Battlefield of the Heart (30 page)

Alasdair tamped down his rising temper. Why had his cousin even bothered to come if he was just going to leave not an hour later?

Trevor grabbed his hand and pressed a key into it. “Here's the key so you can get in. Have fun!”

On his own in a strange country when he couldn't see a blasted thing. Right. “Trevor, wait.”

But it was too late. His cousin's footsteps blended in with dozens of others, leaving Alasdair with only his thoughts and his dog for company.

“I hope you know the way to Trevor's,” he grumbled as he tucked the key in the leather sporran at the front of his kilt. “Because I have no clue where we are.”

With his dog guiding him around obstacles, he wandered through the fair a little longer. It just wasn't the same without his sight or at least someone to describe the scene. Not that Trevor had done a smashing job, but his bare-bones description had been enough to help Alasdair imagine the scene based on memories from before the fall that had blinded him.

He stopped, completely disoriented as he tried to figure out which way to go. Equal amounts of sound and food smells came from every direction, giving him no clues as to his best option. Anxiety rose to the surface like the Loch Ness monster coming up for a peek at the tourists; the same anxiety he often experienced when alone in a crowd.

He drew in a calming breath, catching the scents of crushed grass, some kind of fried dough, and more types of perfume, cologne, and soap than he could count. “Foster, you can take the lead. Go to Trevor's flat.”

He didn't expect the dog to know how to find Trevor's place, but as he'd hoped, Foster led him out of the noise and confusion. They crossed a grassy expanse, and the sounds of the Highland games faded to a pleasant background noise. A hushed yet familiar sound filled his ears, and he took a deep breath of the clean scent as the dog stopped.

“Great, you found the river. Good boy, Foster.” Alasdair sighed and wondered about the possibility of finding a merciful soul willing to help a lost, blind Scot back to his irresponsible cousin's apartment.

As he thrust his fingers into the short black hair he hadn't seen in nearly four years, he heard the whisper of footsteps approaching on his left. He turned toward the sound as the faint scent of strawberries reached his nostrils, confirming it wasn't Trevor taking pity on him.

The footsteps stopped beside him, and an angelic female voice with a drab American accent spoke. “That's a pretty dog. What's its name?”

“Foster.” Alasdair's pulse quickened. The lass sounded close to his age of twenty-four and drop-dead gorgeous. Of course, she could be fifty and ugly as sin, but a pretty voice affected him now the same way a pretty face had when he could see. “I'd let you pet him, but he's working. When he's off his harness, he's the friendliest dog you could ever hope to meet.”

“Well, now, you're certainly not from around here.” The teasing lilt in her voice made him wish he could see if there was a matching twinkle in her eyes—eyes he would love to know the color of. “Did you come all the way from Scotland just to visit our Highland games?”

He chuckled and shook his head. “No, I came to visit my cousin. We came to the games together, but he abandoned me for his girlfriend.” Something about the young woman prompted him to make a vaguely humiliating request. He laced it with a humorous tone to help protect his pride. “I don't suppose you're the kind o' lass who would take pity on a blind old Scot, are you?”

Her laughed sounded as clear and light as a crystal bell. “Old? You? Not hardly. You can't be any older than me, and I'm only twenty-three.”

“Ah, lass, I hate to tell you, but you're wrong.” He grinned as he imagined her eyes widen in surprise. “I'm twenty-four.”

“I stand corrected.” Her amusement brought a smile to his heart. This lass was definitely to his liking. “So, why do you want me to take pity on you?”

Now for the embarrassing part. “I'm lost. I haven't a clue where I am, other than standing in the grass by a river.”

“You're in Wilson Park, with St. Mary's River in front of you and the Highland games behind you. Clinton Avenue is a few hundred yards to your left and Lafayette Street is nearly as far to your right. A few feet to either side of you are maple trees full of brilliant green leaves.”

For the first time since arriving in America, he lost the disorientation. And the lass' descriptions gave him hope she might wander through the games with him. With her telling him about the sights, he might be able to form an accurate image in his mind.

“Thank you.” He smiled in the direction of her voice. If only he knew how tall she was, then he could be sure he smiled at her face rather than over her head or at her shoulder. “My name's Alasdair Buchanan, by the way.”

“Trisha Wright,” she said in the voice he could listen to for hours.

He started when she touched his arm, then he realized she was taking hold of him to lead him. How dare this stranger, no matter how gorgeous she was, assume he needed to be led like a dog? He wasn't above asking someone to guide him if necessary, but to do it without his permission was just plain rude and irritating beside.

Then the warm touch of her fingers on his bare forearm broke through his annoyance. Oh, how right her delicate hand felt on his arm. Her shoulder brushed him and he realized she had to be at least ten or twelve centimeters shorter than his nearly two meters of height. And from the strength in her hand and the wiry muscles in her arm, she likely had a lithe build; the perfect complement to his wide shoulders and well-toned muscles, which his grandmother claimed made him look every inch the Highland warrior, especially in his kilt.

“So,” Trisha said, “where did you want to go? I grew up around here, so I can probably find it easy enough.”

He remembered his previous plan to go back to Trevor's. Spending time with Trisha sounded much more appealing. “If you don't mind describing the sights to me, I'd like to explore the games a while longer. 'Tis nice to find a wee bit of Scotland in this foreign country, even if no one else shares my accent.”

She hesitated, giving him plenty of time to kick himself. He'd pushed too hard, scared her off wanting to assist him, let alone spend time with him. But she was the first lass since the accident to treat him like a man rather than someone to be pitied. He missed spending time with the fairer sex without having to worry she'd treat him like an invalid. The way Trisha had taken his arm felt so natural, as if she'd been doing it for years…as if she belonged at his side.

Before he could apologize and extricate himself from the awkward situation he'd put them in, she spoke. “Okay. I'd kind of like to see the festivities myself. And who better to see this ‘wee bit of Scotland' with than a brawny Scot?”

He chuckled at her poor attempt to imitate his accent. She didn't mind showing him around? So much the better. “Lead on, lass. But I'll warn you now, if you think I should go one way and Foster wants me to go another, I'll follow my dog.”

She laughed and patted his arm, sending fire through his veins. “I don't blame you. I'm sure he knows what he's doing much better than I do.”

When they reached the crowd, she did a bang-up job of describing the colorful scene he had assumed was there. From tartans and clan banners to the tents and people around them, she described everything in such detail he could see it in his mind's eye. It was a lovely image.

And the best part of it all, aside from having the bonniest lass in the city on his arm, was that for the first time since waking up blind in the hospital, he felt completely at ease in a crowd.

****

Trisha glanced up at the gorgeous Scot beside her and smiled. His black hair, green eyes, and muscular build made him physically attractive. Just the sight of him in his brightly colored kilt and matching T-shirt was enough to make any woman's knees weaken. What really captured her attention, however, was the way he treated her. Respect and courtesy seemed to be as natural to him as breathing, and his flirtatious attitude lifted her spirits, which had been sagging for longer than she wanted to remember. She knew it was only due to his blindness he called her a bonny lass. If he could see her, he'd cringe at her ugliness like the people around them were doing. But hearing his compliments, no matter how misguided, still felt amazing.

As they passed through a section of food booths, Alasdair stopped and sniffed the air. A smile curved his lips, sending Trisha's heart into overdrive.

“Do you smell that?” he asked.

She inhaled but couldn't identify which scent he meant. “Smell what?”

“Haggis.” He turned toward her, excitement lighting his features. The way his emerald eyes seemed to focus on her face sent a wave of nerves washing through her, and she had to remind herself he couldn't see her. “What do you think of getting some?”

She smiled and shook her head. Of course he was hungry. Her brothers had taught her a long time ago males were always hungry. “You have to tell me what it is before I answer that.”

“'Tis a traditional Scottish meat dish. So, what do you say?”

“That doesn't sound too bad. Let me see if I can figure out who's selling it.” She scanned the area and spotted the sign. “Okay, it looks like we need to go to that red-and-white striped tent.”

“Lead the way, lass, since I can't see which tent that would be, and Foster never did learn his colors.”

Laughing, she guided him forward. She doubted she'd ever tire of his somewhat warped sense of humor. His ability to laugh about his limitations made her wish she could do the same. How much easier would life be if she could quit being self-conscious and crack jokes about ugly ducklings?

As they drew closer to the tent, she caught the scent of what could only be haggis. She'd never smelled anything like it, and she wasn't sure why Alasdair seemed so excited about it. The strong scent of meat, spices, and onions was far from appetizing. When she saw what the vendor had in a heated glass case, her doubts grew even more.

“Good afternoon.” The robust man standing behind the makeshift counter smoothed his beefy hands over his white apron. “Can I interest you in a serving of the best haggis you'll find in Fort Wayne?”

Trisha refrained from telling him she hoped it was the only haggis in Fort Wayne. The smooth lump with something grainy-looking spilling out of it was disgusting. “No, thank you, but I think my friend would like to try some.”

Alasdair chuckled. “Of course I would. It smells heavenly, just like the haggis at home.”

Had his sense of smell gone the way of his eyesight? Trisha eyed the haggis again, skepticism filling her. “You mean to tell me you actually want to eat that?”

“Ay, lass. Haggis is an amazing thing. Keeps a man
làidir
.”

Did that mean
crazy
? Going by Alasdair's expression, probably not. Only one way to find out for sure. “It keeps a man what?”

“
Làidir
. Strong.” He chuckled and lifted an eyebrow. “I take it the bonny lass doesn't speak Gaelic?”

“No, I don't speak ‘Gah-lic.” But if he wanted to teach her, she might consider learning. She could listen to his smooth voice for hours.

“Ah, your accent is improving,
nic-cridhe
.” He winked, making her wonder what that last word meant. Before she could ask, he turned toward the vendor, who beamed with pride. “From the scent, I assume your haggis is made with sheep's pluck?”

“Absolutely. It wouldn't be real haggis if it were made with anything else.” The vendor clasped his hands, rubbing his palms together. “Do you really mean it smells like what you find in Scotland?”

“Ay, that it does.”

“Would you like neeps and tatties with that?”

Alasdair smiled, the sight warming Trisha's heart despite the less-than-appetizing meal he was ordering. “Ay. What would haggis be without neeps and tatties?”

She didn't dare voice her opinion on that one. Instead, she watched the vendor plop a spoonful of two different pale substances on a paper plate. “And what exactly are neeps and tatties?”

Alasdair chuckled. “Mashed turnips and mashed potatoes.”

Those, at least, sounded and looked edible. The scoop of meat the vendor added to the plate couldn't possibly be healthy.