Bullseyes. Every single one. She smiled, a cold, wintry curving of lips that did nothing to cool the bubbling frustration beneath the surface. Giving her temper free rein, Elise yanked the sgian dubh from her boot and whipped the blade through the air at top speed. The knife imbedded all the way to the hilt in the target’s center ring.

A loud whistle and multiple claps came from behind her.

Elise spun about. Harry sat on the low stone wall with Sammy beside him, a rucksack at his feet. Her eyes narrowed, and she flung her ear muffs to the ground.

“Hiya, Lady Elise.” Sammy hopped off the wall and ran toward her, cowlick waving.

“Sammy.”

Without hesitation, the lad plowed into her and wrapped both arms around her in a ferocious hug. Her fingers played with the irrepressible rooster tail, and her eyes lifted to Harry’s over the top of his son’s head.

He hadn’t budged.

“How did you find me?” she demanded, her voice gruff to cover the fact that her insides had stood up and cheered at his and Sammy’s presence.

“Roxbury filled me in.”

“You spoke to my father?” Elise’s mouth dropped open.

Harry started toward her, his eyes never leaving hers. Alert. Intent. His steps measured and quiet on the peat.

He reached Sammy and drew the lad to his side. “Nice piece of shooting. Sammy insists you’re a better marksman than I am. I’m feeling the need to redeem myself in my son’s eyes and prove that I am the superior shot.”

“That’s an awfully long drive just to attempt besting me.”

Sammy hopped up and down on the balls of his feet, his face full of animation. “We didn’t come up here for—”

Harry wrapped his arm around his son’s neck and placed a firm hand over his mouth. “Sammy, why don’t you go check out that target and see if Lady Elise has improved.”

Sammy looked up at his father. Harry winked at him conspiratorially, and the lad trotted off without further protest.

Harry turned back to her and ran his eyes over her running attire, a gleam of attraction in their depths. Her heart skittered—just a wee bit.

She cleared her throat and called to his son. “Don’t touch my dirk, Sammy.”

“I hear you’ve driven off your estate manager.” Harry grinned, showing his crooked incisor.

“He planned to retire before winter set in.” A flush burned her skin, and she refused to look at him, keeping her eyes on Sammy instead.

“That’s six months off.”

She shrugged. It still smarted that George had walked off on her, but she’d rather die than give Harry the particulars.

“Do you know the least thing about running an estate?” Harry asked.