"I assure you, the image has been permanently scalded into my brain for all time."
The Scotsman chuckled. "Off you go, lad. No one wants to see yer wee willie."
"Wee? You call this¡ªthis Mack truck wee? I bet it's bigger than yours, buddy."
The Scotsman folded his arms across his broad chest and widened his stance. "That would be a wager ye'd lose."
"Oh yeah? Prove it!"
"Oh, come on, guys." Emma raised her hands to stop them. "I really don't need to see¡ª" She bit her lip and lowered her hands. So what if the gorgeous Scotsman lifted his kilt? He'd already done it once tonight, and who was she to stop him? It was a free country, after all. Her gaze drifted over to his kilt.
"Ye were saying?"
She glanced up at his face. A corner of his mouth quirked. His green eyes sparkled with humor. Oh no! He suspected she was secretly hoping for a peep show. Her cheeks flooded with heat.
"What are you waiting for, Scottie?" The flasher grinned. He'd achieved impressive proportions and was, no doubt, anticipating an equally sizable victory.
Emma figured he usually won by a head.
"The pretty lady can be our judge," the flasher announced.
She stepped back, shaking her head. "I really don't feel qualified." Or particularly honored.
"Don't worry, sugar. I came prepared." The flasher pulled something round, silver, and shiny from his trench coat pocket. "All you have to do is measure which one of us is longer."
The Scotsman arched a brow. "Ye brought a tape measure?"
"Of course." The flasher huffed. "I keep a daily journal, and I want it to be as accurate as possible." He planted his fists on his hips. "I take this seriously, you know."
"Brilliant," Emma muttered. "Well, guys, it's been... real, but I need to go. Feel free to do your own measuring." She turned toward the tree where she'd left her tote bag.
"No!" The flasher shouted.
Her training had taught her how to anticipate an attack. How to interpret the stirring of air behind her back. As soon as the flasher made a grab for her, she jumped out of his reach and assumed her favorite attack pose. Her reaction time had been as swift as ever, but not nearly as quick as the Scotsman. In a mere second, he'd reached behind his head, pulled out a sword, and pointed it at the flasher's neck.
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."