The Last Broken Promise (2 page)

“Don’t think I care, if you abuse the boy. No, stopping you was not my intent. I merely wanted you to wait so that I could get a closer view of the entire proceedings.” With that outlandish statement, the heir flicked a lace-draped wrist towards Finn. “You may commence. I am ready.”

The woman blanched. Iona was considered very fast indeed, in this neighborhood. Her lovers were legion. And they were none of them discreet. So everyone knew of her lusty romps with anything in knee britches. They knew of the number of her partners. They also knew of her varied predilections. But perversion, such as Cedric was hoping to witness, was beyond the pale. Even for Iona.

“No, I tell you again, Lord Maitland. You mistake me. I would never lift a finger to harm your brother.”

“You truly wouldn’t?” he whined. There was a distinct hint of regret in his voice.

“Of course not,” she answered firmly.

Whatever revenge she had planned for Finn would now only be completed after they were wed. She’d want the safety of a binding marriage contract before she acted. And when she did, it would be a revenge taken in private. There would be no witnesses to accuse her. But first she had to secure the stripling. And that would require more than manipulation.

Cedric cursed. “I don’t know why you’re being so squeamish. It’s not like you’ve never taken a whip to a man before. John, the smith, told me you’re quite vigorous with that crop.” He licked his thick, oily lips.

Iona’s face stiffened into a hard mask. “I vow I have no idea of what you speak. I’m sure my father will have much to say to the blacksmith concerning his wild accusations.”

Cedric picked at an erupting sore on his nose. “I don’t think your poor old da will be much of a deterrent to big, burly John. The man has arms like sides of beef.”

“Did you want to speak with me now, brother?” Finn interjected before his brother’s wayward tongue ruined his newly polished manly reputation.

“What?” Cedric turned to glare at the younger boy.

“I said, didn’t you want to speak with me at breakfast this morning about something important?”

Cedric nodded. “Yes, I did. But it can wait until Lady Iona has served up your just punishment.”

“Lord Maitland, I do hate to interrupt a family discussion, but I will reiterate. I would never harm Finn. Though tis very true that I have sufficient reason to be very angry with him indeed.”

“You do?” both the brothers asked at the same time. Once the simultaneous words issued forth, they frowned at one another.

“Finn, you know well that I do.” She let the tantalizing accusation dangle in the still morning air.

The boy shook his head, confused. “I haven’t any idea what you’re talking about, Iona.”

“Neither do I.” Cedric grinned. “But I’d certainly like to hear more.”

And the heir would. The man was forever exaggerating tales of Finn’s supposed sins to their father. He’d do anything to discredit the younger, more favored son. Not that the Duke of Maitland was kind to either of his children. But he was more inclined to puff up with paternal pride in any gathering where Finn was the center of attention.

“It’s a rather delicate topic,” Iona leaned forward on her horse and whispered. It was as if she was sharing some scandal. One that was not usually discussed in mixed company.”

“Come now, my dear.” Cedric reached up to pat her hand on the horse’s reins. “We’ve known each other since the cradle. There can be no secrets between such bosom beau, surely. Anything you say will be held in the strictest of confidences. I vow it.”

“Are you sure?” she answered with an appalling amount of false modesty. “What I need to tell Finn would ruin me, if it was revealed outside this small circle.”

“Have I not just promised to be as silent as the grave?” Cedric asked in a low, hushed voice.

The woman nodded. She bit her lip as if trying to decide what to do. Then, with a feigned reluctance worthy of the heir’s opera dancer, she began to tell her secret.

“I fear Finn and I have been caught in a woeful indiscretion,” she admitted. A pretty blush tinged her cheeks.

“We have not!” Finn defended himself hotly. “We’ve never even been alone. There is absolutely nothing between us, Iona. I don’t know what trickster’s game you’re set upon. But I tell you plainly, it won’t work.”

“I have no intention of tricking you into anything, Finn. Least of all matrimony,” she said in a syrupy- sweet child’s voice. She innocently batted her eyes for good measure.

“You good-for-nothing cur.” Cedric quickly took up her defense. “What mischief have you visited upon this lovely lady?”

“I have visited nothing upon Iona, nothing. I avoid her at all costs. And I have for years,” Finn replied. “As should you, and any other man who wants to maintain his good name.”

“Good name?” his older brother hooted in derision. “You think to claim a pristine reputation? Everyone in the parish knows you’ll lay with any woman who offers you ease. How can you posture and pose in such a deceitful manner? I’m surprised you have the gall to make such a claim.”

“Who I lay with and when is no concern of yours, Brother,” Finn gritted out through clenched teeth.

“But it is, alas, a concern of mine,” Iona interjected with a flair for the dramatic.

“How so, sweet dove?” Cedric’s response was just as theatrical and almost as feminine.

“I find myself scandalously indisposed,” she admitted with no small amount of woeful guilt. Her words might have communicated remorse, but her cagey eyes dared Finn to dispute her assertion.

He took up the challenge. “Iona, we both know the babe, if that’s what you’re hinting at, cannot be mine. You must stop this mad pursuit of me. It is a sickness. One that cannot be tolerated.”

“Hold for a minute, Finn. I would hear Iona’s story.” Cedric’s mind was turning on the wheels of malice. This might be his chance to permanently be rid of his plaguey sibling.

“She is spinning some web of lies to trap me into marrying her. I have told Iona many times, I will not marry her.”

“If she carries your seed, you will. Father will never let a McLeod be born without a name,” Cedric argued.

“I say once more, Iona’s child, if she indeed carries one, cannot be mine.”

“But Finn, how can you tell such a horrendous lie?” the woman pleaded weakly. “After all we’ve meant to each other? After all our many trysts? The babe can only be yours, my love I’ve been faithful to you. And faithful to my promise to you. Though you’ve broken yours to me, many times over.”

“I have made no promise to you. This you know very well, Iona.”

“Shall I fetch our pater, and let him sort out this dreadful affair?” Cedric wondered aloud.

“You will not involve Father in this mockery,” Finn demanded.

“Who do you think you’re speaking to, puppy?” Cedric snarled.

“An idiot,” Finn retorted.

“If you were a gentleman, I’d,” Cedric straightened to his full height and threatened.

“You’d do what?” Finn mocked. “Beat me about the head with your lace-edged handkerchief? Pummel me with one of those foppish shoes you wear?”

“You dare!” the heir bristled.

“I’ll do more than dare, you prancing excuse for a peer.” Finn’s fists balled up at his sides.

“Gentlemen, I suggest that the duke would indeed serve as a voice of reason and propriety.”

Iona smiled like a cat who’d fallen into a cream churn. They’d neatly taken the bait. Now all she had left to do was convince their father she was carrying a Maitland bastard. She was just a few hours from attaining her ultimate goal. She’d lay a wager, she’d be Lady Maitland, by special license, before the sun set this time tomorrow.

“Don’t do this, Iona. I beg of you. You’ll only be ruining both our lives. There can never be any warm feelings between us,” the boy pleaded.

Finn turned to her. He felt an inexorable noose tightening around his throat. It would be her word against his. And if he was any judge of character, the evil woman had most likely ensured even a physician would back her claim of pregnancy. Iona was carrying some man’s get. Just not his. A marriage was inevitable. The Duke of Maitland would demand no less.

“I’m fetching Father,” Cedric announced pompously.

“I believe, I will accompany you,” added a triumphant Iona.

Finn watched her dismount in the dusty road. She tossed the reins of her gelding to her soon-to-be husband. She linked arms with his brother. Both of them sneered over at the younger man.

“Of course, you’ll follow us to Father’s study once you’ve seen to Iona’s horse?” Cedric threw the gleeful order over his narrow, sloping shoulder.

The bereft boy reached up to smooth a hand over the nervous horse’s satiny neck. The beast trembled anew as if it feared another unearned beating. Young Master McLeod mentally calculated how long it would take him to reach Edinburgh, atop such a fine piece of horseflesh. Thievery, was not, of course, in his nature. But he imagined it could become an acquired skill.

“Finn?” Cedric stopped. He gave no more than an arrogant half-turn towards his brother. “Did you not hear me?”

“What?” answered the distracted lad.

“I told you to stable the horse. Then you’re to meet us straight-away in Father’s study. There is much to be decided upon. A suitable society wedding is not an easy undertaking, even in the best of times. There will be clothing to be ordered. The menu for the wedding breakfast must be made. Then there’s the flowers.” His high nasal voice trailed off in delight.

“I was hoping for something more intimate and immediate,” Iona suggested. “I’m sure a special license can be obtained today. Your father is the magistrate. It would be no trouble for him to have his secretary dash one off for us.”

“A special license?” Cedric wailed in horror. “A Maitland cannot be married by special license. No, my dear. I know you must be frantic with worry over your precarious situation. But it’s just not done. We will work fast. I will help you. I’m not boasting, not in the least, when I tell you I’m a dab hand at such tasks as organizing stylish affairs.”

He stopped. He patted her glove where it rested in the crook of his elbow. Then he began his high-pitched commentary again. “And rest assured, my dear, I will see you turned out in the most stunning gown. Though we may need to travel to London to have one made for you. You can take my word for it, you don’t want some provincial seamstress cutting and running up your gown. Not for such a momentous occasion. Why, we may even need to go to Paris. There’s a designer, one I’ve heard so much about. I’ve been just dying to meet the man. Worth’s his name. They say he makes the most divine outfits.” Cedric stopped his commentary to draw a breath. “Boy,” he called dismissively over to his brother. “Don’t make us wait for you. You’ll hurry, won’t you?”

“Of course,” Finn agreed. And with those two words, he told his first real lie. He broke his first real promise.

He calmly watched the pair walk around the bend in the lane and out of sight. Once they were well away, Finn set to work ridding the animal of its dainty side saddle. He dumped the thing unceremoniously into the dust of the road. He used his handkerchief to rub the sweat from the horse’s hide where the saddle had so recently been girthed. Once he’d seen to the mount’s comfort, the boy easily hoisted himself up onto its back with one fluid leap. He clamped his legs about the steed’s barrel and gave it a ruthless nip with his booted heels.

It jumped in response, just as ready as the lad on its back to leave. Finn hauled back on the reins. He wheeled the animal about in a quick spin. Then he goaded it down the long dusty road to Scotland’s capital.

He spared one glance to look back at his home. There was nothing and no one in this place he’d miss. This he knew for certain. With that hard fact acknowledged, Finn McLeod, Lord Maitland, sped off down the lane towards his new life.

Father Thomas was enjoying the hushed sanctity of the little chapel. It was dark in here and the candles on the altar flickered. They gave off a delightful clean odor. This was the kind of time that made him realize why he loved being a priest. Quiet contemplation, oh, it truly was blissful.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

A low musical voice penetrated the fancy grillwork screen that separated Father Thomas from the girl confessing. Father Thomas made a sour face. He recognized that voice. It was Jessamine St. John, again. That girl will never make a suitable nun, he thought wrathfully. Never, not even if the sisters of the Convent of St. Cecelia worked with her until Christ returned to claim His church. Why the pesky imp had been here one excruciatingly long year. A whole year mind you, and she was no nearer to entering Holy Orders than she was the day her brother had unceremoniously dropped her, along with a substantial sum of money and her Aunt Dorcas, on the convent’s doorstep.

Thomas had a suspicion that if Mother Marguerite Marie’s convent was not in such dire financial straits, Miss Jessamine St. John would have been turned away without a second thought. But the convent was almost bankrupt. That was a sad but true fact. There just were not enough Catholics to support a convent in the backwoods of Virginia. All the old families were strict adherents of the Church of England. Heathens they were, Thomas sniffed. Why, he asked the Lord for the thousandth time, why couldn’t you have sent Jessamine to plague them? She’d have put the fear of God into those gaudy-dressing pagans. Or, he reminded the Almighty, you could have sent her to work with the Methodists. Yes, Lord, that’s it, he decided. Send her to work with those gibberish speaking, dancing about, falling down Enthusiastic Methodists. She’d be right at home.

“Father?” the girl asked. The cleric hadn’t responded in the usual manner. Had he fallen asleep back there, she wondered? “Father Thomas, are you asleep?”

Thomas frowned. Once again, he was glad she could not see him through the wooden grillwork. “No daughter, I’m not asleep. I never sleep while I’m in chapel. This is a holy and revered place. Now, draw closer and make your confession before God.”

He steeled his mind for what she would confess
this
time. The girl had not a shred of maidenly humility. Lord help him hear and respond as he should. He had been tempted many times to share her outlandish confessions with Mother Marguerite Marie. The girl had confessed, just the day before, that she’d taken a goat into the chapel. A goat, mind you! He’d been afraid to ask why. Last week she’d wanted to tell him, in great detail, about how one of her older brothers was a pirate. She was now feeling guilty because she’d sailed on her sibling’s ship one summer as a child.

Last month it had taken him a whole week to convince the chit she was not directly to blame for the fact that another one of her brothers, they were a sinful, motley group to be sure, had lived, intimately, with an Indian woman. It had happened over another of her infamous childhood summers. Why she felt responsible, he did not know. As far as he could tell, that particular escapade was actually an attempt by an old chief, unable to sire a baby, to have his young wife produce a child. The elderly man needed someone to help get the process started. Jessamine’s roguish brother was only too glad to serve. Thank Heavens, she’d not tried to confess anything about her oldest brother, the Duke of MacAllister. His black reputation for womanizing and dueling was known on both sides of the Atlantic. Father Thomas knew his own poor, cloistered heart would never take the shock of a scandalous confession of that caliber. There was some gossip of the man’s spiritual conversion. Thomas paid it no mind. He’d seen Dylan St. John once, from a safe distance, of course. The man looked like Satan in a frock coat, buckskin breeches, and riding boots. No one who looked that sinister could possibly be redeemed.

Somehow he had to get Mother Marguerite Marie’s attention focused on this confession problem. He was sure, if she even had an inkling as to the gravity of the situation, she’d send Jessamine packing. The Mother Superior was a woman of great virtue and uncommon integrity. And mercy, he couldn’t forget the old lady ever favored mercy over judgement. And therein lay the conundrum. A few times he’d tried to hint that Jessamine wasn’t fit for a monastic life. Marguerite Marie had firmly, but kindly, reminded him of his sacred promises concerning the sanctity of his own vows. What was said to him in the confessional was to stay private and inviolate. The old saint refused, with categorical firmness, to listen to his complaints.

Truthfully, he was just a little jealous of Jessamine’s confessions. Because of her rascally brothers, she’d lived with Indians and sailed on a pirate ship. To top it all off, her oldest brother was a rich Scottish duke. Sometimes life just didn’t seem fair, he told himself. Thomas was the youngest son of an impoverished Irish baron. Decades earlier, fresh out of school, he’d had to choose between the army or the church. Since he was a self-professed coward, the army held little appeal, so he’d become a priest. A priest who must now deal with a young heathen who’d taken it into her mind to become a nun.

And there she sat, this foolish lass, across a flimsy panel doing the best she could to turn her back on a life replete with riches and adventure. If she’d been old or ugly, he might have understood her outlandish desire. But the woman was young, and she had a face that put the Madonna to shame. And her form, he wiped the moisture from his brow. Every time he watched her graceful sway as she left the chapel, as old as he was, he had to sternly remind himself of his vow of celibacy.

“Father?” This time there was a cutting edge to her voice. “I know you are sleeping back there. Please sit up and pay attention.”

“Daughter, I am not sleeping,” he barked back more harshly than he’d intended. “I’m merely waiting for you to begin.”

And that was another thing, he railed silently. She has no discretion or respect. Whatever was in her mind invariably came out of her mouth. And the tireless imp came to confession every day.
Every. Day
. Oh, how he wished she would leave him alone.

“It has been a day since my last confession,” she admitted.

“A whole day?” The good cleric’s voice was more than tinged with sarcasm. “You are surely teetering on the very brink of Hell itself.”

“That was not a nice thing to say, Father Thomas,” she chastised him primly.

“You aren’t supposed to know who I am, you saucy imp.” He was not going to take impertinence from a postulate, especially not this one.

“Father Thomas.” Her voice dropped. “I meant no insult. Of course, I know who you are. You are the only priest we’ve got. Mother Marguerite Marie is so proud to have a priest here at the convent. Your sort is very scarce, especially in the back country. She has made sure you are available to receive confessions every afternoon, after lunch. Which is a great blessing. So it only stands to reason that I would know...”

“Enough!” His bellow cut her off. It was bad enough that the chit was rich and beautiful, she was also intelligent. “Begin.”

Jessamine adjusted her bulky wimple. She tucked an escaping strand of honey-colored hair back underneath the severe head covering. She knew, in time, she would be able to keep the dratted thing balanced on her head. She just wished that time had already arrived. Or why couldn’t nuns wear a simple kerchief? That would be modest and much more practical.

Father Thomas sighed loudly. “Sometime today would be preferable, Jessamine.”

She cleared her throat in preparation. Even though she had been doing this for a year, she still felt uncomfortable in confession. “Forgive me, Father,”

“Jessamine, we’ve covered that part already. Please get on with it,” he snapped.

“Sorry,” she apologized. “You are very grouchy today Father Thomas. Are you feeling well? Do you need a purgative? Aunt Dorcas concocts a fine one. It always works, even on the most... uh... well, stubborn digestive problems.”

“Jessamine,” he ground the words out through clenched teeth. “I am not having any trouble with my digestion. But I may have an apoplexy if you don’t stop plaguing me. Now if you want me to hear your confession, you better get started.”

“Father?” she asked softly.

He felt a great need to utter some of the curses he’d learned in his youth. In fact, he’d like to use every one of them, several times, at the top of his lungs. “What?” he groused.

“I believe I am guilty of the sin of blasphemy.” Jess sounded uncharacteristically meek.

“I’m not surprised.” The long-suffering priest sighed.

“But I didn’t do it on purpose. I promise I didn’t,” she rushed to defend herself. “It just... happened.”

“How can a person blaspheme and not know it?”

“Well, it was this morning right after mass. Sister Berta and I were on our way out of the chapel and she stopped by the rain barrel. You know the one, Father. It stands under the downspout and is always full. Well... I was in a hurry to get to the kitchen because it is my day to help with the bread. You know that is my favorite task.” She stopped her rambling to take a big breath. Although he didn’t answer, through the screen, she saw him nod his head. “Well, Sister Berta started crying. But I didn’t think too much of that. You know she cries all the time. She cried when the sow had piglets. She cried when the first rose bloomed in Mother’s garden in April. The woman is prodigiously emotional.”

“Is this Sister Berta’s confession or yours?” the old man asked sourly.

“Sorry, Father.” Jess bit her lip. “Sister Berta was crying over the rain barrel. So of course, I asked what was wrong.”

“Of course.”

Jess was tired of dealing with his surliness. Everyone should show common courtesy, even priests. “Anyone would have asked. The poor woman was a puddle for God’s sake,” she explained.

His sudden gasp told her she had sinned, again. “I’m sorry Father, one day I will learn not to take the Lord’s name in vain. It’s just that living with three older brothers does tend to widen one’s horizons, verbally that is,” she added lamely.

“Do not start telling tales of your brothers,” he commanded. “Let’s stick with your own sins, shall we?”

“Fine.” A tiny frown wrinkled her brow. “Where was I?”

“Sister Berta and a rain barrel.”

The memory made a sweet smile settle on her lips. “I asked her why she was crying over the rain barrel? She told me she could see an image of the Virgin Mary in the water. I looked Father, honest to g…”

He cleared his throat to prevent her from taking the Lord’s name in vain again. If he didn’t do something to move the proceedings along, he was going to end up being in this stuffy confessional all day long.

“Honest to
goodness
.” Accusing green eyes flashed at him from behind the screen. “I didn’t see a thing in that rain barrel, not a thing, except some disgusting slime on one side. You know, Father Thomas, someone really ought to tell the Reverend Mother about the nasty condition of that rain barrel. I know I wouldn’t want to drink out of it.”

“Why don’t you let her know, my dear?” Father Thomas wanted to be finished. “And forgive me, but I still don’t see how you have blasphemed.” He tried to comfort her. She did seem to want to always take the whole weight of the world upon her shoulders.

“I’m getting to that,” Jess replied mulishly. This was her sin and he wasn’t going to cheat her out of confessing it. “Sister Berta asked me if I saw the Holy Mother. I had to be honest, so I said, no. I told her all I saw was green muck and I was sure the Virgin had better things to do than mess about in slime.”

“That was the blasphemy?” Hallelujah, he thought with relief. We’re almost done.

Jess cocked her head to one side trying to get a better view through the grillwork. She knew she wasn’t supposed to do that, but talking to someone you couldn’t see was difficult. She needed to be able to see his expression, so she could gauge just how bad this sin was.

“Doesn’t it seem like blasphemy to you?” she asked tentatively.

Father Thomas leaned as far away as he could. He rested his weary back against the opposite corner of the booth. “Sounds like impertinence to me. I think the best thing for you to do is apologize to Sister Berta.”

“I just told her the truth,” Jess reminded him stubbornly. Telling the truth shouldn’t be a sin.

“No you didn’t. You gave Sister Berta your opinion.”

“She asked if I saw the Virgin in the barrel.” Jess waved a hand to punctuate her words.

Father Thomas caught the scent of lavender drift through the elaborate woodwork. She always wore a distillation of lavender. It had warned him many a time when she was coming his way.

“And the correct answer to that question would have been, a simple no. She did not ask for your opinion on what, to her, was a very spiritual experience. She only asked if you saw the Virgin.” He thought he was being incredibly patient. “The Bible says, let your yes be yes, and your no be no.”

“But that’s so boring,” she huffed softly, hoping he wouldn’t hear her, but he did.

“If you find the restricted life of the convent boring, you should not attempt to take up Holy Orders.” This was his chance. This was his golden opportunity to sway her away from becoming a nun.