Kathleen Harrington by Lachlan's Bride

reluctant acknowledgment of his relative’s sound advice. “You’re right as hell on that score, Wally,” he agreed. “Escorting a noblewoman on a cross-country trek would try the forbearance of a saint. I knew the minute Dunbarton told me I’d be responsible for the progress of a dowager countess that I was in for a cartload of aggravation.”
    Walter rubbed his gnarled forefinger alongside his big, broken nose. “Weel now, trainin’ a Sassenach lady to be punctual and considerate would be like teachin’ a wild boar to sing Gregorian chant in the cathedral choir. The pawky lessons would merely frustrate you and mightily irritate the boar.”
    Lachlan laughed out loud. His uncle was right. There was no sense in trying to change the immutable fact that titled English gentlewomen were the most self-absorbed creatures on the face of God’s earth.
    The sudden quiet that settled over the milling assembly heralded the arrival of that gorgeous, self-absorbed creature herself.
    Lachlan turned to find Lady Francine Walsingham standing beside the English king’s elderly chancellor at the top of the wide palace steps. From the looks on their faces when they glared at him, Lachlan realized his previous assumption had been dead wrong. It hadn’t been the choice of her attire that had caused the lady’s belated appearance. Gauging by the somber expressions directed at him, it appeared that the duke of Beddingfeld and the dowager countess had been discussing the fact that Lachlan would be escorting her hundreds of miles northward.
    And neither were very pleased about it.
    Lachlan’s own irritation faded, however, at the captivating sight before him. A little girl, about five years old, held tightly to Lady Walsingham’s hand. The two were dressed in scarlet riding attire, trimmed in black velvet. Small black-velvet hats, each decorated with a pair of raven’s feathers, were tilted askew on their golden-blond hair. Black kid gloves and boots completed the matching outfits.
    There was no question the child was the countess’s daughter. She was a perfect miniature of her mother. But unlike her solemn-eyed parent, the dainty youngster smiled at Lachlan with a merry, welcoming smile. The wee lassie was clearly ready to begin her great adventure.
    On the other side of the child, a nursemaid, standing no more than four foot six, glared at Lachlan. Her dark eyes glinted from beneath thick black brows that met over the narrow bridge of her long, hooked nose. The hostile servant had to be Signora Grazioli.
    Until that morning, no one, not even the earl of Dunbarton, had bothered to inform Lachlan that, in addition to a strong-willed and pampered widow, he’d be responsible for the welfare of her young daughter and the child’s ill-tempered Italian nurse.
    Hell and damnation.
    Not one, but three females to escort all the bloody way to Scotland. And two of the trio seemed to consider his very existence a blight on their otherwise perfect world.
    Lachlan strode to the foot of the shallow stairs, where he met the foursome. “We’re late in departing,” he said. He made no attempt to hide his irritation. “I suggest we waste no more time.”
    Beddingfeld nodded. “Yes, it’s best that you leave immediately.” He paused and frowned as he met Lachlan’s eyes. “I trust you realize, Kinrath, the great favor bestowed upon you by His Majesty, when he asked you to accompany Lady Walsingham on her journey north. Her well-being will be your responsibility, and yours alone. Should the countess have cause to complain of your conduct as a Scottish representative, such unhappy reports will be forwarded to your king.”
    Lachlan swung his gaze to Francine. “And has the lady complained of my conduct thus far?”
    Her cheeks grew rosy, as she scowled in open defiance. “I trust you will put my welfare and that of my child’s before all other considerations.”
    “On that, I give you my word,” he said. He looked down at the little girl