by Shana Galen
She tensed then relaxed. “I will not.”
“You are lying.” If he hadn’t been holding her, he would not have known, but her body had given her away. She’d had to steel herself to make the lie sound believable.
“I am not.”
“Miss Neves,” he said against her ear, the scent of her swirling about him until he was all but dizzy with it. “Catarina, let us be honest with each other.”
She tensed and before she could speak he made a tutting noise.
She blew out a breath. “I promise you will never see me again.”
“Not good enough.”
“Then what do you want? If I say I will give up, you will know I am lying.”
She was a problem that would not simply go away. He’d been in the army long enough to recognize the stubborn quandaries that turned up again and again. One must deal with them directly or never be free.
Slowly and carefully, he released all but her wrist. That he held with an iron grip. “Come back to my quarters,” he said. “We will make a battle plan.”
CATARINA FELT ALMOST at home when she was once again in Draven’s tent. Perhaps because it was familiar. Or perhaps because it smelled of him—the mingled scents of horse and gunpowder and man. And when Draven sat her on his cot and draped a rough blanket about her shoulders, she did not argue. She was bone weary.
“Would you like tea?” he asked.
She had heard about the English and their tea. She had never had tea, but even in her poor village, coffee from the colonies was available. Truth be told, she would have preferred a few sips of port wine. It would warm her faster than any other beverage she could imagine. “Thank you,” she finally answered. She was not certain the last time she had eaten or when she would eat again, and she was in no position to be choosy.
She was vaguely aware of him moving in and out of the tent. She struggled to keep her eyes open, but the blanket on her shoulders seemed to push her down. And she was already so weary. She’d been following the soldiers for two days with little rest and less sustenance. And now all her work, all her efforts, were for nothing. She would be forced to return to her family and marry Senhor Guerra.
And if she had thought Guerra angry before, he would be furious now.
She did not remember closing her eyes, but when she opened them it was to call out in pain. She wrenched her arm away and sitting, cradled it close. For a moment she was completely disoriented, and then she heard his voice.
“Miss Neves, what is wrong? Is your arm injured?”
She held it tighter, swiping at the tears that had come to her eyes. “I am fine.”
“The hell you are. I barely touched your arm, and you jumped as though you’d been burned. Let me see.”
“No!” Her sleeves, long and loose, concealed the damage that had been done. She had not looked at it in two days, but she could imagine the flesh was mottled with bruises.
He took a deep breath and stood surveying her with eyes as cool and blue as frozen lake. He looked at her with the same calculation he might an opposing army. He was still dressed in his uniform, his attire impeccable. Only his hair, tousled and spiky, refused to be tamed. The tent walls flapped, and for the first time she heard the sound of raindrops on the canvas.
He looked up. “It started about two hours ago.”
“I fell asleep?” She could not believe she had slept for over two hours.
“You were asleep within minutes, and I concluded anyone that exhausted should not be disturbed. And now you shall be able to rest further. We stay here until the rain abates. I would not have woken you, but I must tend to my horse. I did not want you to wake alone.”
She nodded. “Thank you, senhor. That was kind.”
He raised a brow. “I have been called many things, but kind is not one of them. I assure you, you are still very much a prisoner. I have a man standing guard outside. He will stop you should you attempt to flee.”
She shrugged. “And where would I go?”
“I shudder to think, madam. When I return, we shall have tea and discuss that arm.” He nodded to the arm she still cradled, and then he was gone.
Catarina sat on the cot for a long while, hopelessness washing over her in waves. She had always been clever—even her father had said so—but she did not think that trait would save her now. She had tried and failed to secure a husband. She could not keep traveling with the British army. She would either starve or have to become a prostitute, and neither option seemed terribly appealing. She could run off to another village or go to Lisbon, but she knew the fates that waited for a young woman without a guardian in those scenarios. She would end up dead—or worse.
If she had any money, she might be able to flee to a convent. But then if she’d had any coin, she would not be in this position right now. Her only hope had been to marry and to use her husband’s name to escape her father’s plan to marry her to Senhor Guerra. If her new “husband” had given her a bit of coin that would have helped, but Catarina had been earning her keep from the age of five. She could cook, sew, take in washing, tend the garden, and look after the family’s goats and chickens. She’d often been praised for her embroidery. Perhaps she could sell some of it to bring in additional funds and eventually escape.
And she would probably do all of that and more, but as the wife of Senhor Guerra. His children were already grown and married, with the exception of the youngest daughter who kept house for him. But even that youngest daughter was only a couple years younger than Catarina herself. No doubt her father would not have agreed to the match if he hadn’t been desperate to rid himself of one of his seven daughters, and what a stroke of fortune that Senhor Guerra would take the most willful and disobedient of the lot, Catarina.
She did not want to resign herself to her fate, but what other choice did she have? She had tried and failed and no doubt she would be beaten soundly for it.
She rose to try and work some of the stiffness from her legs and shoulders. Other than the table, cot, and a trunk Catarina presumed was filled with clothing, this Draven did not have many possessions with him. Not that she would have looked at them if he had—well, not taken much more than a quick peek.
She found the chamber pot behind a tall screen she had thought simply for decoration. She used it then spotted a mirror dangling from one of the tent poles. It was a small mirror such as a man might use for shaving. She was too short to see herself in it, so she lifted it down and then gasped at her appearance. She looked almost wild with her hair in tangled curls about her face and her eyes too large in her pale face.
The effort of taking the mirror down reminded her of the bruising on her arm, and she loosened the simple tie holding the bodice together and lowered the neckline over her bruised shoulder. She wore a shift underneath, but with her arm exposed she could almost discern the bruising. Unfortunately, there was not enough light behind the screen, and she moved around the screen and into the light of the lamp in the tent to see better.
She winced at the sight that greeted her. Her upper arm was a palette of blacks, blues, greens, and mottled yellows. It actually looked as bad as it felt. The other arm was also bruised, but she did not think quite as badly as this one. She was about to raise the sleeve so she could lower the opposite one when she heard a quick intake of breath.
Catarina looked up and met the angry gaze of Draven, standing in the tent’s opening, water dripping from his hat and shoulders onto the rug. Catarina hastily yanked her sleeve up, but Draven moved too quickly. He was beside her in an instant, snatching the sleeve back down.
“Senhor!” Catarina protested.
“Who did this to you?” he asked, the heat of his fury in sharp contrast to the cold raindrops falling on her arm. “Who?”
“Let me go!”
He cupped her chin and tilted it up, his touch strangely gentle. She could feel how he all but vibrated with tension. “Tell me who did this to you.”
“Release me.”
“Tell. Me.�
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Catarina narrowed her gaze, frustration pouring through her. “The man who would be my husband.”
Part III
“In time the savage bull doth bear the yoke.”
Much Ado about Nothing, William Shakespeare
Benedict released her abruptly, grimacing when she stumbled backward slightly. He resisted the urge to grab her arm to steady her. She had obviously been grabbed there once too often already.
He looked at her bruised arm again as she hastened to cover the injury. He’d thought—feared—that one of his men had abused her. He could see now that the bruising was recent but not fresh.
“Your betrothed did this?”
She tied the strings of her bodice with quick, practiced movements. “I told you I would not marry him. I told you I wanted to escape.”
“I thought—”
Her dark eyes narrowed again. “You thought I was a silly girl who considered her betrothed not handsome enough. No, Senhor Draven, it is not so silly to wish to survive to my old age.”
“And if your father knew—”
She sighed as though he was a child who did not understand the ways of the world.
“So he knows and does not care.”
“When I returned home after your refusal of me that night, who do you think sent for Senhor Guerra?” She looked away from him, her mouth set in a hard line. “I am to be sold and tamed, broken like you might break a horse. Now you see why I acted so rashly.”
“And if you were to marry another man you would be safe?”
She shrugged. “I am not without resources and skills. I will use the protection of my husband’s name to bide my time, save my coins, and leave for a better life in Lisbon or perhaps a convent.”
He couldn’t help it. He laughed aloud.
She shot him a dangerous glare. “How wonderful you find me so amusing. I would not wish for your pity.”
“Catarina,” he said, moving toward her. “You would make an awful nun.”
She stiffened. “I do not know your customs, senhor, but in my country, we are not so...familiar.”
“You may call me Benedict.”
She shook her head. “I told you, it is improper.”
“Even among husbands and wives?”
Her mouth closed, then opened, then closed.
“You understood me correctly,” he said. “I will marry you.” He looked about the tent for a coat or covering he could spare to protect her from the rain. “And I suppose we had better go tonight. Will there be a priest in the village, do you think?”
“Why?” she said, her voice low. He glanced at her. She hadn’t moved at all.
“We cannot marry without a priest,” he quipped.
She merely looked at him, his attempt at levity having fallen flat.
“You need protection. As a gentleman, I cannot, in good conscience, leave you unprotected.”
“But before—”
“I didn’t know the circumstances before. Now I do. You are certain you will be safe if you return home?”
“No,” she answered, “but I could stay with my aunt for the time being. I did not lie when I said she lives in the village.”
That was something then. “Good. Then we’ll marry, and I’ll leave you in her care.”
He fought the feeling of a fist squeezing his lungs. How could he marry this woman? He did not even know her. Benedict opened a trunk and pulled out a coat for her. He would not be marrying her in truth, he told himself. The marriage would not be legal in England. And he would never see her again. After they exchanged vows, he could forget her.
He would have to forget her. Bonaparte and his French army demanded it.
CATARINA WALKED THROUGH the next several hours as though in a dream. Benedict Draven, the man who would be her husband, had readied his own horse then borrowed one for her and led her into the little town. She’d showed him her aunt’s house, and they’d knocked on the door until poor Tia Alda had called out, asking who had disturbed her. She’d opened the door when Catarina answered and dragged the girl inside.
It took Catarina another few minutes to persuade Tia Alda to also admit Benedict Draven.
There had been more arguing when Catarina had revealed her plan to Tia Alda. Alda was her father’s sister and not keen to anger her brother. Benedict Draven had been patient through Tia Alda’s arguments and Catarina’s rebuttals, but when the rain had begun to ease, he’d cleared his throat. “General Wellesley will take advantage of a lull in the storm to break camp. If we are to do this, it must be now.”
Catarina had translated, and Tia Alda gave a huge sigh then threw on her shawl, shoved her feet into her crude shoes, and led them to the church. The priest had already been awake, which saved time, but Catarina had to argue with him to convince him to conduct the ceremony.
“What seems to be the problem?” Benedict Draven had asked, glancing at his pocket watch.
“He fears for your mortal soul, senhor,” Catarina told him. “You are not Catholic. Would you be willing to convert?”
Benedict Draven merely raised a brow. “Tell him if it eases his conscience, I am willing to make a donation to the church.” He withdrew a purse heavy with coins and held it out.
After that the priest decided sprinkling holy water on Benedict Draven and assigning him several prayers would be enough of a penance.
And then Catarina had blinked and she was married. She knelt in silence as the priest said the final words of the ceremony. Benedict Draven rose, Tia Alda wept softly, and the priest patted the pocket of his robe where he’d secreted the purse.
“The rain has ceased,” Draven announced to no one in particular. “I must return to camp.”
Catarina stood, her legs unsteady. She knew Benedict Draven did not consider the vows he’d spoken binding. She knew his country would not consider the marriage legal. Perhaps her country would not either. She knew she would never see him again.
And yet she could not help but feel a connection to the man.
He was her husband. The two were now one in the eyes of God. Did it really matter if no one else considered them joined together? They’d spoken vows in a church in the sight of the Almighty.
Her eyes lifted to the cross with the crucified Christ looking down at her with an expression of both pain and mercy.
“Thank you, Father,” Benedict Draven said with a nod. Then to Catarina, “I will see you to your aunt’s house before I return.”
She’d nodded mutely and began to follow her aunt out of the church. Draven was close behind, and she felt him place a protective hand on the small of her back as they walked. For some reason, his touch made her tremble.
She was a married woman now. She belonged to Benedict Draven. There was relief in that thought. Her father could not give her to Senhor Guerra. She was safe from him, safe from other men too. Draven and the British would leave, and she would have new freedom and independence. Perhaps in time she could see something of the world.
On the way back to Tia Alda’s home, she glanced at her new husband several times. But he kept his own council, his face stoic. Was he really so unaffected by the events of the evening?
All too quickly they arrived at Tia Alda’s home. She, of course, invited the couple in for port to celebrate. Catarina translated.
“Tell her thank you, but I must go.”
Tia Alda had a few words to say about that, but finally Catarina shooed her inside, and she and Benedict Draven were left alone. Catarina felt suddenly shy. She was uncertain what to do with her hands, and she clenched them before her so she would not fidget and pluck at her skirts.
Finally, Benedict Draven spoke. “I am sorry to leave so abruptly.”
“I understand,” she said. “And I thank you. I cannot repay you enough.”
He held up a hand. “I do not want repayment. I want you to be safe. Stay here. No more running after the army.”
She nodded, looking down at her clasped hands. He held out a handkerchief. She
glanced at it then up at his face. “A token of remembrance?” She smiled. “For me?”
He looked surprised at her words. “Yes, well, I gave the priest my purse, but I wrapped some coins in here for you.”
Catarina felt cold seep into her veins. “You do not need to give me any money.”
“I want you to have something. If only so you are not wholly reliant on your father.”
She didn’t want to take it, but she did not have the luxury of refusing. Married or not, if she was a burden to her father, he would try to find a way to make her another man’s responsibility. Draven’s coins would buy her time until her younger sisters married or she could save enough to run away to Lisbon.
She reached out. “Thank you.”
He placed the handkerchief in her hand, but when she closed her fingers on it, he didn’t release her. He lifted his other hand and held both of her hands in his warm ones. Catarina looked up at him, her heart beating wildly in her chest as though it were some caged thing eager to be free.
“Despite everything, I am glad I met you, Catarina Neves.”
“And I you, Benedict Draven.” Her voice shook slightly, and she prayed he had not heard the quaver.
“May I—” he began then shook his head. “I shouldn’t.”
“No!” she stammered before he could release her hands. “What is it?”
“Would it be impertinent to ask for a kiss?”
She was not certain of the meaning of impertinent, but if it would keep him from kissing her, she hated the word.
“No.” She shook her head. “There is no impertinent.”
“Then I may kiss you?”
Please. Her voice did not seem to work, so she merely nodded her head. He leaned down so very slowly she thought he might have changed his mind. And then she felt the barest brush of his lips over hers. Her skin tingled where he touched her—her hands, her lips. Her heart continued its rapid fluttering, and her eyes slid closed.
His mouth swept over hers once, then again, so lightly she was not even certain it constituted a kiss. And suddenly she very much wanted a kiss from her husband. She would have nothing else from him save a few coins and a handkerchief. A kiss to remember him by did not seem too much to ask.
