“You know I carry a gun, Sammy. It’s part of my job. I work on the military base. Lady Elise has taken self-defense classes. A lot of women do. Sometimes when people are surprised and don’t see who is attacking them, they go into fight mode. Lady Elise knows how to fight, and she used her skills. I promise you, neither Lady Elise nor I would have hurt each other.”

“Oh.” The wee pucker on Sammy’s forehead disappeared.

Elise released a pent-up breath, grateful Sammy had accepted his father’s explanation so readily, even though Harry hadn’t explained why he had pulled a gun on her.

“Sammy, why were you playing with one of the displays? Where is your childminder?” Elise asked.

The lad hung his head. “I wasn’t hurting anything. I just wanted to touch the spiky ball.”

“That is a verra old and valuable weapon. The mace belonged to one of my ancestors.”

“Was he a knight?” Sammy asked, his repentant behavior gone in a flash.

“Among other things.” Elise shifted positions, a small groan escaping despite her effort to muffle it.

“You’re hurt?” Harry took her arm, a look of concern in his eyes.

Her body was not up to a spinning back-heel kick. Aye, she had knocked Harry’s legs out from under him, but had not reached the necessary height to strike his chest or head as she had intended.

“How did knights fight with this? It’s so heavy.” Sammy grunted as he moved the medieval mace, the spiked ball swinging on its chain from the end of the wooden handle.

Harry relieved his son of the weapon.

“Knights started training when they were younger than you and developed strong upper bodies.” Tentatively, Elise put more pressure on her right leg.

“I want to be a knight when I grow up.”

“You’d need a time machine, because today’s knights don’t wear armor and go into battle.”

“What’s a time machine?” Sammy cocked his head to the side, his eyes filled with curiosity.

“Ask your father. He can explain it to you.” Elise rocked back on her bare feet and gave Harry her best smile.

“That’s because my dad knows everything,” Sammy bragged, his small chest puffing out.

Harry wrapped his free arm around his son’s shoulders and flashed a cocky grin at Elise. She fought the urge to roll her eyes. Males and their egos.

“Who did you manage to escape from this time?” she asked Sammy, getting back to the issue at hand.

“Maeve.”

Maeve was a silly eighteen-year-old who didn’t have the common sense endowed to a goose. Why Mrs. Sinclair and her mother had hired her, Elise had never understood.

“You mustn’t evade your childminders, son,” Harry said. “They’ve been asked to look after you until I hire someone on a more permanent basis.”