AN: Hi again, lovely friends and readers! It may seem impossible to have gotten so stuck on a story whose source material is right there, but stuck, I was. Plus, life. Too hectic by half, am I right? Why is this not my full-time job?
I'm hoping to get back to some kind of schedule, but I've read enough author notes to know you shouldn't ever even mention a schedule. (At least I won't say what i hope mine is, and then you can never know if I'm off it! Mwahaha.) Thank you so much for reading, especially if you review. Your kind words really do keep me going, even when it may not seem like that from my output. :) Please enjoy the next installment!
Chapter 10
Away from prying eyes, Rhett had changed into his pajamas, lit a cigar, and climbed into bed, fluffing the covers as he liked while he did so. All in an altogether surprising silence. An uneasy silence?
"Still with me, brat?"
He had enjoyed sparring with the flower ever since she'd stepped inside the cabin. She was a pretty little thing when she was flustered or angry—fortunately for Rhett, she was frequently one or the other with him. What was a spirited girl like her doing with a too large mouthful of Dead Sea fruit like Wilkes? He'd get quite a story out of her, that was sure. And given her penchant for flusteriness, he might get more story out of her than she intended to give. Never one to overly concern himself with exactly why he got his information, he looked forward to learning a little more than she'd have liked.
He smiled to himself, as his cigar made an orange arc in the air above his bed. So she'd noticed his face. That was always helpful, too, and he wouldn't scruple not to use it.
Most of these society ladies had all the fire either bred or cotillioned right out of them. Never let you see how they really felt or thought about anything—it was charitable enough simply to assume that they did have thoughts and emotions. Most of the time you were hard-pressed to glean that they felt or thought anything at all behind their polished façades. Not his flower, though, and he chuckled quietly to himself, thinking of her conversation with Shapeley.
He had begun to think she wouldn't answer, when her light, clear voice, snapping with irritation, carried easily over the flimsy fabric wall.
"Where else could I possibly be?" He could hear the soft rustle of clothing, and grinned broadly. Ah, flusteriness, his old friend.
He stubbed out his cigar, and folded his hands behind his head. "Indeed, Miss O'Hara. Where would you be, without me?"
He didn't have to see her to imagine the square of her jaw sticking out mutinously right about now—not just from his rejoinder but because it was true. She owed him, and she didn't like it. Stubborn as a mule, that one, he mused, and he smiled again.
"That's Mrs. Wilkes, if you please," she said, sharply.
Rhett rolled his eyes, and snorted to himself. He was fairly certain he would never call her that. "Begging your pardon, my lady. Now get some rest. You've got nothing to worry about. The Walls of Jericho will protect you from the big bad wolf."
More silence. He began to whistle, just loudly enough to compete with the rain outside.
Who's afraid of the big, bad wolf?
The big, bad wolf? The big, bad wolf?
She's afraid of the big, bad wolf.
Tra-la-la-la-la
He heard her clothes rustle again, more quickly and more loudly now, and wondered anew at her ability to convey fury while undressing herself.
"Do you mind putting out the light?" she asked, a honeyed attempt at being polite, not successful enough to overcome her clipped tones.
"Not at all," he replied, smoothly, levering up from the bed to douse the lamp, before lying back down.
Moonlight streamed into the room, the old, worn curtains attempting, but failing mightily, to keep it out.
Rhett lay in bed, his eyes resting contemplatively on the blanket. The room was not large, and the flower's smallest movements bumped against it gently. An elbow here. An altogether more interesting joint a bit lower there.
A flash of white within the cabin was almost mistaken for a bolt of lightning outside. Rhett cocked an eyebrow upon realizing it was her chemise, thrown over the top of the 'wall.' Another charming garment followed soon after. Unable to resist the temptation to needle her once more, he calmly asked, "Do you mind taking those things off the Walls of Jericho?"
"Oh!" she cried, whipping the clothes back over. "Excuse me." He could practically hear her blush.
A few more moments passed in rainy silence. He heard her bedsprings creak lightly. More rain. She sat up suddenly—the bedsprings gave another creak, and the covers shoved down.
"By the way, what's your name?"
So intent on his surroundings, her words didn't register at first. He wrinkled his brow, turning his head toward her. "What's that?"
"Who are you?" she asked, more impatiently.
"Who, me?" he smirked. "Why, my dear, I am the whippoorwill that cries in the night. I'm the soft morning breeze that caresses your lovely fac—"
"You've got a name, haven't you?" she cut him off, her voice sparkling with irritation, and a dash—he thought—of amusement.
"Yeah, I've got a name," he admitted, his voice growing quiet again. "Rhett Butler."
"Rhett Butler…" the flower said, feeling the name in her mouth. It sounded kind of nice, the way— "I don't like it," she finished, flopping back down to her pillow.
Rhett grinned. "Don't let it bother you. You're giving it back to me in the morning."
The rain continued to fall in a soft curtain outside. After another moment, she spoke again. "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Butler."
"The pleasure is all mine," he returned, politely. "Mrs. Butler."
~nb~
Gerald O'Hara looked glumly out the window, watching neat, crisscrossing patches of land flow by underneath. Facing him sat his attorney, Charles Hamilton (no relation to Henry Hamilton; see Chapter 6). Breakfast plates shoved to one side, they had maps and notes scattered all over the table surface. The co-pilot opened the cockpit door, and handed a piece of paper to Charles. "Another message for you, sir." he called over the engine noise.
Gerald's attention snapped back to his associate. "Well, what is it, what is it, what is it?" he asked, drumming his fingers on the desk, his impatience fizzing over at all delay.
"It's from Charleston, Mr. O'Hara," Charles read. "Checking every northbound train. Also assigned twenty operatives to watch main highways. No sign of your daughter yet. Will continue to do everything possible. Signed, Lovington Detective Agency, Charleston," he finished.
"Bagh!" Gerald answered grumpily. "Just the same as all the others," he gestured to the stack of wires spread across the table. Reports from every state along the East Coast, and nothing! "Amateurs," he muttered.
"They're the finest detective agency in the country, sir." Charles offered.
"That is why I hired them, lad," Gerald retorted. "But the best obviously isn't good enough for my Katie Scarlett." Charles privately agreed with the logic of this conclusion. The boss' daughter was quite a girl, and Charles admired her nearly as much as he feared her. Feeling his face tingle in blush, he cleared his throat and redirected his attention to needlessly organizing the stack of wires in front of him. Looking back up, he watched Gerald, who puffed on his pipe, moodily, then punched the button for the speaker into the cockpit.
"Yes, sir?" the voice crackled through the box.
"I thought I gave orders that I was in a hurry to get to New York. What are we crawling for?"
Accustomed to such temper and such orders, the pilot responded with resignation and equanimity. "We've got her wide open, sir."
"Well, step on it!" Mr. O'Hara bellowed, and jabbed the button again.
"I hope she's all right, sir," Charles said, noting the worry lines creasing the older man's forehead.
Gerald's head swung back to him, and Charles gulped. "Of course she's all right! What do you think can happen?"
"N- nothing, sir!" he answered, wishing he hadn't spoken at all.
"Then shut up about it!" Gerald harrumphed, crossing his arms and turning back to the window, his face regathering in uneasy lines. He sighed. Oh, Mrs. O'Hara, he intoned silently, it's a real favor you'd be doing me if you might intervene a bit. He had to find Scarlett soon. So many people were looking for her, they'd probably bump into her by accident at this point. Of course she was all right. But all the same, he'd feel better when he could just rest his eyes on her again and know.