Bound to a chair, beaten and cut.
The monastery had suited him. For a time. But once he had put away his anger he’d been eager to move on.
“It isn’t about the vows.” He turned his face to the bare altar fashioned of granite hewn from this mountain. “She was not exactly a girl.”
A choking sound came from beside him. “Perhaps it’s time we have a chat about that monastery after all.”
Vitor cut him a scowl. “Oh, good God, Denis. She was female.”
“Ah. Bon.” The old priest again sighed in relief. “Are you confessing the sin of fornication, then?”
“No.” Vitor turned to sit on the step, relieving the ache in his leg that she’d struck with the hardest pitchfork in Christendom. He rubbed a palm over his face. “I only kissed her.”
The hermit chuckled. “If she took money for only that, she should be the one confessing.” Denis reached into a fold of his habit and drew out a flask.
“She was not a puta. She was a lady.” Albeit wearing a gown fit for a servant and lurking in a stable at midnight. “I frightened her.” Anger and indignation and fear had all swum in her eyes. Beautiful black eyes. He hadn’t been that close to a woman’s face in years. She’d seemed an angel in the lamplight. A dark, alluring angel. “It was as if a demon drove me. She was there”—beneath him, her curves cushioning him, her small body lush and entirely feminine, her eyes flashing—“and I wanted to kiss her more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life. I couldn’t stop myself.”
He should have stopped himself even before he’d followed her into the stable. She’d walked across the forecourt in the dark like she was accustomed to walking about alone, her stride comfortable, pulling the fabric of her skirts around her behind and thighs and warming Vitor as he stood in the frigid shadows and watched her. No gently bred female walked like that. In the light of her lamp, her hair had shone black and shining and tumbling about her face, begging to be set entirely free from its haphazard confines. He’d followed her as much because he’d wanted to see more of her as because he was suspicious of her intentions.
His younger half brother Sebastiao enjoyed making assignations with serving girls in the stables. Laughingly he said it made him feel like the sportsman he was not. At this gathering, that amusing little pastime would not go over well with the prince’s guests.
But Sebastiao had not been in the stable with the girl, only a handful of mongrel pups and a damnably hard pitchfork. Then when Vitor subdued her in the straw and she looked at his mouth . . .
He’d gone a little insane.
Two years of silent contemplation did not necessarily a willing monastic make.
Denis nodded. “The devil is fond of taking the female form.”
“No. I mistook the situation.” She hadn’t been a servant hoping for a quick tup from a groom, but one of Sebastiao’s potential brides, apparently. Odd choice: a former servant of a lesser English baronet. But Vitor’s duty at Chevriot was not to question his blood-father’s intentions, only to make certain his half brother fulfilled them.
Denis glanced at his swollen lip. “Did you beg her pardon afterward?”
“No.” He would do so today. Then he would stay as far away from her as possible.
“There are plenty of girls in that castle,” the Frenchman said, knowing his thoughts. “Sebastiao will not be wanting for choices if you take an interest in one of them.”
No. He’d already once caused trouble coming between one of his brothers and a woman. He would not do so again. “I have no interest in her,” he mumbled.
“You are still under the seal of the confessional, Vitor.”
He snapped his head around. “How do you do that?”
“Recognize lies upon a man’s tongue? It is my gift. As yours is to serve your family. Both of your families. Sebastiao must be corralled. After all the instances in which you have saved him from disaster, you know that better than anyone.”
“Forcing a wife upon him may calm him for a time, but it will not alter his character.” As falling into the hands of torturers had not altered his. Perhaps his elder brother Wesley had got all the steadiness of the Courtenay blood. Perhaps he, lacking a drop of that Courtenay blood, had got only his mother’s inconstancy.
Vagabond, indeed.
“Sebastiao is unstable and prone to excess,” Denis said. “But this snow will hold him here until the deed can be done,” the hermit said. “And Prince Raynaldo knows you will not deny his wishes.”
He never had before. But this mission was beneath him.
“When this is through, Denis, I will return to England.”
“To do what, mon fils? Spend your gold on drink and game and loose women?”
“Why not? I’ve nothing else to do with it.” During the long, silent nights at the monastery, belly empty and hands raw, he had considered indulging in the life he’d been born into, the life he could well afford. But even then he knew that would not satisfy. Soon he would hear of an opportunity abroad, or smell the freshness of spring wind, and be off anew.
Absently he rubbed at the scar between his thumb and finger through his gloves. It ached.
“Bon.” The priest set the flask down on the step and folded his hands. “For the sin of lust you have confessed, mon fils,” he said in an easy tone, “you are contrite, n’est-ce pas?”
Vitor closed his eyes and saw hers before him, sparkling like stars. “Yes.”
“For your penance I give you a novena to our Blessed Mother and the task of seeing your brother well matched to a woman who will bring him to heel.”
“Only that?” Vitor lifted a brow. “Father, you are too lenient.”
The priest drew a cross in the air above his brow. “Ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.”
“Amen.”
“Now, go find an actual puta and work some of that fire out of your blood.” He took up the flask.
The path down the mountainside was dusted with snow that tumbled faster now through the canopy of spruce and pine. A horseman appeared as a shadow through the white curtain. Shirt points high, buttons gold, breeches pristine and riding crop affected, he struck a pose even on horseback.
“Up to your papish ways again, brother?” Wesley Courtenay, the Earl of Case, drawled. Snowflakes caught in his chestnut hair and shrouded the dark blue eyes that they both shared with their mother.
“Up to your lordly ways as always, brother?” They stopped close and clasped hands.
Wesley grinned. “It is good to see you again after so long, Vitor,” he uttered low, warmth now in his voice that could at times sound as cold as steel in winter. “But what on earth did you do to your lip?” He waved a hand. “Never mind. It mars those irritatingly good looks, so I am almost in charity with you.”
“My valet must have cut it while shaving me.”
“I daresay he might have if you had a valet,” his elder half brother replied. “Or perhaps you do now. It has been such an age since you were in England last, I barely know how you go along. I was thrilled to receive your invitation to this gathering,” he said conversationally, the snowfall muffling sounds beneath the treetops.
“Were you?”
“A whole castle full of damsels intent upon securing a husband?” Wesley mimicked surprise. “Why, of course. What reasonable man would not be thrilled with such a prospect?”