by E. A. West
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.
The vendor laid a white plastic for
k on the plate and handed it to Alasdair. “I didn’t expect to have the opportunity to get the opinion of a real Scot on whether I made haggis correctly.”
“I’ll be happy to tell you how it compares to the haggis at home.” Alasdair released Foster’s harness but kept hold of the leather leash as he accepted the plate. After the vendor told him where the three different foods were on the plate, Alasdair lifted a bite of the haggis with the plastic fork and popped it in his mouth. His eyes closed as he chewed, and he laid the fork back on the plate with a contented sigh. “Ah, ’tis magnificent. A good peppery haggis.”
“Thank you.” The vendor appeared as though he might burst with excitement.
Trisha couldn’t hold her tongue any longer. “It’s speckled.”
Alasdair nodded with a satisfied expression. “Good. Haggis should be speckled. ’Tis because of the oats cooked with the meat.”
She studied the haggis still in the glass case. Even her mother’s meatloaf, which she made with oats, wasn’t speckled dark brown and tan. “And how exactly is it cooked?”
The vendor launched into a detailed explanation that made the dish even more unappetizing. According to him, the traditional way to make haggis—which was how he claimed to make his—was to grind up cooked sheep innards; mix in chopped onions, steel cut oats, suet, and spices; stuff it in a sheep’s stomach; and boil the whole thing for a couple of hours, taking care to poke it occasionally to release the steam to prevent it from exploding.
Alasdair nibbled away at his haggis during the description, nodding here and there like the vendor had it exactly right. Now, he asked the vendor for a clean fork. He placed a small bit of the grainy-looking meat on it and held it out to Trisha. “Care to taste it?”
“Do I have to?” She clapped a hand over her mouth as soon as the words were out, afraid she’d insulted the vendor.
The man just chuckled. “Funny, that seems to be the opinion of most people around here. Your friend is the only one to want a full serving. He’s also the only one who’s liked it.”
“Haggis is an acquired taste,” Alasdair said with a grin. He moved the fork a little closer to Trisha. “Come on. You’re not likely to have this opportunity again, at least not here.”
What was the worst that could happen? Tasting it proved haggis actually was as disgusting as it looked? She drew in a fortifying breath. “Okay, but I’m not trying a full bite.”
Alasdair chuckled as she guided his hand a little lower. “That’s fine, lass.”
She closed her eyes, working up her courage, and then she opened them again and took a tiny bit of the haggis into her mouth. The squishy texture and strong, peppery flavor did not appeal to her in the least, but she swallowed anyway.
“Well?” Alasdair raised his eyebrows expectantly.
“You can have your haggis. That’s one taste I won’t be acquiring.”
He laughed, a teasing gleam in his eyes. “I thought you’d feel that way. I just wanted to find out if I could get you to taste it.”
She swatted his shoulder as the vendor laughed. “You owe me, Alasdair.”
“I thought I might.” He took another bite of haggis, then shifted his attention to the vendor. “Speaking of owing, how much do I owe you for this?”
“It’s on the house. Seeing a real Scot enjoy my haggis has made my day.”
“Glad I could help, and thank you. ’Tis a pleasure to find such a good haggis around here.”
Alasdair talked Trisha into trying the neeps and tatties, which were a pleasant relief after the peppery haggis. While he finished the last few bites of his snack, he told the vendor about the excellent haggis at Crombie’s of Edinburgh, and then he and Trisha moved on. She told him a little about the booths they passed, thankful her career as a graphic designer had given her an eye for detail. Describing the festival proved a bit of a challenge at times, but she enjoyed every minute of it.
“So, Trisha,” Alasdair said as they passed a booth filled with jewelry and trinkets, “what did you have in mind when you said I owe you for making you try haggis?”
Her heart raced with the possibilities. Dare she take advantage of the opportunity to spend more time with this ornery, handsome Scot? Given her lack of opportunity to enjoy the company of a man who didn’t look at her with disgust or pity, she dared. “How about something that’s actually edible?”
He laughed, a rich sound that flowed over her like a soothing balm. “Haggis is edible, but I know you’ll never agree with me.”
She decided to take a risk and hope it didn’t backfire. “Well, since we’ll never agree on food, why don’t we meet here tomorrow and enjoy a full day of the Highland games? You can tell me about Scotland, since I’ve told you about what’s here.”
“Now, that is a plan I like.” His smile sent warmth racing through her. “We can wander around here, and you can ask me whatever you want to know about Scotland and Scottish culture.”
“It’s a deal.”
****
The front door opened and Alasdair looked up from the email he was typing to his best mate. A rather pointless movement, since he couldn’t see the door any better than he could see the screen of his laptop, but it was habit from nearly twenty-one years of sighted life.
His cousin’s heavy tread entered the apartment and the door closed. “Dude, quit staring at me. It creeps me out when you do that.”
Which was precisely why Alasdair kept his sightless gaze on Trevor, using the sound of his footsteps to track him across the room. “Did you have fun with Mindy and your friends?”
“Yeah, we met up with Scott and Jenny to catch a movie.” Trevor cleared his throat, giving away his embarrassment. “Look, man, I thought about inviting you along, but I figured you’d have a better time wandering around the Highland games than you would at a movie you couldn’t see.”
Trust Trevor to not understand a blind man could enjoy a film. “Actually, you did me a favor by abandoning me.”
“Oh?” Trevor dropped onto the other end of the couch and, from the sound of it, propped his big feet on the wooden coffee table.
“Ay. If you hadn’t left me alone, I wouldn’t have met the gorgeous woman I spent the afternoon and evening with.”
“You met someone? Awesome!” Trevor’s enthusiasm faded into skepticism. “Wait. How do you know she’s gorgeous? You can’t see.”
“I have my ways.” What Alasdair wouldn’t give to see his cousin’s reaction to that one.
“Oh, man, you didn’t do that weird face feeling thing, did you?”
His cousin might think it weird, but tracing his fingertips across a person’s face was the only way he had to tell what she looked like. He wouldn’t ask someone he’d just met to allow him to look at her, however, which Trevor should realize. “Of course not. But if you heard her voice…’Tis the voice of angel, the most beautiful voice I’ve ever heard. Plus, she’s smart, gentle, kind, and has a great sense of humor. Trust me, she’s gorgeous.”
“She could weigh six hundred pounds and have a face like a bulldog.”
“No, she’s as thin as Mindy”—who had hugged him when he first met her—“and I seriously doubt she’s physically ugly.”
He wasn’t sure at this point if he would care if her face frightened small children, which it didn’t. No one had run screaming all afternoon. But even if she didn’t look like a supermodel, who cared? She’d seen him, Alasdair Buchanan, not a blind man. That was something special, a woman who appeared blind to his lack of sight and who described and guided intuitively, like it was the most normal thing in the world. It was enough to make him want to propose to her on the spot, just to make sure she didn’t get away. A woman who could assist him as necessary without emasculating him was a rare woman indeed.
“Wow,” Trevor said, his voice stunned. “You seriously like this woman.”
“I do. She’s…” So many words and emotions came to mind. He settled on one that felt woefully inadequate, but then they all did. “She’s am
azing.”
“What’s your mom going to think, you falling in love your third day in America?”
Alasdair grabbed the throw pillow by his right elbow and chucked it at his cousin, immensely pleased to hear it hit its target. “I didn’t say anything about being in love. I just met the lass, remember?”
“You didn’t have to say anything. It’s written all over your face.”
Alasdair had a feeling his cousin had mistaken the faint scars from his reconstructive surgery for feelings of love. No one fell in love at first sight. Did they? Especially when the one being accused of that very act couldn’t see a blasted thing.
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