Okay, this is chapter 2 in this particular story which I wrote on the plane over from London to the US last night. Anonymous – sorry if you thought that I thought that Rhett thought that something had happened at the mill between her and Ashley. I obviously wasn't clear in my story. No – I know Rhett knew that Scarlett was never technically unfaithful to him. I guess, something made him snap that day – perhaps because she had been so stupid to get caught and he was worried that his carefully laid plans with regard to Bonnie were about to be ruined.

Thanks everyone for reading and reviewing. Coco – have to give you credit for making me think more closely as to why Rhett enlisted. Lawdy – thanks for pointing out my error with regard to the time period between this night occurring and Scarlett kicking him out of the room. Alison – sorry, this is another very much "Rhett" chapter!

Miss Dixie Cross – if you are still out there – this is dedicated to you. I am so sorry that you have left the fandom, especially when your last story was unfinished.

Chapter 2

He stared at her, completely unable to move. Even in the dark, he could see her emerald eyes boring into him, freezing him, cauterising his movement. He swallowed hard as a thousand thoughts rushed through his head. How had she managed to wake up? She had looked so…so…peaceful when he had left her side a few moments ago and he had been as silent as a church mouse. She locked eyes with him but he didn't blink, in case doing so might waken her from her trance. For surely, she wasn't really awake. Or he wasn't awake and he was still dreaming. Yes, he must be dreaming. This whole night must be a dream. But then he heard the methodical tick-tock of her carriage clock. Tick-tock, tick-tock and then the sound of an owl. This wasn't a dream.

She yawned and stretched languidly along the bed, her modesty protected by the cream satin sheet that she was tangled up in. She was definitely awake. Damn, he mouthed silently. Damn. In all the years he had enjoyed women's company, this had never happened to him before. He had learnt long ago that it was much easier to leave in the dead of night, when the woman was asleep, rather than face the awkwardness in the morning, when there was nothing really to be said, only a few promises to be made that were never going to be kept. Belle had been the exception and Giselle, his Parisian whore. And before them, Lucy, his English aristocratic mistress, who had taken him into her home as a young, floundering twenty year old for one night – which had turned into three months – right under the nose of her husband.

He looked across the room to where she lay and then his eyes wandered back to the door. He could hear his own breathing and was thankful he was a good few feet away from her so she would be deaf to its increasing rapidity. Then he turned his attention back to the task at hand. He needed to leave this den and get to Belle's refuge. Quickly. He didn't want to get caught up with his wife, trying to justify his shameful actions. Or even worse, get caught up in her web again. God, she was beautiful, he thought in agony, as he took in the outline of her body, not entirely able to determine where her alabaster skin ended and the sheets began. But he had to resist the urge to move closer towards her. If he took even one step in her direction, he wasn't entirely sure he would be able to stop himself from taking her again.

"What are you doing?" she repeated, her voice husky with sleep.

"I'm…just going…downstairs," he stuttered, hoping that she was too fatigued to notice the hesitancy in his voice. She started to sit up, dragging the sheets up above her pert breasts. She was so sensual, but so unaware of it. Despite all her flirtatious talk and coquettish ways, she was almost virginal. She might have faced Sherman's army alone, fought off intruders and potential rapists at Tara, been married to a deviant like him for four years but she still retained a beguiling naiveté.

She yawned again and then the faint smile that had been present on her face disappeared, and he saw her eyes widen – as if she was remembering all that they had done last night. Was she blushing? It was too dark to tell and instead his eyes focussed on her hands wrapped round the bed sheets. She tightened her grip. He knew she was naked underneath those sheets and the thought made him…

"Are…are…you coming back to…" she said softly, leaving the sentence hanging. If it had been any other woman, he would have thought she was trying to seduce him.

"I'm just going downstairs to the kitchen," he said, adopting the same business like tone she often used when she was ordering around the servants. And then he inwardly groaned. What a completely inept response! Why would he be going to the kitchen at almost three o'clock in the morning? Why was she turning him into an ineloquent, blundering idiot? But it would buy him some time. If he went to the kitchen, he could think about what he should do and concoct some sort of plan. And it would give him time to try and rationalise his actions – and conjure up an explanation for her.

"To the kitchen?"

He swallowed hard, thankful for the distance between them. Thankful that she couldn't see his eyes. Just in case she had miraculously developed the power in the last few hours to read them. Read him. "Yes. I need a drink. Of water." Another lie. He really needed another whisky. The liquor from earlier in the evening had worn off and he wanted to regain his previously numb state.

"I…I…well, I have a pitcher of water here, Rhett," she said and she reached towards her bedside table on which a large porcelain jug stood and fumbled for the adjacent glass. Damn, he thought again. I should have thought of a better...

"It's not cold though," he said quickly. "I want something cold." Which wasn't untrue. He needed to get away from the heat. Her heat. And the stickiness that seemed to be pervading the room, that he could feel on his body, as well as the beads of sweat tricking down his legs.

She looked at him intently, as though she was trying to understand him, and this time he was sure he saw her blush. She seemed to colour right from her beautiful, bewitching cheekbones to where her raven hairline started and when he returned her stare she averted her eyes, as though she was embarrassed. But perhaps she was only playing the role of the ingénue. Perhaps this was all part of her ploy.

Finally, she asked, "Would you…erm…bring me up a glass of cold water too?" Did he detect an element of uncertainty in her voice? He had always been able to understand her so well but now he was doubting his own powers. What was she really thinking? At any moment now, he was sure she was going to throw her head back and laugh and laud his declarations over him. God, what a fool he had been! He alone was responsible for the situation he now found himself in and not for the first time in the last ten hours, he lamented the amount of whisky he had drunk. It hadn't even been that good.

He didn't answer and she snuggled back under the covers. "If…that is… you don't mind."

"Certainly," he replied. He had to keep his answers short, to the point. In case she heard the shakiness in his voice. He had always managed to wear his nonchalant mask so well over the years but now he was fully aware that it was precariously close to slipping. What he really wanted to do was rush over to her bedside and shower her with kisses and breathe in her unique scent that he could never get enough of and caress her and stroke her soft skin again and…Stop it. He told himself. Focus. Think clearly.

"I'll be back up shortly," he said.

He groped for the door and as his hands tried and failed to turn the knob he realised he was trembling. Then, with a concerted effort, he opened the door and walked out of her room. Walked away from her. Walked away from the sorceress that had put a spell on him ten years ago.

As soon as he was safely on the landing, away from her prying eyes, he expelled a large mouthful of air. He could breathe again and he ran his hands up and down his trousers, vainly trying to remove their clamminess. Then, he descended the staircase which, only a couple of hours ago, he had raced up, two at a time, carrying his prize, his bride. On reaching the bottom, he realised he was standing in the exact spot he had committed his first crime against her. God, she had tasted so good, he thought as he remembered bending her body backwards and prying her lips open with his own. It had been over two years since he had kissed her properly and over two years since she had been kissed properly. Even if she had buckled and kissed Ashley – and he strongly doubted it - it would not have been like kissing him. She was born to be kissed and by someone who knew how – and that someone was certainly not the insipid Wilkes who didn't even have the backbone to take what he really wanted from her.

He walked past the dining room and as he did so, he thought about the numerous times they had eaten together in that room, in semi-civility, when he had had to bury his carnal thoughts and listen to her prattle on her about her business, or the children or that Clayton County white elephant, when what he had really wanted to do was ravish her, take her upstairs and force his way back into her bed. As he had tonight. Frankly, it was a miracle he hadn't snapped earlier. He should have been given a medal for putting up with her and her unreasonable demands for celibacy. Especially when she looked as she did, when she swayed her hips, tossed her hair as she did.

He walked towards the kitchen - a room he rarely entered but which was one of the largest in the house. He pushed the door open and made his way over to the sink. Then, he turned on the tap and let the stale water rush through the pipes. The gushing sound soothed his head and it helped him collect his thoughts. Perhaps he should just continue walking. Out of the house. And never come back. He could just slip on the boots that lay at the back door and walk the couple of miles or so to the station. He could disappear and never have to face her again. But he would have to take Bonnie and besides, trying to escape was futile. Sooner or later, he would need to see her, smell her, touch her – even if it was the touch of a cool, indifferent stranger. He could never really leave her, however much he might pretend otherwise. Even in twenty years' time, when Bonnie would most likely be married and he would be over sixty, he knew he could never properly leave her. She would always drag him back. She had cast her net all those years ago at Twelve Oaks and he had yet to find a hole in it, however much he had tried. However much he wanted to be rid of her.

After a while, he bent over the earthenware sink and splashed his face with water a couple of times. Then, he found a glass and filled it up from the tap before draining its contents. He repeated the action again. And again. Although he really wanted to maintain his semi-inebriated state, it would be safer to try and remain sober. At least until he had decided what to do and say.

Finally, he filled up two glasses and started back up to her bedroom, all the while his mind filling with what he had done to her last night. Had he ever behaved before like that? Yes, he had been slightly rough with women but his roughness had been borne out of desire, not love, hatred, hurt, and all the other myriad of emotions he had experienced since Archie stopped him on the street, less than twelve hours ago. He shivered slightly at the memory. He had had many women in his life – all but a few he had barely cared for, none he had loved – and he could have had a number of women last night. But they wouldn't have satisfied him. He had only wanted one woman last night and as a result, he had finally ejected himself from the limbo she had placed him in - ever since she had deigned – and dared – to kick him out of their bedroom.

As he reached the top step, he remembered how her body had moulded to his, how she had pulled his face to his, as though some fire in her had been lit, and suddenly he wondered why he hadn't fought harder for her before. Why had he so easily submitted to her edict and given up on her? Her. His damned wife. A woman he had been to hell and back for, even before he married her. Wasn't she the real reason behind him enlisting? Wasn't she the real reason he had risked his life for a cause he didn't believe in, when he knew his side would be licked– so that she could be proud of him, so that he could prove to her Robillard mother and her rather endearing old Mick of a father that he was indeed a man worthy of the hand of their eldest daughter? Wasn't it all because he had loved her so much?

He stood still at the top of the crimson staircase and cast his eyes down the hallway and then back at the two glasses of water that he gripped in his hands and once again the thought of fleeing entered his head. He was poised on a threshold. He could either run to Belle's or walk into the room of the woman that he really wanted to be with and risk taking another sip from her poisoned chalice.

He sighed and continued the journey to her bedroom. Putting the two glasses in one hand, he reached for the door knob. For a moment, he wondered if she might have locked it – just as she had threatened to. Had she ever carried out her threat to lock it? He had never checked.

He turned the door knob and it creaked open. He walked in, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness and then he scanned the bed. It was empty and for a few seconds, he thought she had disappeared. But then he saw her by her vanity, her hairbrush in hand, still naked. She turned to see who the intruder was, and let out a small gasp before rushing for the safety of the bed and satin covers. "Sorry Rhett…I was just…" but she didn't finish her sentence and he didn't try and tease it out of her either. He had more important things on his mind than trying to belittle her.

He walked over to her bedside, his eyes drinking in her form, his heart thumping. The sound of gunfire had never sounded as loud as his heart did now. How had he fallen so in love with her? When had it happened? But he knew when it had been. He had always thought that love, when it happened – if it happened – would creep up on him but he had been wrong. He had been struck by the proverbial thunderbolt that humid, steamy day in April when he had accompanied Frank Kennedy to the Twelve Oaks barbeque. As he had first laid eyes on her, he felt something he had never felt before. She was so confident, so precocious, so innocent that it was irrelevant that there were other, more beautiful women in the world. And when he found out her heritage – from a whispered conversation with a rather drunk Mr Tarleton – found that she was descended from the great, famed Robillards and then when she swore during a lover's tiff, he knew he had finally met someone who might cause him to break his rule that he would never marry. He had just never figured it would be so hard to get her.

"Here you are," he said, his voice even, unemotional, as he handed her the glass of water. She took it gratefully and gulped it down.

"Thank you," she murmured. As she turned to place the glass on her bedside he saw a subtle streak of reddish pink on one of her cheeks. How had that not come off during their earlier exertions? And then he glanced over to her vanity again and saw her pot of her rouge opened, lid on the side. What on earth had she been doing whilst he had been downstairs?

"Rhett…?" she whispered.

He looked down at her. How temptingly she lay he thought as her lemon verbena scent wafted over him.

"Yes, Scarlett?" His heart started beating faster. She didn't say anything but instead pushed herself up with her hands so that she was sitting upright against the pillows and as she met his gaze, she shuffled her body underneath the satin so that she was kneeling on the bed, her modesty still just about protected, except for one breast that she had unwittingly uncovered.

"I…I…" she stammered but she didn't manage to enunciate anything else because suddenly he had clamped his lips down hungrily on hers. For a moment, she was startled but then she started kissing him back, hard, insistently, her tongue touching his.

He pushed her back onto the bed and fell on top of her, damning the fact he was fully clothed because he wanted her again. Now. Quickly. Before she changed her mind and before he listened to the warning signal in his head, reminding him that he was falling into a trap. She fumbled at the buttons on his trousers, seemingly unaware that her breasts were exposed. He flipped her over and then flipped her over again as he tried to shed his garments. How was this happening? Wasn't she meant to be laughing at him or was that going to come later?

"I love you Scarlett," he whispered, too softly for her to her. "I've always loved you," he mouthed silently when they were both on top of the sheets, naked, before he allowed his hands to roam the length of her body, towards her secret, hidden place which was already ready for him. He kissed her hard again and again and she wasn't fighting him as she had done earlier, but was responding in a way she had never done before. Dear God, he thought, why was she acting like this tonight? Was it her trying to assuage her Catholic guilt for her earlier adulterous behaviour?

Afterwards, he lay awake and even though her eyelids were closed, he wasn't entirely sure she was sleeping because her body hadn't jerked in the way it did, just before sleep claimed her. Or at least how he had remembered it had. It had been so long since they had shared a bed that perhaps he was misremembering. Once again, he tried to think what he should do. An hour ago, it had been different. He had been so worried that he had forced her that he had wanted to leave. He had felt he had no option to leave. But now, now…could it be possible she had wanted him, as much as he had wanted her? He shook the thought from his mind. No. She was still in love with Ashley. The events of yesterday had proven that.

So, for the second time in the night, he slowly moved his body away from hers, hoping that she wasn't feigning sleep. He reached down by the bed for his discarded shirt. He would slip that on and then he would leave, run to his room. He could get dressed properly there and then go to Belle's. But as he tried to slide across the bed, away from her, he felt an arm fall proprietarily across his chest, trapping him. "Rhett…please…" Even though she spoke quietly, her voice wasn't scratchy from sleep. She was properly awake. He looked back at her and met wide, innocent, pleading eyes. "Please…" She cleared her throat. "I mean…you don't have to go back to your…erm…room." What was she saying? "Not if…you don't want to."

"I'm going to go back to my room, Scarlett," he said and he was surprised how cool he sounded. There was no way she was going to make a fool of him. He removed her arm, slipped out of bed and put his shirt on and, as she was awake, he began to put the rest of his clothes on. Then suddenly, she rolled over to his side of the bed (which had actually been hers, when they had shared this room) and as he turned round, she was standing next to him, wrapped in the sheet. "Go back to sleep, Scarlett."

"No," she said. "Rhett…why…why…are you doing this?" and he thought there was a flicker of urgency in her question.

"Doing what?" he muttered, his heart pounding, willing her to say something, though he wasn't entirely sure what.

"Leaving…"

"This isn't my room any more. Remember?" And he couldn't help the edge of bitterness that crept into his voice.

"No…but…I…mean…well…" He looked at her, trying to figure out what she was about to say. He could almost see her nakedness through the sheet and it stirred something in him. Again. Surely he had had his fill of her tonight?

"I guess I should apologise for my behaviour. You see, I was quite drunk and I was…erm…quite swept off by your charms." Which was half the truth. He would never tell her how much she had hurt him yesterday, even though he knew she hadn't been technically unfaithful. Even though he, the wronged husband, knew that the salacious gossip that was spreading like wildfire was actually, technically incorrect.

"But…I…" she faltered again and he looked into those eyes, that he had swum in many times, several times almost drowning before he remembered what a heartless bitch she was. He wasn't going to lose control again.

"But what?" he said coldly.

"Nothing…" she said and she turned away and sat down on the bed, whilst he finished dressing. He picked up his shoes. He'd put them on when he was safely out of her haven.

"Well, I guess I'll see you in the morning," he said and as he glanced at her, he thought he saw her eyes glisten with something. Tiredness probably.

Then, a lone, fat tear, trickled down her cheek. She brought her hand up to wipe it away before she flung herself back onto the bed, grabbing a pillow.

"You're a cad," she muttered. "The worst kind of cad. You just…used….me…" He had taken a couple of steps towards the door but even though her words were muffled he heard them.

There was a semblance of truth in what she accused him of. He had used her but didn't he have a right to use her in that way? Then he felt the familiar anger rise inside of him. Angry that she could be so stupid and not see how right they were together. Angry that she was willing to risk a divorce just so that she could hold on to some ridiculous, romantic notion of her and Ashley. As he thought of that man, his choler increased. How could they have been so stupid to get caught in such a compromising position and risk both their reputations, and the futures of their children? Yes, there had been rumours for years but no one had actually had any evidence. Until yesterday.

"And you've used me," he retorted. "It's about time we evened the score." He stood looking at her from a few feet away. He couldn't see her face because it was buried in the pillow. Her body spasmed a couple of times. Was she crying? Oh God, he hadn't meant to make her cry! How he wanted to go over and scoop her small body up in his arms and caress her and hold her and tell her what he really felt. And then he remembered how manipulative she was. No doubt this was all part of her game. If she had heard his declarations of love, he wasn't about to repeat them again. They would be buried forever, with all the other feelings he had felt for her over the years.

He walked tentatively over to the door, not daring to look over his shoulder. Suddenly he heard quick footsteps behind him. He turned round and she was standing right beside him, still wrapped in the sheet. And even though her hair was dishevelled and her rouge had streaked and her eyes were teary and slightly red, she looked like a goddess. His goddess.

"Yes?" he said, raising his eyebrows in the way that he knew always irked her.

"If…if…you leave this room…" Was she about to give him an ultimatum? It didn't look like she was playing a game. She looked earnest, distressed. Was she about to plead with him to stay? But he needed to hear something from her. He wasn't about to guess what words might come out of her mouth.

"What?" he said, slightly breathless, slightly choked. She didn't say anything. "What?" he asked, trying to sound gentle.

"You…you can't leave," she whispered.

"Why…why…not?"

"Because…" What was she going to say? He felt sick, nauseous.

"Because, what?" he coaxed.

"Because you said you love me."

Let me know what you think. And no, the owl reference was not a reference to Ondine's owl.