The Scottish Duke Page 8

  Yet however pleasant Mrs. McGowan was, the woman didn’t buy anything.

  Lorna didn’t have a wide selection of herbs and preparations. The comfrey balm was popular. So, too, the St. John’s Wort oil, which could be used in a variety of remedies. In addition, the mint teas were popular throughout the year.

  One by one the people she knew passed her by, making her smile feel stiff, and not from just the cold. The market was her only source of income and she couldn’t afford to go into her savings yet. That was for when the baby was born and she wouldn’t be able to harvest any herbs or come to the market for a few weeks.

  She was not going to be despondent. Her sales might pick up before market day was over.

  “What have you to say for yourself, woman?”

  Startled, she glanced up to find Reverend McGill striding toward her small stall.

  She attended services each Sunday, ever since arriving at Wittan Village two months earlier, enduring McGill’s earnestly grim sermons. He mourned the old days of publicly shaming a sinner and said so often.

  She met with him that first week because to do otherwise would be to elicit the suspicions of the villagers, not to mention Mrs. MacDonald. He’d offered his condolences on the loss of her husband, a falsehood that made her conscience itch. She wanted to confess her ruse yet she realized how important it was to maintain the appearance of a widow, one so desperately poor that she couldn’t even afford to dye her dresses black.

  The pretense had worked, at least until the Duke of Kinross had shown up at her door. Damn him.

  The appearance of the minister at the market wasn’t wholly unexpected. Mrs. MacDonald had threatened to speak to him days ago. Evidently, the woman had found the opportunity to do so. Lorna thought she might be addressed after church services, but she never thought Reverend McGill would choose the crowded square to single her out.

  The man was dressed in severe black with a white knotted neckpiece. His bushy hair was gray and so were the sideburns and the beard that cupped the lower half of his face. A thin mouth and deep vertical grooves etched into his skin indicated that this was a man who didn’t see much humor or good in the world.

  “Is it true that you have whored?” he asked.

  She knew, only too well, that the man could shout the rafters down. Any moment now he was going to raise his orator’s voice so the entire village could hear him.

  What could she say to stop him? Not one word or explanation came to mind.

  It was the Duke of Kinross’s fault. God should not have created such a beautiful creature. I was only human.

  Hardly something she would say to a minister, especially Reverend McGill.

  Nan had warned her, but she had never envisioned a scene like this. She met the eyes of several of the villagers she had gotten to know over the last months. Mrs. McGivry, who bought her tea to soothe her toothache. Mr. Wilson, who used her comfrey balm to ease the ache in his back. Their eyes were flat and condemning, even as Reverend McGill’s voice grew louder.

  He pointed a long bony finger at her and asked, “Are you a widow or a whore, Lorna Gordon?”

  She was too late. His voice was already loud enough to summon the dead from their graves.

  People stopped and turned. The entire village seemed to be on the green, and each inhabitant was now staring at her.

  Her cheeks prickled with warmth.

  His attention dropped to her stomach. She placed her hand atop it as if to protect her child from his venomous look.

  He stepped toward her, reached into his cloak, and pulled out a Bible.

  “Swear to your widowhood, woman,” he said, stretching out his hand. “And no one will gainsay you. Upon this holy book will you swear to be free of fornication and whoredom?”

  He wanted her to swear that she’d been married? That she wasn’t an unwed mother?

  When she hesitated, he smiled.

  “God sees your sin, daughter,” he said, the Bible still held out in front of her.

  What did he expect her to do, fall to her knees and beg for his forgiveness? Would that work? She’d never heard of the man comforting anyone. But condemnation? He evidently relished that part of his ecclesiastical duties.

  He stood in the same stance, arm outstretched, hand holding the Bible, legs widened, almost as if he were going into battle. Did he think that she epitomized the Devil himself? Did the good reverend see himself on the side of the angels?

  At first there were only a few people behind Reverend McGill. Then they formed a ring around the reverend and her. Now the circle was three deep, as if the entire village had left their houses on this miserable gray afternoon and were intent on watching this drama play out.

  Alex entered the carriage after giving his driver instructions to take him to Wittan Village. He was under no illusions that Charles was ignorant of who he was going to see. The man might be the epitome of tact, but he kept his eyes and ears open.

  Alex had never thought to be in this situation. He’d behaved in a way that would have outraged his father. No doubt the situation would amuse his uncle no end. If possible, he wanted to make sure Thomas never heard about Lorna.

  Outside the village, the carriage slowed, then came to a stop. Alex heard his driver’s voice through the metal grate.

  “Your Grace, it looks like there’s some kind of disturbance in the village square.”

  “What kind of disturbance?”

  “It’s a mob, sir, and they’re surrounding a woman.”

  When Charles spoke again, there was a curious note to his voice.

  “Your Grace, it appears to be Miss Gordon.”

  Of course Charles would know her.

  Alex opened the carriage door and left the vehicle, striding toward the crowd.

  “Your Grace, do you want me to come with you?” Charles called after him.

  “No, stay with the carriage,” he said.

  Rank did have some privileges, one of those being that people listened to him. Yet he’d never faced down such a large mob before, one that was eerily quiet. The only voice he heard was a stentorian one, speaking of hellfire, damnation, and the evils of sin.

  Lorna was more than willing to swear on the Bible if it meant protecting her child, even if the price she paid was being doomed to eternal judgment. But she’d waited too long. When she raised her hand to place it on the book, Reverend McGill withdrew his arm.

  “The Session has met, daughter. They wish you gone from this place before you soil others with your presence. These good people have no wish to have a fornicator and a harlot in their midst.”

  She knew enough about the Presbyterian religion to know that a Session was a meeting of church elders, men who were often influential in village life. Perhaps she was fortunate that the Reverend McGill hadn’t appeared with a contingent of angry men.

  “Who is the father of your child?”

  “Does that matter? Isn’t it my sin that’s the topic of discussion?”

  She shouldn’t have said anything. She’d just made the situation worse, if that was possible.

  His face grew more florid. His lips thinned to the point they disappeared in his face.

  “Not only a fornicator and a harlot but a blasphemer! You will not name him?”

  “He’s not a villager,” she said.

  They stared at each other for a moment that lasted as long as a week. He could stand there and huff and puff, but she wasn’t going to say anything else. He’d already essentially banished her from the village. If he could, he would have put her in a cage in the village square. Behold, an object lesson.

  “The good citizens of Wittan value their immortal souls. Unlike you. The congregants do not want you here.”

  She and her father had often been looked at strangely during their travels. His, after all, was an odd occupation. As a botanist he was more interested in plants than people. To that end, he would go anywhere to see something that other people rarely saw or wouldn’t care about if they did. She’d o
ften heard people jeer or deride him in the places they stayed. They didn’t know about his three books or that he had been a widely respected professor. He was just an odd man who climbed hills or traipsed through bogs to find things that grew in weird places.

  It doesn’t matter what other people think, he’d said when she had the courage to mention the comments.

  This was the first time she thought he might have been wrong. As she watched Reverend McGill, she realized it mattered what other people thought of her.

  “Do you think news of your sin hasn’t traveled far and wide, daughter? Not only have you transgressed, but you show no signs of remorse. Nor have you asked forgiveness of the congregation.” He stepped forward. “And you entered into sin with one of those among us who should be above reproach.”

  To her surprise, he turned and pointed at someone else.

  “Fornicator!”

  Shocked, she watched as the Duke of Kinross stepped out of the crowd.

  He took in what was happening with one glance, then strode toward the reverend. Whatever he said to McGill silenced the minister.

  The duke came to stand in front of her. “Get your things,” he said. “I’m taking you out of here.”

  “I can’t leave,” she said. “It’s market day.”

  “I don’t know if you noticed, Miss Gordon, but it’s about to be a market riot. Gather up your things.”

  He swept up the bundles of herbs on the table, bruising half of them.

  “Don’t do that,” she said, pushing his hand aside to gather them up with more care.

  A moment later she glanced at the silent minister. He might not be talking, but he was certainly glaring at her.

  “What did you say to him?” she asked the duke.

  “I told him that if he wanted the church roof replaced, he’d be better off finding another sinner to expose.”

  Her eyes widened. “You would do that?”

  “Yes, I would do that.”

  He grabbed her arm, but she shook it off.

  “I’m not going with you,” she said in a low voice. “Don’t you understand? That’s the worst thing I could do. I can just imagine what Mrs. MacDonald would say.”

  “Who?”

  “My landlady.”

  “I don’t care about Mrs. MacDonald,” he said. “But you’re not safe here.”

  “I would have been fine but for you.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “If you hadn’t come here,” she said, “no one would have known. I was getting by.”

  “You’re living in a hovel.”

  “I was getting by,” she said.

  He ignored her. “Don’t you have a warmer coat? You’re nearly blue with cold. Your cloak is too thin and your gloves are inadequate.”

  “Fashion criticism from a duke?” She frowned at him. “I don’t care what you think about my attire, Your Grace.”

  “You’re coming with me. If you wish to make a scene, that’s fine. I don’t care. You’re still coming with me.”

  “No one’s going to hurt me. I’m perfectly safe here.”

  He lowered his head almost as if he were going to kiss her. “Look around you, Lorna.”

  She glanced at the reverend, who was standing there scowling at both of them, then at the crowd milling closer. Nan’s words came back to her. Mothers will cross the street rather than allow you near their children. Men will leer at you. You’ll be the face of sin.

  She had never expected to see the condemnation on the faces of some of the sweet ladies who’d purchased balms from her, or the men who’d been so gracious when she first arrived.

  “If you’ll escort me back to my room, then,” she said.

  “Only to get your things.”

  Did he think she had somewhere to go? She wasn’t like him, with homes in half a dozen cities.

  He pushed through the crowd, still holding onto her hand. To her surprise, the villagers parted, but they didn’t do so silently. She had never heard some of the words shouted at her, but she was well aware of others.

  She was not a whore and she wanted to plant her feet right there and defend herself. The duke was having none of it.

  She nodded to the duke’s driver, a man she knew from Blackhall. Charles was a burly figure with a pockmarked face and a nose that had been pummeled a time or two. His hair was a mixture of black and gray, like her father’s had been. Charles was known as a peacemaker among the staff. If there was a disagreement, people let him mediate it. If an actual fight occurred, someone always summoned him to break it up.

  She suddenly noticed the distance from the ground to the vehicle.

  “How am I supposed to get up there?” she asked.

  In the first six months her stomach was only a small bump. Since then she’d ballooned up until she was having difficulties seeing her feet. Putting on her shoes was a challenge each morning.

  “There are steps,” he said, bending down to unfurl them. “If you’ll allow me to assist you?”

  How was he going to do that? She felt as large as Charles, but all her girth was in the front. Nor had she been particularly graceful of late.

  She had to get into the carriage somehow. Better to grit her teeth, chew on her pride, and let him help.

  Placing her right hand on his arm, she glanced at him.

  “I can’t see the step,” she said, her cheeks feeling on fire.

  She felt his hand on her right foot.

  “If you’ll just lift it and allow me to guide you,” he said.

  She did, thinking she was bound to topple backward. He placed his left hand on the small of her back in support. Somehow, he helped her step up, taking her weight on his arm and pushing with his hand on her back.

  “Now for the other foot,” he said, repeating the effort.

  Incredibly, she made it inside the carriage and gratefully sank onto the seat.

  “Was your wife as large in the latter days of her pregnancy?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I didn’t spend much time at Blackhall.”

  Shocked, she watched as he sat in front of her.

  “You don’t know?”

  “No.”

  He had the most annoying habit of reducing her to silence.

  Chapter 10

  It only took a minute to reach her lodgings. Lorna dreaded seeing Mrs. MacDonald, who had either heard of the meeting in the square or had attended it.

  “She’s thrown your belongings in the street.”

  She glanced out the window to find that he was right. Everything she owned, pitiful amount that it was, had been tossed into a heap in front of Mrs. MacDonald’s house.

  Two boys were rifling through her trunk. She doubted they’d find anything of interest unless they were fascinated with bottles and dried herbs. But her father’s manuscript was in the bottom of the trunk and they couldn’t be allowed to touch that.

  Before she could say anything, the duke had opened the carriage door, and while the vehicle was still moving slowly, he was there. The boys ran away, but he didn’t try to catch them. All he did was gather up everything and place it in the trunk. Charles dismounted and loaded it atop the vehicle.

  She was too stunned to protest, too shocked to make a sound.

  What was she going to do? Where was she going to go now? Her meager savings, sewn into her petticoat, would be enough to rent another room, but where? The next village was miles away, which meant Nan wouldn’t be able to visit her again.

  While Charles and the duke were talking, the door of the house opened to reveal Mrs. MacDonald standing there, a stained apron tied at her waist, a sneer on her face.

  “Aye, you’ve got a trout in the well, don’t ye? I’ll not have your like in my house, Miss Gordon. I’d suggest you seek out the parish poorhouse, but they only take women of good character.”

  Mrs. MacDonald wasn’t finished. Her voice rose to a shout. “You’ll need someplace to go when the duke tires of you. I hear they need women in Au
stralia. All they care about is that you’re warm, a woman, and willing. You could find a home there, you and your cludfawer.”

  When the duke entered the carriage, he blocked Lorna’s view of her former landlady.

  “Cludfawer?” he asked.

  “An illegitimate child,” she said softly.

  “Don’t pay her any attention,” he said, settling in opposite her. As they began to move, he startled her again by taking off his coat and tucking it around her. “You’re cold.”

  Other than Nan, it was the first time anyone had been kind to her for months.

  Of course she wanted to weep. The day had been eventful and horrid.

  Alex was trying to marshal his thoughts into some semblance of order.

  He hadn’t expected to see Lorna standing there, proud in her thin coat, facing the weight of the village’s disapproval. The bulge of her stomach was obvious to a blind man. So, too, her defiance. She’d stood there alone, facing the reverend with more courage than he’d ever seen.

  She was beautiful in a way he’d never before considered. In a way that was elemental and spoke to the continuation of the species.

  The night of the ball he’d expected her to be experienced, not virginal. And now? Hardly virginal, but delicate, almost innocent, with her red cheeks, her warm brown eyes, and a mouth that smiled slightly while hinting at delicious kisses.

  She’d been amply endowed before. He could still recall the shape of her breasts in his hands. But carrying a child had added to them, until they pressed against her bodice. He wanted, in an impulsive way quite unlike him, to reach out and press his hands against them to measure their weight. No doubt she’d slap him if he dared do something like that.

  He knew, without asking, that she would nurse her child. Ruth would not have, and had already hired a wet nurse, the woman ready to be summoned after the delivery.

  He settled back against the seat, allowing himself to open the door to thoughts of those days three years ago. Nothing beyond the conception of the child had involved him. He’d been informed of what would happen, but he’d never been consulted. Men weren’t, he’d been told. His opinion hadn’t been sought, either.