To Shackle a Shrew (Southern Sanctuary Book 7)

by Jane Cousins

  To Shackle A Shrew

  Southern Sanctuary – Book Seven

  Jane Cousins

  Copyright©2015. All rights reserved by the author. Do not copy or re-distribute.

  This is a work of fiction.

  Front cover design; Fiona Jayde

  To all the dreamers out there who create wonderful worlds and invite me to enter; Chris Carter, Joss Whedon, Amy Sherman-Palladino, Erik Kripke, Rob Thomas and too many others to mention. You make me laugh, cry, grip the edge of my seat in anticipation, reel back with surprise and curse, when you blindside me with a cliff-hanger. But most of all, you have inspired me to keep on dreaming, thanks.

  Prologue

  River and Lakes, Devon Patel hated this town. Everything was too green, too clean, and the air was an annoying heady mixture of ocean and early spring flowers.

  And the inhabitants! She swore, by the Goddess Yami, that if one more of these overly touchy-feely locals so much as smiled her way she would go sucking whirlpool on their ass.

  What should have been a ten minute walk from her car to the Southern Sanctuary Council Building had turned into an epic thirty minute trek, full of strangers trying to hug and kiss her in welcome. Seriously, if another yokel proclaimed they were her fourth cousin, six times removed, she’d erase this whole town, and every simpleton in it, with a flood to end all floods.

  Devon strode up the stairs leading to the large gothic High Council Building at a fast clip, her Prada ankle boot stilettos sounding like rapid gun fire on the worn stone steps. Breezing past the elaborate doors she entered what was admittedly a stunningly ornate marble foyer. Knowing now the consequences of slowing down or foolishly stopping to ask for directions, Devon maintained a brisk pace. Grateful for the large gold sign that pointed the way to the Council reception offices; located on the ground floor, to the left of the grand marble staircase.

  The glass door opened easily under her touch, Devon’s boots sinking into plush green carpet as she made her way to the reception desk, manned by a young woman with a round pretty face and long strawberry blonde hair subdued back in a braid.

  “Doctor Devon Patel, I have an appointment to see Alma Richart.”

  The receptionist’s blue eyes widened for a moment in clear surprise before she hurriedly glanced at her computer screen. “Um… er. What is the nature of your appointment?”

  “Match making.”

  “Really?” Blue eyes widened even further as pink stole across the younger woman’s cheeks. “Sorry… sorry. I didn’t mean to say it like that. It’s just… no one normally makes an appointment to see Alma.”

  “What do they normally do?” It had taken Devon almost twelve frustrating months to procure this appointment, had she been wasting her time?

  “Um…” The blonde’s cheeks turned even pinker. “Well… usually, when it comes to Alma, most people run in the opposite direction. Don’t get me wrong, Alma’s lovely, there’s just this whole stigma attached to being the family match maker.”

  Devon huffed a small superior sound, fools, the lot of them. Approaching marriage in a purely logical manner was the only sensible recourse. It had taken a brief engagement that ended rather badly for Devon to see the wisdom in acquiring the services of a match maker.

  Her personal foray into choosing a husband had not gone well. A year ago, in order to avoid the fuss and hassle of fifteen blind dates she had asked each of the Merrow Royal sons to fill out a questionnaire she had devised. At the time it had seemed an imminently intelligent and practical approach to choosing a husband.

  Unfortunately, she’d failed to factor in the sneaky nature of the Merrow; that the majority of them would lie outright or intentionally try to mislead her. Not that they should have bothered, it had been a no brainer to choose Case Chambers. They were both doctors, he was too vain to lie or prevaricate regarding his profession. They both lived in Sydney, had a surprising number of acquaintances in common, liked to eat in expensive restaurants and they had the same hobby – swimming.

  On paper, at least, the match had seemed perfect. With hindsight, she wondered if Case hadn’t done his research and positioned himself in her vicinity. The flaw in her approach to matrimony she had decided upon reflection could only be blamed on a number of unforeseen circumstances that no sane person could have predicted. First and foremost being the unfortunate reality that her former fiancée had been a sly, sneaky, power hungry wanker.

  Devon bit back a frustrated sigh. If all had gone to plan she would have been married by now. To a surgeon. Living in a gorgeous home in an exclusive suburb in Sydney. The beach nearby for him, a river nearby for her. No more relentless harassing phone calls from her grandmother, mother, or any of her aunts at all times of the day and night. No more family interference in her life. No more archly worded never ending questions now that she was over thirty on when she would be honouring the betrothal contract her grandmother, the queen, had made with the Merrow clan.

  Damn her former fiancée, Case Chambers, and his scheming ways. Bad enough he’d wasted her time but it had been beyond crass of him to try to use Nell Montgomery to gain the upper hand in their marriage contract via a ridiculously antiquated legal loop hole.

  Worse than all of that annoying mess with Nell and her - man mountain - Drum, was the sheer embarrassment of it all. That she, Devon Patel, Makura Princess, could have chosen so badly. Nell might say the kidnaping attempts on her life and near drowning were the more troubling aspects of the whole debacle. And Devon supposed everyone was entitled to their own opinion. In her mind, the humiliation it had caused her would still outrank Nell’s small inconveniences.

  Hmpf, idiotic, sneaky… Merrow. Well, she hoped Case was happy with his lot now. She’d heard on the currents that his new bride looked like a sea cucumber with a mouth full of shark teeth.

  So here she was now, seeking out an expert in the field, Alma Richart, the notorious match maker of the Southern Sanctuary District. Or better known to her family and loved ones as ‘the Sherman Tank’.

  “Why don’t you take a seat?” The receptionist gestured to the array of empty chairs available. “I’ll let Alma know you are here.”

  Devon forced a polite nod of thanks before walking over to sink down on to a low comfortable green armchair. She contemplated checking her voice messages, but why bother, they’d only be from her relatives demanding an update, and as yet she had nothing new to report.

  Grr, it wasn’t supposed to be like this. She was a proud and noble Makura Princess. A female race renowned for their beauty, poise, intelligence and explosive temper. Any man would be lucky to marry her.

  Why did the Merrow have to make things so ridiculously hard?

  Bunch of shiftless wonders the lot of them. Descended from a long line of grifters, con men, pirates and politicians. The current crop of marriageable royals numbered fifteen in total, well fourteen now, if she subtracted her former fiancée, Case, from the equation as he was now unhappily married (and still walking funny thanks to the beating he took at Nell and Drum’s wedding) to one of the thirteen brides waiting in the wings for Devon to make her decision.

  Fifteen sons and fourteen marriage contracts.

  The Merrow King thought he had been smart in his planning. A spare for luck. But it was all too easy to predict that each of the sons would choose freedom over having to be forced to pick a bride from such a narrow pool of candidates. No doubt they were panicking right now, once Devon made her final decision the other families from an assorted number of river and ocean races would be banging down the Merrow Court doors.

  Having first pick of the Merrow Royals was Devon’s right as a Makura. An
according to the laws she only had two ways to make that decision. First, was sight unseen. Well, she’d unsuccessfully tried that approach. The second, required her to meet each and every one of the Princes individually. Hence her need for a match maker to stream line the process.

  “Doctor Patel.”

  Devon blinked, looking over at the receptionist.

  “Mrs Richart will see you now.”

  Oh, of course, the match maker. The reason she was in this puddle of a town. Well, not for much longer. She only had to grit her teeth through this appointment then she could get in her car and never have to step foot in this stagnant little slice of small town hell ever again.

  Striding down the corridor, following the receptionist’s directions, Devon straightened her shoulders, holding her head high. She was a daughter of the Makura, she was not afraid of some magical match maker. No matter what Nell had hinted of her Great-Aunt’s wily reputation and extreme methods, Devon was positive she’d be able to hold her own.

  Hah, Sherman tank, her perfect ass.

  All those silly match making machinations that Nell had regaled her with wouldn’t be needed in her case. She was the one seeking Alma out. Yes, she’d still have to meet all fourteen single royals, which was annoying, but with Alma steering her in the right direction, everything could be expedited. The wedding a mere formality.

  Why, by this time next week she might be married.

  Devon had already come to grips with the idea of sharing a house with her new husband as was required by the terms of the betrothal contract. The Merrow King thought he was being so sly insisting on a clause demanding that after the wedding the couple must live in the same abode for ten years. Hah, he thought he’d be able to plant a spy in the Makura Court finally. One of his own bloodline.

  Thanks to the old fool, Devon had to spend only a month of solid pleading to convince her mother and grandmother, the queen, to allow her to study medicine in Australia and settle in Sydney. And whilst there was plenty of pressure on her these days to wed, there was no demands placed upon her to return to the Makura Court located in India.

  Being saddled with an unwanted husband for ten years would be a major downer, but living at home with her mother… the horror.

  Above all else Devon was determined her forthcoming marriage wouldn’t negatively impact her career plans or her carefully structured life. If anything, it might be nice to have a man around the house, to mow the lawns, change the light bulbs and take out the garbage. See, if she looked hard enough at this situation there were positives.

  Ten years would go by in a blink of an eye.

  Meeting the Southern Sanctuary match maker was an opportunity to be embraced. It would save her valuable time, effort and stress. Of course, that hadn’t stopped her from dressing ultra-carefully today. She wanted Alma to know from the out-set that she wasn’t one of her usual clientele, some weak-kneed small town inbred family secret. She was a city girl, a world traveller, a noted up and coming Ear, Nose and Throat Specialist. A Makura.

  With that in mind, she’d paired with her Prada ankle boots fitted black suede trousers, a sheer black blouse and a dark green bolero leather jacket that bought out the green flecks in her brown eyes. With her flawless dark cocoa coloured skin, high cheekbones, haughty air and glossy black hair spilling down past her waist, the ends curling and uncurling, twisting and undulating but never tangling, she was often mistaken for a model rather than a doctor. Unconsciously, Devon reached back and ran a hand through her hair, petting it, letting it know that everything was okay.

  She paused in the doorway of Alma Richart’s office, taking a moment to study the feared match maker in her natural habitat. Alma’s movements quick and decisive as she typed one handed on her key board as her other hand flicked though a small notebook. Her hair was grey and sleek, bobbed at the shoulders with the ends flicked up. Her skin pale an unblemished, sharp brown eyes flicking back and forth between the computer screen and the notebook.

  Hmm, it seems Alma Richart was no countrified mouse either, her cream wrap around dress might have been simple, with clean cut lines but it screamed expensive, doubly so when one factored in the multiple strands of black pearls Alma had draped around her neck.

  Alma’s head shot up suddenly, but Devon would have sworn the wily match maker had been aware of her presence from the moment she’d paused in the threshold.

  “Darling girl. You must be Devon, and aren’t you just beautiful.” Alma moved lithely around the desk, not to engulf Devon in an invasive hug but to clasp her by the hand with a warm but brief handshake. “So like Nabha, it’s quite remarkable.”

  “You know my Great-Great-Aunt?” Why did that not shock her? She fought not to roll her eyes waiting for the dreaded family links and tenuous connections that Alma was about to pull out of her petite ass.

  “Of course. She married my Aunt Daphne’s husband’s brother… so that makes you and I…” Alma smiled serenely but her brown eyes sparkled with mischief. “Related enough for you to request my services.”

  Devon found herself smiling in return. “Yes, I suppose it does boil down to that. I’m sorry to have missed her. I didn’t realise until quite recently that I even had another relation in the southern hemisphere.”

  “Hmm, I imagine in the Makura world that Nabha is considered a bit of a black sheep, marrying for love and settling in the Southern Sanctuary. Don’t worry, they’ll be back from their cruise in a month or so, you’ll have plenty of time to catch up then.”

  “Um… I will?” Devon looked dubious.

  Alma laughed, circling her desk to take a seat and gesturing for Devon to take the visitor’s chair. “Darling girl, love cannot be rushed.”

  “Love?” Devon shook her head. “I think there has been a miscommunication. I’m not looking for love.”

  “But you requested my match making services.” The edges of Alma’s lips quirked upwards.

  “Well, yes. To help me find a suitable husband, not love.” Devon couldn’t keep the note of derisive scorn out of her voice.

  “And you think the two are mutually exclusive?” Alma enquired curiously.

  “My expectations were set the moment I was born and the betrothal documents were signed. I am a dutiful daughter and granddaughter. There was never a question for me whom I would marry. I’ve had thirty two circuits of the sun to sow my wild oats, it’s time for me to make my choice and fulfil the contract before my grandmother grows too impatient and steps in and makes the decision for me.”

  “So, if you are not looking for love, Devon, what exactly are you looking for from me?”

  “To pinpoint out of the fourteen candidates available, the most suitable one for me to wed. One who won’t adversely impact my career, embarrass me in front of my work colleagues or annoy me so much I’ll be forced to strangle them in their sleep with my hair.”

  Alma smiled warmly. “The best of a bad bunch, so to speak?”

  “Exactly. You’re an experienced match maker, accustomed to aligning couples from different cultures with both complementary and clashing magic. I would like you to apply that rationale to helping me choose a husband from the candidates on offer. That’s why I mailed you the fourteen questionnaires filled out by the prospective candidates and completed one myself.”

  Alma flicked a brief amused glance over at a pile of paperwork. “Yes, I saw the questionnaires, some of the answers given are quite… inventive.”

  Devon nodded in agreement. “Yes, or just outright lies. Will that make it difficult for you to pin down the best match for me?”

  “No. As you said, I am a professional. I have yet to meet a match making challenge that has gotten the better of me.” Alma picked up a sheet of paper and slid it across the desk. “According to your customs you have to meet all of the fourteen prospective candidates. Here are the rules by which you will need to abide by if you wish to engage my services.”

  “But…” Devon glanced towards the piece of paper. “I was under the impres
sion you would be able to magically determine the best candidate for me, maybe arrange a little speed dating session. I do a brief meet and greet, make my choice and ta-da, registry wedding and done.”

  Alma pursed her lips. “Magically determine? That seems to fly in the face of your wish to approach this whole arrangement in a logical and rational manner. No, if you want to do this, you do it my way. Read that document and sign at the bottom. I’ll provide you with a copy to take with you.”

  Devon picked up the paper, her eyes narrowing as she ran her gaze down the list. “You expect me to live here? Work here?” Her eyes widened suddenly. “This timetable… you expect this to take months?” Rivers and Lakes, her grandmother would be heading to Australia as soon as she heard the news.

  “Don’t worry about your family.” Alma seemingly could add mind-reader to her match making skillset. “I will manage them for you as part of our arrangement.”

  “I… I can’t live here, take this amount of time off, I have a job back in Sydney.”

  Alma shrugged. “While you are here you’ll work at our District Hospital, I’m given to understand that Doctors work on exchange programs all the time. And you my dear are the type of person who needs to work, to keep busy. Otherwise you’ll go stir crazy, annoy me with your attempts to micro manage me and before you know it, I, or any number of the family will probably end up killing you. Besides, working for the Southern Sanctuary… just think of it as part of your fee for my services.”

  “Part?” Devon gave Alma a wary look. “What would constitute the rest of your payment?”

  “Why, I’ll take your first born of course.” Alma burst out laughing. “You should see your face. So serious, you really need to lighten up. As for the rest of your payment. From today you are a Southern Sanctuary resident. You will not step a foot outside the district boundary until you have dated every prospective candidate in the manner I have specified in those guidelines. You will buy all your food, necessities and clothes here.”