The corners of Elise’s lips curved, and she glanced away, but a chuckle started inside her chest and tickled her throat. She coughed to disguise it and failed; her laugh escaped and rang out. The lad was a disaster and more like herself at that age than she cared to remember.

Sniggering softly, she led the way to the conservatory, the hothouse temperatures providing a welcome relief after the last three-quarters of an hour. Water pooled about their feet on the tile floor.

“I s-suppose we’ll need to sort some dry clothes for you,” Elise said, trying not to notice how miserable Sammy appeared in his soaked clothes. “I’ve done nothing but chase after you all week. If y-you catch pneumonia from this escapade, it’s your own fault.”

Elise had done far worse things at his age, but Sammy didn’t need any new ideas. He concocted enough on his own.

Mrs. Sinclair, the housekeeper, a tall woman with rusty curls and round, black eyes the size of currants, bustled through the doorway with a load of towels and several thick cotton robes draped over one arm.

“That wee laddie is going to be the death of us all.” Mrs. Sinclair thrust a thick cotton towel into Elise’s hands and narrowed her eyes at Sammy.

Elise wrapped the towel around her long hair, then twisted it like a turban on top of her head. Her body shook, and her teeth chattered. Right now, nothing sounded better than a tub of hot water.

“I saw ye from the landing window. Gave me quite a turn. Bless my soul, Lady Elise; it reminded me of the old days.” Mrs. Sinclair patted her chest dramatically. “You were forever landing yourself in the queerest sort of troubles.”

Sammy lifted his face to look into Elise’s, his gray eyes filled with lively questions. “You used to play in the loch?”

“Och. Aye. That she did. Fair scairt her mother silly with her wild adventures.” Mrs. Sinclair wrapped Sammy inside a towel and patted him down.

“Don’t get any ideas,” Elise said through her chattering teeth. “If you were my child, I’d withhold your pocket money and forbid you the loch until you reached your majority.”

Just then, Maeve entered the conservatory with Elise’s Glock and holster in her hands. “Mr. Benson’s here to collect his son,” she announced. “Where should I put this?”

“Set it on the chair,” Elise said curtly, still out of charity with the maid. She indicated a wicker chair with bright salmon cushions.

“You have a gun?” Sammy’s eyes bulged.

Elise groaned internally. “People often use firearms on my father’s estate.” Her hands shook so badly that she doubted a blazing fire could warm her.

“That’s cracking!” Sammy dropped his towel and sidled over to the chair to ogle the handgun.

Mrs. Sinclair and Elise converged on the chair like two flapping geese.