I Adored a Lord Read Online Free PDF

you.”
    Without speech he stepped out of arm’s range of the door, and she darted past him and ran across the forecourt. Inside, she locked her bedchamber door, wrapped a blanket around her, and sat before the dying embers of the fire, shaking a little. She had never imagined what her first kiss would be like. She had never imagined she would have a first kiss at all.
    Now she knew.

 
    Chapter 3

    The Monk
    F lakes of cold crystal fluttered between the trees as Lord Vitor Courtenay tied his horse to a branch and stepped into the church built of gray stone at the mountain’s peak. Closing the door behind him, he walked down the nave bare of adornment, his boot steps echoing in the vaulting. Upon the limestone steps to the chancel he went to his knees, pulled off his cap, and touched his fingertips to his brow, his breastbone, and each shoulder in turn.
    In years past he had come to this mountaintop hermitage for food, shelter, and safety. On this occasion he needed none of those. The wealth he had earned during the war through labor for both England and Portugal now collected dust in his London bank, and the luxuries of Chateau Chevriot were presently at his command.
    This morning he sought another sort of aid altogether.
    The church smelled of incense and tallow wax and ancient, sacred aromas: the scents of his blood-­father’s land. Fourteen years ago, after learning of his true parentage, Vitor had first traveled to that land, only to depart from it when the Portuguese royal family fled the threat of Napoleon all the way to Brazil. But Vitor had not crossed the Atlantic with the rest of the court. Instead, his father, Raynaldo, cousin to the Prince Regent, retreated into the mountains. From hiding he had sent his English son—­young and eager to prove himself—­into Spain, then France, to learn what could be learned to make Lisbon safe for the restoration of the queen’s court. Vitor had not disappointed him.
    He probed his sore lip with his tongue. Apparently not everyone respected a war hero.
    A door creaked behind the wooden choir boxes. He bent his head and waited. Sandaled footsteps shuffled toward him and paused at his side. The hermit knelt on the cold steps, the clacking beads of his rosary muffled in the wool of his habit.
    â€œ In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti .” No whiff of wine accompanied the murmured words. Yet.
    â€œAmen.”
    â€œWhat sin have you committed for which you seek absolution, mon fils ?” the priest said, then added, “This time.”
    â€œFather . . .”
    â€œDid you act in anger?” The hermit asked this according to ancient tradition, urging a confession from the sinner through questioning. During the two years Vitor had lived in a hilltop monastery in the Serra dal Estrela, he’d read everything in the library of the Benedictine brothers, including confessor manuals. This hermit now did not fix upon the sin of anger at whim. He knew Vitor’s special interest in it.
    â€œNo,” he replied, his throat dry. “Not anger.” Not this time .
    â€œGreed?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œPride?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œEnvy.”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œIt could not have been sloth.” The hermit’s voice gentled. “You’ve never slept a full night in your life, young vagabond.”
    â€œNo.” Get to the relevant sin .
    â€œDid you lie?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œDid you steal?”
    A case could be made for it. “Not quite.”
    â€œDid you covet your neighbor’s goods?”
    Momentarily, though “goods” didn’t quite express it, really. “No.”
    â€œSon—­”
    â€œFather . . .” Vitor pressed his brow into his knuckles.
    The priest paused for a moment that stretched in the chill air. “Did you commit murder again?”
    â€œNo.”
    The Frenchman’s breath of relief whispered across the