THE WAR IS OVER
I do not own any of these legendary characters. This is my first GWTW fanfic ever, so please be kind!
"She did what?" Rhett Butler's dark, shrewd, far-too-knowing eyes flickered dangerously to life.
"Scarlett bought the swampland over a month ago," Ashley Wilkes explained. The pale, blonde aristocrat looked sadly at the fine garments he now wore, thanks to Scarlett's generosity. "I helped broker the deal myself. At the time I assumed she would wait till fall to begin the drainage work. But Gallagher has a gang of convicts in there right now – working in a malaria-infested swamp in hundred degree heat. We never used darkies that way, not even before the war. Scarlett doesn't understand . . ."
"Blast that woman!" Rhett threw his cigar into the nearest spittoon, then grabbed his broad-brimmed planter's hat and dashed into the street. The Georgia heat hit him like a wave. Rhett's hard, muscular body was soon soaked with sweat. His temper was steaming by the time he reached the garish, extravagantly ugly mansion he shared with his greedy, selfish, insanely demanding wife.
"Where is she?" He demanded, throwing off his hat and fixing kindly old Uncle Ben with a deadly glare at the door.
"She . . . She . . . She with Mammy upstairs!"
"Scarlett!" Rhett kicked open the door to his wife's bedroom. It was dark and cool inside. But there was a heavy, drugging fragrance in the air, a ripe and musky scent that stirred Rhett's blood.
"Rhett, what do you want? Don't you know its fever season?" Scarlett lifted her head from the pillow, staring at her husband with sleepy violet eyes. One shining black curl fell across her coldly perfect features. "You know how dangerous the fever is. I'll just die if I don't get Mammy to rub me all over with camphor and rosemary oil!"
"You'll die, all right. Maybe sooner than you think. What the devil were you thinking, ordering men to work in this heat?"
Scarlett pouted. "We have to have money, Rhett. Someone has to support this family!"
"That's my job." Rhett shooed Mammy out and shut the door. Then he returned to the bed, his dark eyes glowing.
"Rhett, what are you doing?" Scarlett sat up in bed, her face pale, holding the sheet in place over her naked body.
"What you are doing, sweet wife, is sending word right now to stop work in the swamp until the weather breaks."
"But Rhett, I . . . oh, very well." Scarlett scrawled her signature on a scrap of paper, not even bothering to keep the sheet in place.
"There, that wasn't so hard, was it?" Her husband pocketed the paper with a mysterious little smile.
"You look awfully pleased with yourself," Scarlett muttered. "Why don't you go away now, and let me get back to sleep."
Rhett shook his head. "Why, I can't leave you here alone, unprotected during fever season. You need the rest of that rosemary oil rubbed on at once – and by someone who knows how."
"I suppose it's the least you can do after storming in here like a bully. But Mammy will be shocked." Scarlett rolled over in bed, putting on a worn and weary air, as if she were a pure maiden being forced to endure a pawing brute.
"Mammy has more important things to do than fuss over you, dear wife." Rhett was already stroking the fragrant oil deep into Scarlett's soft skin.
"Mm." Scarlett felt like arguing. But it was hard to think straight. Rhett's touch got her all mixed up. "Mammy's been looking after me since I was a little girl," she said at last.
"Don't you think she might like some time off? After all, the war is over."
"The war is over." Scarlett didn't really feel that way. For her the war was never over. But for the moment, she was too busy enjoying the feel of Rhett's strong hands on her body.