at him, he did
not take his seat again. βGo 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.β 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.
βStop!β she said, brandishing her weapon. To her surprise,
he halted. βDo not come any closer.β
βIs that pistol even loaded?β he asked.
βYes.β But sheβd hesitated, and heβd seen it. His brows
lifted with skepticism.
βVery well then, shoot me.β
βI would rather not, senhor. You are more valuable to me
alive.β
βYou think to take me as your prisoner? Whom do you work
for? The French?β He moved closer. βI assure you, I will
never be taken alive.β
βI do not work for anyoneβFrench or English. And I do not
wish to kill you. I need you alive so you can marry me.β
He was close enough to touch the pistol now, but her words
had stopped him in his tracks. βSay again?β
βDo you not understand English? You will come with me now
and be my husband.β
He stared at her as though understanding for the first
time. βYou want me to marry you?β
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.
βLet me go!β
βNot likely. I think we shall begin our conversation again.
This time on my terms and with civility.β
βI was civil. I said please.β
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 virileβtoo strong, she thought as she tried,
again and in vain, to push him off.
βYes, you did. But perhaps we might begin with
introductions. Lieutenant Colonel Draven of the 16th Light
Dragoons. And you are?β
She did not see the harm in telling him. She would have had
to give her name during the wedding. βCatarina Ana MarciΓ‘
Neves.β
βAnd is that your real name?β
βYes.β
βWho sent you?β
He still thought her a spy for the French. βNo one. I came
on my own. I told you, I need a husband.β
His grip on her wrist loosened. βAre you with child?β
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 hadnβt 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. Heβd 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.
βMiss Neves, what did I say about civility?β
βLet me go!β
βOh, no. You came into my tent. You threatened me with a
pistol. Now it is my turn for some answers.β
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 chairβs 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. βThat was unwise.β
She gasped as his hand slid under her skirt to caress the
bare flesh of her calf beneath her dress. βDo not touch
me.β
He raised a brow. βWhat, no stockings?β
She tried to shake his grip off. βAnd where would I acquire
them? This town is still living in the sixteenth century. I
did not give you leave to touch me!β
He eyed her warily. βNever 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.β
She shook her head. Her long, dark hair had fallen into her
eyes. She must look as much a peasant as she felt. βAnd
when I am bound, how am I to fight you should you take
liberties?β
He nodded as though considering the point. βVery well, I
give you my word, as a gentleman, I will not touch you.β
βYou are a gentleman?β she asked.
βI 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.β
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 dayβs ride from here had
been accosted by a group of English soldiers, and now all
the women in Catarinaβs village were to stay indoors and
not go anywhere without a male escort.
Sheβd disregarded that rule entirely in coming here. And
she reminded herself that sheβd come because sheβd 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.
βVery well. I agree.β
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
sheβd 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 manβs touch.
When she was bound, he stepped back, giving her space. She
supposed the gesture was to make her feel less threatened.
It did not work. He was such a presence in the tent that
she could not help but feel overwhelmed by him. Even the
tent, which was larger than her little stone and tile-
roofed cottage, seemed small when he stood.
He drew the pistol, her pistol, from his pocket and studied
it. Then he looked at her and back at the pistol. βIf you
have actually fired this antique, youβre braver than I am.
It must be sixty years old.β
βEighty,β she corrected. βIt was my grandfatherβs.β
βAnd you planned to fire it and kill both of us?β He
examined it closer then made a sound of disgust. βNo, of
course you werenβt. It isnβt even loaded or primed.β He
looked up at her, his blue eyes narrowed in anger. βYouβve
made quite the fool of me.β
βThat was not my intention. If I had come here with no
weapon, you would not have listened.β
βWouldnβt I? You know me so well then?β
She only knew what she had heard about the English
soldiers. They were proud and haughty and took what they
wanted. She had seen him and thought he looked powerful
enough to serve her purposes but also fair and honest.
Sheβd watched him for several days and he always treated
his men with dignity.
But she had never considered asking him if he would marry
her without the pistol pointed at him,. Why would he, a
powerful English soldier, want to marry her, a Portuguese
peasant? She wasnβt even beautifulβnot like the pale,
flaxen beauties who resided in England. She was dark with
coarse curly hair and what her mother liked to call a
strong personality. She was not dainty or demure. She was
not quiet or obedient. No wonder her father wanted to be
rid of her.
She lifted her chin. βVery well, senhor. If I had asked you
to marry me, would you have said yes?β
βThe name is Draven. Lieutenant Colonel Draven.β
Draven. It sounded odd to her ears, but she liked it
nonetheless.
βAnd to answer your question, Miss Neves, no. I am not
looking for a wife at present.β
βAnd I am not looking for a husband. I would not have asked
you to remain my husband. I do not even think the marriage
would be considered legal in your country.β
βNo doubt it wouldnβt. You are a Catholic, I presume.β
βAnd you are a heathen, but I do not hold that against
you.β
To her surprise, he laughed. His face looked younger when
he laughed, even more handsome. His cheeks reddened
slightly and his eyes looked even bluer. βThat is something
then. Tell me, Miss Neves, why are you in such desperate
need of a husband?β
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