Scarlett knew just where to place the blame.
She might’ve been recognized by fifty percent of the people on the shuttle, approached for autographs by half that number but only one knew where she’d requested they be dropped.
The flash of cameras began even before the bus came to a full stop. Laird helped her to her feet—and she did need help now. After roughly two hours on the slow moving bus, her contractions were less than five minutes apart. The pain intensified to the point she’d been unable to disguise her labor for the past half hour. Every person on the bus knew what was happening by this point, and some were nice enough to assist during her slow shuffle down the narrow aisle behind Rhys, Emmy, and Connor carrying Hermione.
“Just breathe through, sweetie,” one kindly English lady of about fifty murmured, holding Scarlett’s arm when the pain gripped her, radiating around her stomach and across her back. The woman rubbed Scarlett’s hand between hers. “That’s it, luv, deep breaths.”
“Thank you,” Scarlett whispered, sweat beading on her upper lip.
“Got five of my own. You’ll do fine.”
A disbelieving laugh forced its way out. “Yeah, right.”
“Well, if you can make it into the hospital,” the lady amended. “I’d recommend making a run for it.”
They might have to.
Behind her in the aisle and as big as he was, Laird couldn’t do much to help Scarlett to the front, but once they got there, he paused. Glaring down at the bus driver with all the fury a man—one who’d just traveled at the speed of seventy kilometers per hour for the first time and was feeling a bit queasy for it—could muster. Still, his scowl was enough to send the driver cringing against the side of the bus, his hands up in supplication when Laird gripped the hilt of his sword.
“If I had the time to spare, little mon, ye’d be holding yer heart in yer hands at this moment.” Promise filled Laird’s rasping words. His eyes were shards of ice. “Pray we ne’er cross paths again or ye will plead for my mercy.”
“I-I-I’m sorry. Really!”
Scarlett huffed out a dry laugh at the apology. They were always sorry. In the moment. She almost wished Laird could run him through for betraying their destination after swearing not to.
Rhys was waiting at the door to help her down the steps and the moment she emerged, the amassed crowd went wild. The screams threw the others for a bigger loop than the fast-paced drive north, passing cars, and modern city had thus far.
For a split second, all any of them—including Emmy—could do was gawk back at the gawkers. But not even Scarlett was used to the strobe-like flashes any longer. The fanatical crowd pressed forward, and they all took a collective step backward. The lady on the bus had been on point. They’d have to run for it.
“What madness is this?” Laird bit out harshly. The scenic countryside views of the past couple of hours had in no way prepared him, or any of them for this. He clutched Scarlett’s hand. For her benefit or his, she wasn’t sure.
“Hell, ye said?” Rhys shouted over the din to her. “This is a bluidy nightmare in comparison.”
Then the shouted interrogation commenced. Why she was there? Who were the people with her? What were they wearing? The reaction to her appearance was worse than Scarlett had imagined. Emmy had been accurate in her prediction of a circus.
Laird drew Scarlett close to his left side, keeping his right hand on the hilt of his sword. She could hear his harsh breathing, his pounding heart rejecting the madness they were faced with. Not just the zealous mob, but also the alien world he’d been plunged into. Unwitting drivers trying to reach the emergency department doors honked madly, sirens rang out.
Hermione whimpered as the crowd surged in, microphones thrust forward to catch any sound bite. Connor handed her to Emmy and helped Rhys push back the mob, creating a path for Scarlett and Laird. As much as she was thankful they were all here to help, the scene saddened her.
What a sorry introduction to the future world for all of them. Seeing the worst of humanity, the ugliness of society. A pitiful first impression for them, and an appalling re-introduction for her.
An oppressive sense of doom left her weak at the knees. Not only that she’d made a dreadful mistake in returning here, but that the worst was yet to come.
Her name was screamed over and over in attempts to attract her attention for a better picture, but Scarlett kept her head down. Then chaos ensued. The reporters pushed and shoved one another, eager for a clear camera angle. Jockeying for a position closer to her as she moved through them at a snail’s pace. They’d never make it inside at this rate.
“What bluidy madness,” Rhys yelled, then elbowed a cameraman out of the way when he surged from the crowd. A camera fell to the ground with a loud crack. “Back ye bluidy beasts! Back, I say!”
The cameraman crouched over his broken equipment and cursed, rude and eloquently. Rhys’s face turned as red as his hair. Likely as a noble courtier, he’d never heard such expletives, but his shock didn’t stop him from responding with colorful flair.
A hand shot out, reaching for Scarlett, snagging her hair. “Is it real? Oi, is it real?”
Scarlett cringed, curling against Laird. Another contraction clawed at her belly and she bowed over, one hand beneath the bulge as if she might hold the baby in just a little longer. Her knees gave way in truth and she stumbled, a cry of pain escaping her before she could stifle
