The Last Broken Promise

Low Country Love Stories

Book Two

by

Grace Walton

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Cover Art by Ramona Lockwood

Published By CleanHeart Publishing

Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me. Psalm 52:10

Proverbs 3:5-6

Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.

“Hello, Finn McLeod. Aren’t you looking braw this morning,” the milkmaid cooed flirtatiously. Her battered bucket sloshed against the frayed hem of her apron. She took a moment to eye the young lord. Apparently she was well pleased with what she saw.

As would any lass be. For Finn McLeod, who was barely sixteen, was a fair sight. He’d already gained most of, what was sure to be, a towering height. His shoulders were broad and thick with roped muscles. His waist and hips were lean. His strong-boned face, while still showing the signs of his youth, held the promise of being arresting, once he’d gained his majority.

Every girl in the parish sighed over him. From the lowliest, like the milkmaid, to the highest placed lady. They all sought him out. And even though he was young, he never turned down a woman’s invitation. Whether it be for a society tea party or a quick roll through the timothy fodder in the stables.

He’d quickly acquired a reputation for being skilled in carnal arts and rakish. He made extravagant promises to each and every lass. Few of which he kept. Though that seemed to matter not a whit to the fairer sex. For none of the females involved ever voiced a complaint over his dealings with them. They all knew he was only teasing and flirting. The gentle folk in the village often remarked on Finn’s intelligence and elegant manner. They gossiped that though he was merely the spare to his older brother’s heir, he was sure to make his mark on the world.

“Good Day, Moll.” He tipped his shaggy head gallantly. He smiled at the milkmaid.

The girl sighed as she looked up at him. “Would you be wantin’ to stop for a quick cuddle in the hay loft with me this fine morn?” she asked expectantly.

He shook his head sadly. “I canna. Cedric’s expecting me for breakfast.” His voice deepened. The thick Scots’ burr charmed the waiting lass.

“I vow, I’ll dally by the stable, just in case your nimrod of an older brother lets you escape early today.”

Finn couldn’t stop the dark laughter that ushered forth from his lips. “You should watch what you say about the mon. He’ll be the master here one day.”

“As much as Lord Cedric loves to lord over everybody already, you included. I’d say he thinks he’s the bleedin’ duke already. Your father is a much better master than that puffed up…”

“Hold your evil tongue, woman,” Finn said with a seductive smile on his face.

The girl’s toes curled in her rough leather slippers at his teasing. She gave him a saucy glance from under her stubby, fair eyelashes. “I will, if you let me use that same tongue on you later, Milord.”

The boy scowled. “Finn. I’m just Finn McLeod. You know I don’t claim the title.”

“But…” the chastised maid sputtered. “You’re a lord.”

“I’m the younger son of a hale and hearty man who can sire many more heirs, as he wishes. Once I’m done with school, I’m destined for a set of lieutenant’s colors, Father will not spare the coin for any higher rank. I’ll be shipped off to serve with some highly regarded regiment on the continent. I’m to cover myself in bloody glory for the sake of the family, or die trying. I’ll never be a lord,” he said it with a fair amount of heat and annoyance.

“I think you’ll make a very handsome soldier, Finn. But don’t you be forgetting me whist you dally with all those foreign tarts.”

He moved closer to the lass. He gathered her up in his arms. He bent his head to kiss her rosy lips. “How could you believe I’d play you so false, Moll? I’ll save all my kisses for a good sturdy Scottish lass, for you.”

He captured her eager mouth. He plundered it with great relish for several long minutes. Only the harsh, nasal grate of another woman’s voice made him stop.

“Really Finn, when
will
you learn to cease consorting with the lower classes?”

The voice belonged to a woman scarce a few years his senior. She was perched precariously in a sidesaddle atop a high-blooded horse. The animal fidgeted and wheeled across the narrow dirt lane. The pretty blonde woman on the animal made a moue of disgust. She slammed the riding crop in her left hand down between the horse’s ears. The poor beast instantly quivered and stilled under the abuse.

Finn frowned. He disliked the haughty young lady. Iona McDonald’s father was a very minor branch grafted upon the powerful McDonald family tree. In truth, he was no more than a comfortable gentleman farmer. But Iona liked to style herself with airs. She aspired to become a true member of the aristocracy. In a word, she was a mushroom, a climber of the very worst sort.

Unfortunately, she’d made it very obvious she considered Finn McLeod, younger son though he be, a useful instrument for her rise in the world. The woman had been trying to lure him to her bed since he’d been a raw lad. But, though she was physically perfect, Finn found her somewhat wanting. There was an eerie emptiness in her cornflower blue eyes. And then there was her violence. She made very free with her whip. And not just to poor dumb animals. She’d been pulled off unfortunate servants more times than he could count. She seemed to believe it was her God-given right to beat other living things when she chose. He’d often wondered if she was truly unbalanced.

She lifted the crop to pummel the shivering horse once more. His hard words made her pause.

“The animal has stopped its misbehavior. You must cease beating it.”

Her chin tilted skyward. Her eyes narrowed. He could almost see her calculating precisely what she should say to him in response. Then a cunning twist turned her full, rouged lips.

“You’re right, of course. The beast has, most likely, learned its lesson. Thank you for your suggestion. You are ever the fine horseman, Finn.”

Beside him, Moll, snorted her opinion of the gentlewoman. It was well known, the length and breadth of the village, that Lady Iona was doing her dead-level best to snare poor Finn. But the lad was far from the witless fool the blonde must believe him to be. He was right cagey for a young-un, in Moll’s opinion.

“Did you say something?” Iona asked with icy disdain. Her words were aimed squarely at the milkmaid who loitered by Finn’s side. The one who had so recently been in his arms.

Moll bobbed an awkward curtsy in the middle of the road. “Nay, Milady.”

“Then why don’t you be on your way? I’m sure there are more… cows waiting for you to tend.”

“Aye, Milady, as you say. I must be on my way,” the servant responded to the woman on horseback. But her eyes slanted back towards the pretty lad. There was no doubt she was telling him she’d be waiting for him in the hayloft of yon barn.

Finn shook his head. He laughed at Moll. But there was no meaness in the harmless gesture. There were only kindness and half-hearted flirtation.

He dreaded the coming interview with Cedric. But he would not avoid it, for that would be the coward’s way. And he would never choose that path. Finn might be destined for a life of genteel poverty as the steward of one of his brother’s minor properties. Or he might die on some foreign battlefield. But he refused to lose his honor. He would never lower himself to such a degree. He watched as the milkmaid turned and strolled down the lane with an elaborate swaying of her ample hips.

Fanciful speech to flatter a willing woman was one thing. In society, no one actually said what they meant. It was acceptable to gild the lily. Especially in conversation with a female. But turning tail and running from another man was unacceptable.

Iona muttered some dire deprecation under her breath. “That one will surely give you the pox, Finn. She’s obviously raddled with the malady. And then, once we’re wed, you’ll pass that pestilence on to me. I’m telling you, I’ll not have it. I must insist you cease this wild-oat sowing of yours. It puts not only me, but our future progeny, in danger.”

Finn rolled his eyes. She’d been making such impassioned declarations to him since he’d been out of short pants. He was well and truly tired of them.

“We are not to wed, Iona. How many times must I tell you this fact?”

“Of course we will be married. Every man in the village wants me.”

“And they’ve all had you, several times. If what the gossips say is any indication,” he replied with more than a hint of sourness in his tone.

“Are you feeling jealous, dear?” She preened prettily upon the sweating horse. “There’s no need for that green-eyed monster to take hold of your mind. Once we are wed, you will be my only lover. And you must admit, my slight indiscretions now will serve you well later. Everyone knows a man gets more pleasure from an experienced partner than from an untried girl. The same goes for a woman. I certainly have no issue with your forays beneath the petticoats of the womenfolk hereabouts.” She shuddered delicately. “It will spare me the eager, clumsy fumblings of a lad with more enthusiasm than control on our wedding night.”

“I’m not jealous. Because we will never marry. Iona, save yourself grief and embarrassment, believe me when I tell you this. I don’t want you.”

“Ah, but your father might. He might see our match as a way to cement his control over the shire,” she said with an archness that made the gorge rise in the back of his throat.

“He has no need to
cement
anything. He already rules this shire and all the villages around it like a medieval warlord. Besides, I’m being shipped back off to school in less than a fortnight. Once I pass my examinations, I’m to be made a soldier. One of the king’s own.”

“Then there is truly no time to waste,” she cooed once again.

She sounded sweet. But in reality, she was inwardly chortling with glee at the thought of his being killed in battle. She’d cut a very wide swath through society as a young and beautiful widow. Black was such a perfect foil for her pale blonde loveliness. It didn’t hurt that widows were allowed a great deal of moral latitude.

“There’s just no talking to you, is there?” he asked disgusted.

“Dearest, you can always talk to me. And, once your betrothal ring is firmly on my finger, I’d be glad to allow you certain privileges with my person. As long as the engagement is of sufficiently short season. We wouldn’t want our first child to suffer from any indignities for being a wee bit too premature in making his appearance in the world, now would we?”

“Iona, I won’t ever marry you,” he said baldly.

She took a deep breath that strained the confines of her stays. Her lavish bosom threatened to overflow the dainty lace fichu stuffed into the neckline of her scandalous riding habit.

“Yes, you will, you ungrateful puppy. And if you continue this offensive behavior towards me, I’ll make sure you regret it for as long as you live.”

His eyes narrowed at her threat. Even though he was little more than a boy, Finn had always taken issue with authority figures. Especially those he disliked. And there was no doubt, he thoroughly disliked the woman posing atop the mount. “Do your worst,” he challenged her.

“Oh, I will, you bumbling dunce. I will. And once I hold the marital whip hand, so to speak, you will dance to my tune in earnest,” she mocked.

“I will die before I marry a well-used trull like you, Iona McDonald.” His statement was both rash and impetuous. It clearly showed his immaturity. For any sentient man knew it was unwise to poke a beautiful viper.

Acting instinctively, Iona raised the crop above her head in preparation. She intended to scar that pretty boy’s face of his. Then he would not think so highly of himself, she vowed. But another man’s voice interrupted her actions.

“I would not strike him, if I were you,” warned Cedric in a high-pitched squeak.

The heir to the Duke of Maitland minced down the muddy dirt path. Compared to Finn, he was a pale and blurred imitation of a man. His silk stockings were perfectly white. They traveled down the length of his skinny calves and disappeared into glossy polished shoes with gaudy paste buckles more suited to his grandfather’s generation than to his own. His hair was oiled and pomaded so heavily it looked as if it was painted to his head. His frock coat, more suited for a ball than a walk in the middle of a country lane, was of multicolored brocade. Faux gem buttons, like those on his shoe buckles, twinkled down the length of the garish coat in the early morning sunshine.

Iona struggled to recover her polite mask. She instantly lowered the short, lethal whip. A studied, melodious trill of laughter spilled from her red lips.

“Why would you ever think I’d be wanting to strike dear, dear Finn, Cedric? I was merely swatting at a rather pesky fly. Vermin are so very prolific during this time of the year, don’t you agree, Milord.”

The popinjay neared them. He visibly straightened to his full height, several inches shorter than his younger brother. Cedric had the misfortune to take after their petite mother, instead of their robust and stately father. He was forever demanding the cobbler raise the height on the heels of his slippers, boots, and shoes. And he possessed a vast quantity of footwear. Just as he owned more fashionable clothing than did the Duchess of Maitland herself.

This fact, along with several more obvious ones, had caused no end of speculation as to the heir’s carnal preferences. So much so, the duke had drawn the young man aside for a very stern and private conversation. Consequently, Cedric was gifted the services of an experienced opera dancer to initiate him into the mysteries of the bedroom. The older woman had taken up residence in a lovely little cottage on the edge of the village green. Much was made of the lord’s eldest son’s comings and goings to that abode. The aspersions upon his manhood were soon laid to rest.