He was dark-haired and big as a house—Bernard had never seen a man so big—well past six and a half feet, he imagined, with what might have been twenty stone on his broad, muscled frame, and none of it fat. Bernard could tell that bit, because the man wasn’t wearing a shirt. Indeed, he wasn’t wearing trousers, either. He was wearing a kilt. And carrying a broadsword. For a moment, Bernard wondered if he’d traveled through time as well as space on the journey to Scotland. It was, after all, 1829, despite the Scotsman appearing as though he’d arrived via three centuries earlier.
