With a gasp, Emma froze. He had a sword? And not just any sword. This sword was huge.

The flasher halted, his eyes wide with fear. He gulped and promptly wilted down south.

"I told ye mine was bigger," the Scotsman growled. "Make a move for the lass again, and I'll be shortening yers by a few inches."

"Don't hurt me." The flasher backed away, closing his coat.

The Scotsman advanced, his sword only inches from the flasher's fluctuating Adam's apple. "I suggest from now on, ye remember to wear yer knickers."

"Sure. Whatever you say, man."

"Leave us."

The flasher scurried away, disappearing around the bend. The Scotsman lifted the sword over his head so he could slide it back into its sheath. The long blade made a soft scraping noise as it slid home.

Emma was distracted momentarily by the bulge of his biceps, but she quickly came to her senses. "What are you doing with a sword?"

"'Tis called a claymore." He turned to face her. "Doona worry. Ye're safe now."

"I'm supposed to feel safe with a stranger who's packing a humongous weapon?"

He smiled slowly. "I told ye mine was bigger."

What typical male arrogance. "I was referring to your sword. Not your wee willie."

He gave her an injured look. "If ye're going to insult my size, I'll have to defend myself by offering ye proof."

"Don't even think about—"

"'Tis a matter of honor." His mouth twitched. "And I'm a verra honorable man."

"Very drunk is more like it. I can smell the whisky on your breath."

His eyes widened in surprise. "I've had a wee dram or two, but I'm no' drunk." He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Admit it, lass. Ye were wanting a private showing."