Excerpt of The Claiming Of The Shrew by Shana Galen

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.

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. “If you have actually fired this antique, you’re braver than I am. It must be sixty years old.”

“Eighty,” she corrected. “It was my grandfather’s.”

“And you planned to fire it and kill both of us?” He examined it closer then made a sound of disgust. “No, of course you weren’t. It isn’t even loaded or primed.” He looked up at her, his blue eyes narrowed in anger. “You’ve made quite the fool of me.”

“That was not my intention. If I had come here with no weapon, you would not have listened.”

“Wouldn’t I? You know me so well then?”

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. She’d 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 wasn’t even beautiful—not 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. “Very well, senhor. If I had asked you to marry me, would you have said yes?”

“The name is Draven. Lieutenant Colonel Draven.”

Draven. It sounded odd to her ears, but she liked it nonetheless.

“And to answer your question, Miss Neves, no. I am not looking for a wife at present.”

“And 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.”

“No doubt it wouldn’t. You are a Catholic, I presume.”

“And you are a heathen, but I do not hold that against you.”

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. “That is something then. Tell me, Miss Neves, why are you in such desperate need of a husband?”