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Chapter 4

For the first time since she had dived off Gerald's yacht, Scarlett truly felt scared. The thrill of freedom was getting tarnished with responsibility, and she was not sure what she would do. She still had her ticket, and thank heavens for that. She could stay on the bus that would bring her back to Ashley, and she would be safe again. But how long would it take to get to New York? Was four dollars enough for meals the whole way? She didn't know how much things cost. She… she could go hungry, she supposed. She hated being hungry. If only she hadn't already been on a hunger strike when she got away! She had eaten a little in the bus station, waiting and hiding, but the delighted independence and worried nerves over being found out had produced a stomach too excited to eat much.

Now her bag was gone, and Impudent was being nice to her, and it was all too much. She just had to get to New York. If she could only be with Ashley again, she wouldn't have a care in the world. She wondered why that man was trying to be nice to her. Men only wanted one thing from girls, Ellen had always said. The problem was, Ellen had never really explained what that one thing was. However nice the man was being over her bag, there was still the possibility that he would want to take liberties with her. He certainly looked like the kind of man who liked to take liberties with women. Or maybe he wanted something else entirely. What if he was, after all, a spy? Were goons usually so handso— tall? She preferred to think of them as short and bow-legged.

Whether it stemmed from true concern or reconnaissance, she couldn't have him asking her more questions. She found herself wanting to unburden her whole story to him; his broad shoulders were so capab— wide. No, she couldn't risk it, she couldn't get too comfortable with anyone.

She had also been unpardonably rude to him just now, although it had felt quite satisfying to take him down all six pegs. Except that she now seemed indebted to him again, anyway. Even if he hadn't managed to return her bag.

As she walked down the aisle to her seat, she glanced up. He was looking at her, and he didn't seem pleased. She wasn't scared—wasn't scared of anyone, certainly not some smooth-talking stranger with sparkling eyes who was both ill-mannered and thoughtful. But that didn't mean she had to sit next to him. She turned and sat in the nearest available seat, and tried to get comfortable for the long night of travel ahead.

~~~nb~~~

She dozed fitfully. The man sitting next to her could have taken up both seats by himself. And now that he was sleeping, he kept leaning more and more onto her. She shoved at his form, but the more she pushed, the heavier he seemed to rest against her. She twisted around, hoping to find another empty seat. But luck remained steadfastly faithless as ever, because the only empty space on the whole bus was next to her fr— that man.

Pride kept her smushed into her seat for several more minutes, until the need to be comfortable—that, and the ability to breathe—finally won out. She squeezed out from under the slumbering lump next to-slash-on her, and made her way to the back with quick steps. By some miracle, he was at least sleeping. Just because she was sitting next to him didn't mean she wanted to talk to him. His hand was on the seat, and she had to pick it up as she moved to sit down. His hand was large, the skin tanned and slightly calloused. The hand of a man who had been in the world. He felt so… alive, and she blushed at such a foolish thought. Well, of course he felt alive. What was she expecting? Still, it wasn't everyone you encountered who seemed to have a current running through his very skin. She must be very tired, indeed, for what was she going on about? Ashley's hands felt the same, she was sure. If she could just get to New York…

She leaned against the slight wall at her left and sighed. Luck chose that moment to abandon her, yet again, because the man stirred in his seat, blinking several times at her confusedly. She stared right back, refusing to be cowed. Indeed, why shouldn't she sit anywhere she desired? She felt a blush tingle in her cheeks, but did not look away. His eyes drifted shut again, and she felt herself relax. He was, after all, only a man, and she knew how to handle men.

~~~nb~~~

Rhett drowsed, in and out of sleep, for an hour or so. Whenever his eyes opened, they were drawn inexorably, like a damned honing beacon, to where the flower was sitting. She was only a few seats ahead, right in his line of sight, really. He simply couldn't help that he saw her so easily from where he was. It had nothing at all to do with her interesting face, or insufferable demeanor. But, as he was helpless to avoid seeing her anyway, he reasoned to himself that it was not his fault if he continued to watch.

The flower was uncomfortable. The marshmallow she was sitting next to was alarmingly unaffected by the bus jostling over rough roads. He watched her try to push him off, but he only slept on, leaning more and more against her. She twisted around in her seat, and he quickly shut his eyes. He knew where the only empty seat on the bus was, and exactly what mental struggle she must be going through at the moment. He dared a peek and saw that she was sitting forward again. Choosing pride over comfort… it was an interesting development, and one he did not quite expect. She had struck him as a creature who, above all, valued comfort.

He liked being surprised by people. Especially very pampered ones. It did not happen very often.

His eyes drifted shut again, but a movement disrupted him. She was getting out of her seat, after all. He smiled, and eased his left hand onto the seat she was about to occupy, then pretended to be asleep. He couldn't resist watching her walk down the aisle, his eyes the narrowest of slits. Her hips swayed enticingly with each step. He wondered if she even knew she did it anymore, or if that particular charm was subconscious now. Not that it affected him in any way, of course. He relaxed his eyelids, his whole face, as she neared thei— his seat.

He felt a soft hand under his wrist, a warm thumb slipping into his palm as the flower picked up his hand and placed it in his lap. He almost startled "awake" at the contact, expected though it was. Her touch was gentle but purposeful, and she felt so… alive. Foolish thought, he chided himself. Except that for all the society belles he'd met, none of them had ever felt so electric. They were much more likely to have cold dead fish hands, and the flower was no cold dead fish.

He allowed himself to concentrate on the lingering sensation where her fingertips still sparkled on his skin—a simple matter of chemistry, of course—and time for her to make herself comfortable. Then, biting back a grin, he slowly opened his eyes and blinked confusedly at her. Twice. To her credit, she did not lower her gaze, barely even blushed, this time. But he was in no mood to give her credit—spoiled little thing that she was, insulting his honor (certainly, it was tarnished, but she didn't know that), not thanking him, and then not even having the grace to look embarrassed at taking his seat.

He shrugged off the thought. If they were going to be quasi-companions, perhaps he could tease her in the morning. Find out a little about this mad dash of hers. All in good time…