“You can listen and familiarize yourself with the sounds of the river. Our travel will be on the river, and while you cannot see, you will be able to hear the splash of a gator or people’s voices. We will leave before daybreak. It’s not too far, but I want to get there quickly. The camp is a small tributary just off the river.”
“I will do that if you do something more for me. Help me sit up and talk to me. Please. I have lain here in this bed too long. I keep reliving the battle in my head. Having someone to talk to would be nice.”
She found she would like to have company. It had been a while since Grandmère left, and she loved the idea of talking to someone. “We could practice you speaking, too. If someone asks you a question, you cannot use your accent.”
“That makes sense... y’all,” he finished, wearing a broad grin.
Bethany broke into a giggle. “That’s probably perfect. So many southerners down here, it would blend right in. What else do you know?”
He thought a moment. “What’cha talking ’bout?”
Bethany laughed. “Youhavebeen practicing.”
A smile broke out across his tan face, showing perfect white teeth. “I wish I could see you laugh. I love the sound of it,” he said, attempting to smile. “Ah aim to please, missus!”
Bethany giggled. A warm feeling shot through her center, and she struggled with unsteadiness of her own, furtively touching a nearby chair back for stability. The man had a dizzying effect on her. “That’s an excellent imitation of some of the Southern dialects. How did you pick it up?”
“I find the differences in dialects fascinating and listen to the speaker, trying to detect patterns. It helps with languages.”
“Do you know any languages?”
“French was important to know. My governess taught us, and we continued Latin studies at university.”
“That should help you with the Creole language. When I was young, they taught me French. While I learned it well enough to speak fluently, I also understand the Creole similarities. We have a mixture of tongues here. It keeps things interesting.”
She noticed a sheen on his head. “You are sweating. You probably have another fever.” Her hand instantly went to his forehead. It was warm and damp. “I shall make some more tea. It is also a friendly reminder to take it with us. We may need it.” Other than the slight perspiration, he appeared slightly better. “How are you feeling, since standing?”
“I think I will if you help me.” Matthew moved his head toward the bed. “I forgot the cane. The cane will help.” The sheepish look appeared again.
She liked the way it showed off his dimple. “You are used to being in charge, so this will not be easy for you. Think of getting well as the biggest mission you have ever been a part of,” she suggested, handing him the cane.
He stood in front of her, leaning on the cane. “Can I touch your face? I will understand if you would prefer not. I imagine you might want to slap me for even suggesting it. Yet I am longing to know you and I think it is my only way... for now.”
Her breath caught in her throat. She nodded and realized he could not see. “Yes,” she managed.
He leaned on the cane with one hand and moved the other to her face, gently caressing it as his fingertips moved around her face, soothingly touching her chin, her nose, her eyebrows, her hair.
“What color is your hair?” he asked, running his fingers over the tips of her ears and through her hair.
Every touch sent warmth pulsing to the center of her being, a feeling she had never experienced. She silently wished she had a reason to touch him again as his fingers felt her lips, circling them. “Brown with auburn highlights. Grandmère tells me I resemble my mother.”
His hand moved slowly. “Perfectly shaped lips. You are very beautiful. I can almost see your cheekbones and flawlessly shaped nose. You have an oval face, and your skin feels so soft, almost porcelain-like.” His hand left her face as he picked up her hand. “You are a hard worker. Your fingers are long and dainty.”
She almost felt in a stupor. “I have no one to do the chores, and things must be done every day.”
He carefully dropped her hand and went to touch her neck and she drew in a sharp breath. “A long neck. The way your hair rests, just so...” he touched her hair and pulled it away from her face. “You are beautiful—inside. My fingers tell me that you are such on the outside, too. However, I have seen the beauty of your heart.”
“Th... thank you,” she stammered. Her body pulsed with a strange need for his touch. She stepped closer.
His free arm drew her closer. He seemed so at ease with her. At this moment, it was as if they had known each other before, however impossible that was to consider.
“I... would you mind if I touch your face?” she asked. It was as if she was a woman possessed by need.
“Please, I should like you to touch my face.” His response came in a hushed tone.
She cradled his face in her hands, feeling its shape, his skin, and his chin. Closing her eyes, Bethany feathered her fingers along his face, trying to see as he did. His eyebrows felt straight and thick, arched near the end. She knew his eyes to be very expressive, even if he could not see. His face showed emotion. She touched his nose. It felt long, straight, patrician. His cheeks were stubbled with several days’ worth of growth. And his lips were defined. There was a scent of faint sandalwood, sweat, and a curious sweetness—perhaps clove—a unique scent that she could smell when she neared him. She followed the little dip in the upper lip. Bethany moved to his chin, eager to touch his beautiful dimple. Her thumb rubbed it while her other fingers feathered his lips.
Bethany opened her eyes and looked at the man in front of her. What she had done went against every rule her grandmother had taught her. She found herself close enough to a man to know his scent. She should be shaken, ashamed, or at least frightened of her behavior. But she was not. This man was special.
