Disclaimer: I own nothing of GWTW, sadly.
And there is some definite maturish steam in the first chapter. I may upgrade the rating later.
As she watched him through the veil of her lashes he turned her hand over, palm up, to kiss it too, and gently pressed his lips onto the delicate skin of her wrist, which peeked out between her sleeve and her glove.
"A glooming peace this morning with it brings," he muttered, and his head still bowed, he picked up her other hand and kissed the exposed sliver of wrist.
Mystified, Scarlett dared not open her mouth. Her heart beat with triumph, trembling through her veins, and she knew her voice would betray her. He was about to confess his love, or at least his questionable designs. She had sat through enough declarations to recognize the subtle signs of impending oaths. Rhett was different than most men—and she never could guess at his motivations or predict his mercurial moods, but he was still a man, as susceptible to her charms as any beau in britches. Why! He had admitted to remembering her charms fondly minutes ago.
She waited with her gaze lowered. He squeezed her gloved hands, silent and subdued. The interlude dragged on with inexorable tediousness. What was stopping him now? He had never been reserved before, never displayed any mark of hesitation--odious to the point of rudeness. Had prison changed him? He had been acting so kind, so sincere, so very the opposite of his usual caustic humor.
Rhett drew in a long breath, his massive shoulders shrugging high, and finally lifted his face. With real shyness, she studied him from the corner of her shaded eye. There was a softness to his features she had never seen, a fineness to his expression that warmed her in a way she had not known since before her mother had fallen sick. Shifting her pose to better observe his strange, compelling look, the thick velvet of her skirts brushed against his knees, and in a breath, the outburst she had anticipated broke free.
Rhett wrapped her to his chest and captured her lips in a fierce, probing kiss. Heat swept through her body. She remembered the sweet electricity of his embrace at Rough and Ready, the slow intoxication of his passion, but this kiss was somehow different. His arms shook as a slight wind; his mouth moved with a rhythmic hunger. Unnamed stirrings rose up in her belly. Wild desires rippled through her thoughts. She wanted to rake her fingers through his hair. She wanted to feel his hands on her skin. She was losing control, her grip on the situation slackening. He clasped the nape of her neck and held her head still, his kisses intensifying, his tongue lashing her mouth, each soft flick sending shivers down her spine.
Soon she would faint. Her stays were too tight; his lips were too insistent. A thrumming whispered in her ears, the rush of a pulse on the precipice of unraveling.
"Rhett, please. I must catch my breath," she managed to plead when his focus slipped to her jaw, to lavish her with kisses there.
"And I must have you, my darling." He touched her cheek with his thumb, a light leaping out of his black eyes as he paused to meet her gaze. She blushed, flustered as a school girl with her first admirer, taken aback by the sincerity of his expression. Her eyes fluttered down and he kissed her on the lips again, his need a honeyed constant. If she could only keep him in this loving suspense, he was sure to grant her whatever she wanted. If she could only keep her head from spinning and her lungs from giving out.
Rhett pressed her against him, one warm hand rubbing up her side, squeezing her waist, and suddenly, cupping her clothed breast, his fingers grazing over her nipple with deliberate strokes. A thrill of pleasure spooled out from his illicit caress, puddling at the base of her spine. Oh! This was wrong! This was an abomination! She couldn't go through with this. Not even for Tara would she debase herself in such an undignified, filthy way. Shock and modesty jolted her to her senses and she jumped to her feet. Panting, she glared down at him. Her eyes and cheeks blazed with a red, mortified fury.
"How dare you touch me like that!" she seethed. "How dare you treat me like one of your, your common creatures!"
Blind to all but her own humiliation, she failed to see the flush on Rhett's face, completely oblivious to the effort he displayed in standing up, gliding his hands into his pockets, and loping towards her. With renewed suspicion, he examined her. Scarlett's affront, imagined as it was, quelled under his cool inspection and she quickly began to calculate how to salvage the damage her rebuff had caused. Her eyes darted nervously about the cramped, chilly room, lingering on the mutilated, peeling walls.
"Scarlett, what did you expect to happen when you came here today?"
Rhett's voice was quiet, almost too quiet, and matching his dark gaze, she was even further from understanding his mood. He waited for her to reply, an aggravating patience to his stance, his wide shoulders squared, his cheeks stubbled, his power evident in the shabby elegance. With a clap of clarity, she realized that toying with a man like Rhett was akin to playing on a bed of red-hot embers. One false move and everything would go up in smoke. Deciding she couldn't possibly lie to him with any grace at the moment, she confessed the truth of it—the partial truth.
"I didn't know what to expect, Rhett. I only knew that I had to visit you." Exhausted from nerves and excitement, her voice vibrated with a doleful note, and those tears which had hovered on the cusp of her lashes overcame their barrier.
"Don't cry, Scarlett," Rhett shushed, at her side in one step. "I haven't a handkerchief to offer you."
She ducked her blushing, teary face, knowing how pretty and vulnerable she must appear. The certainty boosted her confidence, and the horizon of her victory lit up more brightly than before. She might yet get what she needed from him, but would tread more carefully—sobbing if required. Men set such a store about blubbering women, apparently even a man as calloused as Rhett was.
"Oh Rhett! I'm just so scared!" she cried, and he folded her into his arms, pressing her wet cheek into his shirtfront.
"There, there. Hush now. It will be alright."
"How can you say such a thing? You said they might hang you!"
"Exactly. There isn't any point in worrying over what might happen."
"But what shall I do without you?" She felt his arms tighten around her, his muscles clenching against her body. A heady recklessness wrested her mind away from caution. She was so close to winning, she could not only see its blurred edges, but taste its sweetness, smell its perfume. There before her vision came the picture of Tara, the lush hills, the succulent blossoms, the deep, resinous pines. No more useless talk of his death! She needed to turn his thoughts to happier things—to life and marriage and love. She latched onto the word. The darling, simple word! Her breath stole through her lips and she sighed a small, trifling treachery. "I love you, Rhett."
Everything went still around her, that rushing in her ears and pounding in her head, that tremor in his arms ceased to beat or pulse or echo. Rhett grabbed her at the chin and forced her to look at him. There was something in his eyes that frightened her, something raw and carnal and alive, somehow more alive than even her vibrant, earthy self.
"Say that again," he commanded in a voice she couldn't define. Her throat itched with sudden thirst; her tongue lay thick in her mouth. This was it. This was the moment of her deliverance. Of the deliverance of everyone she loved. Of her salvation for Tara. It was just some silly phrase. She called back that sunny reminiscence of her home, softening her fright and texturing her words with a layer of genuine reverence.
"I love you," she lied again.
He believed her, or that was the only thing that made sense, when he pushed her into the decaying wall and kissed her as she had never been kissed. His lips were everywhere; he was everywhere. Fool! She cursed. Of course he would have his way with her now! And here of all places! Why had she supposed a declaration of love would work on a man like Rhett Butler? Marriage? Did he even know it existed? She might as well have waltzed into Union territory in nothing but her shimmies and slippers!
The recollection of her surroundings, of the half dozen Yankee officers outside the door, emboldened her resolve to withstand Rhett's ardor. Her knees were weak, her head was tipsy, but she would not be carried away into total abandon. No—not even when he did that with his mouth, or brushed her skin in that way, or spiked her blood with his touch. She didn't really love him, and he clearly didn't love her. He wanted her. He knew how to make a woman want him. Cad that he was.
He nuzzled his face into her neck, and nipped her earlobe. A frisson of fire shot through her core.
"Rhett, the Yankees. What if they walk in?"
"They won't." He began lowering his kisses toward her bosom, his breath trailing heat along the papery skin of her collarbone.
"They think I'm your sister!"
"They won't if they walk in."
The tease rumbled in his deep voice. She tried to push him away, desperate to avoid an embarrassing situation with the nasty Blue Coats, needing to keep her resistance somehow flirtatious but firm. It was a miserable line to toe! She masked her anger with a sugary giggle and begged for him to stop, beating him softly with her fists. He cuffed her wrists with his fingers and held her hands aloft. Chuckling, he drew away his mouth from her neckline and rested his ear over her heart. Scarlett squirmed at the awkward intimacy.
"Ah! Well that is a relief! The heart is willing but the spirit is weak."
Grinning, he pulled back and pinned her arms to the wall. Her blood boiled, and she wished she could let fly those vituperative barbs at his head. Oh! Once she had the money she could tell him to go to Halifax for all she cared, and stomp on his feet on her way out the door. The thought saved her and she smiled up at him, swallowing her rage, her cheeks aglow. He gave her a curious, penetrating look, and she doubled down on her simper, challenging him with flashing lashes and a winking dimple.
"I had to be certain you weren't trying to pull the wool over my eyes," Rhett said with an arch in his heavy brow, his tall form bowing over her. "Judging by the pace of your heartbeat, you are more than a little enamored of my, er, affection, which leads me to believe that it might merely be your obedience to childish ideals of virtue that hinder our path."
"Virtue isn't childish," she said, careful to keep her tone airy.
"Isn't it?" he whispered alongside her face, his mustache tickling and his stubble scratching.
"Rhett, really. You mustn't start all that again."
"All what?" His breath blew across her neck and she shivered.
"You know perfectly well what I mean by all that."
"You mean this?"
"Yes." She frowned at her traitorously shaky voice.
"And this?"
"Rhett!"
He stopped skidding kisses along her jaw and drew back, completely at ease flattening her to the wall and keeping her arms locked in his hold. That old-playful smirk danced on his red lips.
"I know how imperceptive you can be, pet, but did it really not occur to you that as a man languishing in prison and awaiting the noose, I would be significantly less interested in adhering to the usual customs of propriety than I normally would be?"
"You aren't going to die, Rhett," she said lamely, annoyed that when he put it that way, it seemed so obvious that a scoundrel like him wouldn't somehow decide to be a gentleman behind bars. Why, oh, why had she offered him a free pass by saying "I love you?" But saints preserve her! She couldn't unsay it now. What a waste! She huffed out her breath, casting her eyes downward to hide her chagrin, hoping he interpreted her struggle as a mark of frustration about their predicament, not a signal of her irritation with him.
"Add the inducement of you in that dress, and the fact that," his voice dropped low, "you claim to love me—how can you expect me to deny myself?"
She peeked up at him, her face still averted. A sort of beauty brightened his swarthy visage. It struck her then that he didn't quite believe her confession, but what was more confusing, she sensed that he wanted to believe it. Why? Was this a game for him? Was he trying to trip her up? Heaven help her! She wouldn't break so easily.
"We all deny ourselves sometimes, Rhett," she purred with a hooded gaze. "That's life."
"Hogwash. I'm not about to let convention and incarceration stop me from taking the thing I've wanted more in my life than anything else."
"Fiddle-dee-dee," she replied, with a jingle of her earrings, suffocation creeping over her. She recalled his words from during the siege, when he had propositioned her to be his mistress. He had told her then, amongst the honeysuckle and magnolia of that sweltering summer night, that he had wanted her more than any other woman. A sickening thud plunked into her whirling stomach. He wasn't going to propose marriage. He was going to propose the same repulsive arrangement as he had suggested on Aunt Pitty's porch.
Scarlett closed her eyes. She had known this was a possibility, but contemplating a potential outcome in the darkness of night could not compare to confronting that reality in the cold light of day. It had been one thing to think about him taking liberties; it had been another thing to experience the bold, uneasy rapture of his embrace. Her breast tingled at the recent memory of him fondling her there, even as her belly frothed with bile.
Her arms were beginning to lose sensation as he held them above her head, and her legs ached from standing in the unnatural pose. She feared she would cry again, but this time, she would not be able to turn it to her advantage. If it had been to her advantage at all! Unbidden, came the tears, not the delicate trickling of earlier, but thick, pained droplets of dread and despair. Before she knew what he was about, Rhett had scooped her off her feet and was cradling her in his arms, rocking her as a child on a rawhide chair, soothing her with meaningless babble.
"Don't cry, darling. And pray, not if some of your tears are for my sorry neck. I do have a handful of arrows in my quiver that I haven't shot at them yet. God knows I don't want to die."
Scarlett wailed into his chest, a torrent of emotion upending any semblance of calm. She wanted to laugh at him for believing her sorrow was for his impending execution. She wanted to offer thanks on bended knee that he had misinterpreted her feelings. Most of all, she simply wanted to cry, to let her burdens wash away from her in a river of tears, to watch them float off to someplace other than her heavy shoulders, to know her home and her family were protected from the oncoming flood.
"What is it really, Scarlett?" Rhett asked, after several minutes of silently smoothing her hair and petting her back, listening to her sobs stutter into hiccups. "This can't just be about me. Whether you have truly grown a woman's heart or are merely infatuated with the idea of flirting with a doomed man, you are still you, still a marvelously selfish, single-minded—now don't look at me like that with those woeful eyes—you want something from me, that much is clear, enough to brave unkempt soldiers and a drafty prison to pay me a call."
"And a disheveled you," she sniffled prettily, choosing to ignore his slight on her character. Frankly she was too tired to care right now what he thought about her reasons for coming here. And it comforted her, in a distant kind of way, that he was wholly ignorant to the fact that money had driven her to his side. She relaxed into his strong arms, watching the rise and fall of his broad chest. Whatever else Rhett was, she trusted in his physical prowess.
"Scarlett?"
"Yes?"
"Why are you avoiding answering my question?"
"What question?" she asked with a little too much innocence.
His mouth turned down. "You can sit on my lap and play the docile doll all day long, and I will happily treat and tease you—but I need to know why you are really here before we can return to our little game. As much as I would like to flatter myself with the story that you are here for me and me alone, you are not acting like a woman desperately in love. Salty tears aside. You forget, my dear, that I have heard you declare your undying love to another man, and witnessed for myself the tenacious violence of your regard. I could chalk the moderation of your behavior up to maturity—but your actions tell me that age or experience are not the reason. There is something else going on inside that devilish mind of yours and I'll be damned if I don't make you tell me, one way or another."
During this speech, her splotchy face had colored from pink to red. A livid hurt overrode her listlessness, pricking her with fresh wrath. Now that her tears and fatigue were passing, she felt ashamed and exposed by her dissemble. Real vulnerability was a weakness to her, and as with all frail things, she felt a mixture of pity and contempt towards it, which could only lead to rage.
"I don't need this! I don't need you! I tell you that I love you, and you question and insult me." She moved to get up from his lap, surprised by how swiftly the falsehood fell from her lips, proud of the sympathy in her ragged voice. Rhett caught her by the arms and pulled her back down to him. She didn't need to disguise her anger, and leaned into her fury.
"Unhand me! You varmint! You low-down—"
"Do quiet down, darling. The Yankees will come in here."
"I don't have to listen to you. You coward!"
"Coward?" he laughed, subduing her fully in a vice of his arms. She gave up her futile flailing. He may have overpowered her body, but her mouth was unmuzzled.
"Yes, a coward. You're afraid of me. You think you know me so well, know what it means to be loved by me, but it scares you silly. I scare you more than any jail or gallows."
Enraged, she had no idea what she was saying, spewing out the first words that hit her mind, relishing the chance to roar at him. He could winnow under her skin faster than a tick in July. For a blessed minute, she could pluck him out. She knew she would need to repent. She could not forfeit her dreams of saving Tara, but for this moment, this wonderful moment, she would rail at him, excising off some of her pain and resentment. Thoughtlessly she went on, accusing him of everything from being too cold to being too warm, of mocking her and making speeches at her, of insinuating this and insisting that.
Something she had flung at him must have left an impression, because he forsook his grin, swore under his breath, and caging her face in his two rough, giant hands, covered her mouth with an angry kiss. She startled from the punishing energy of his lips, breathless from the ferocity of his fingers when he tracked them down her neck and shoulders, kneading them into her back. It was too much for her, and she recoiled from his blunt ardor.
"Do better, damn you. Show me that you love me," he growled against her lips.
Blindly Scarlett scowled as he swallowed her in another kiss, thrusting his tongue into her mouth. What did he mean show him? He bit her bottom lip, and she cried out. Her eyes had shut instinctively at his closeness, but they flashed open at his sharpness. His face loomed in her vision, a wild, animal face, a face of a mad man. Cornered against him, buffeted by his bruising embrace, she did the only thing that any trapped predator would do—she fought back. Not with strength but with seduction. Show him? Show him? Fine! She thought of Ashley, of his kiss in the orchard, the frenzied joy of that moment. She was doing this for him, as much as she was doing this for Tara. Everything she did was for them.
Amidst all of Rhett's other kisses, the gentle ones, the heated ones, the tingling ones, she had taken a passive approach, responding by intuition and not intent, receiving them, enduring them, but not totally engaging with them. For the first time, she lost herself in the stormy wave of his passion. Limited though her imagination was, she had been dreaming of her golden-haired love since girlhood, and in this moment of breakneck forgetting, she dove into the fantasy that the lips on her lips, and the hands on her body belonged to a man who had vowed never to touch her again. She curled into the sculpted chest, grappling at the chiseled back, scraping her lacy fingers through the thick locks, consuming that mouth as if it were the source of life, craving, always craving that illusive satisfaction.
The man ensnared in her embrace hesitated for an instant, his lips slowing and his fingers stopping, but only for an instant, grunting in savage exaltation and joining Scarlett in her fevered haven. It was chaos and darkness. It was all he had wanted for six long years.
The two bodies intertwined, Scarlett falling back into the coarse hide of the chair, her lover arching over her, his legs disappearing into the billowing folds of her dress. His hot palm snaked down to her breast, squeezing it, teasing the tender bud through her velvet overlay. She did not throw him from her this time, pretending that it was Ashley's hand that sought the round flesh, Ashley's fingers that pinched the hardened point, Ashley's body that weighed down upon her, sinking her into the cushion and closer to oblivion. His mouth suckled her neck, one hand explored her bodice, and suddenly, the other hand was rubbing over her knee, massaging her silky thigh, inching nearer and nearer to the shadows which throbbed in a hallow, hidden way.
"Sweet, sweet," the man muttered into her ear as his mustache feathered against her skin—breaking the spell.
No! No! This was not Ashley. Ashley was clean shaven. Ashley smelled of chicory and soap, of oak leaves and apple blossoms—not cigars and horse leather. She couldn't do this. She wouldn't do this. There had to be another way! Scarlett mustered all of her strength, summoning a calm she did not feel, ordering her spinning desires to heel. If she could fend off an entire Yankee army, she could stop this. "Think honey, not vinegar," she silently commanded. Tilting her face, she latched onto the hand burrowing between her thighs and removed it to the edge of the seat. She could feel the perspiration of his palm through the weave of her glove.
"Rhett, darling," she sunk her teeth into her lips at the term of endearment, "I don't want this. Not like this."
After an agonizing quiet, Scarlett peeked at him from her periphery. That madness had been erased from his face, and she wondered if it had ever been there. His cheeks shone as bronzed rose and sweat beaded along his black hairline, but otherwise he was the picture of ease and indifference. He slid off the chair and stood above her, smirking lightly, his breathing fast.
Blushing, Scarlett sat up, fluffing at her dress, brushing the velvety grains of fabric to the lighter side. Her lungs seemed incapable of filling up; her heart seemed emptied of all emotion, spilling her feelings out to her churning stomach and buzzing head. Some minutes passed in this strained, palpable pause, until Rhett called her name, and digging deep for that familiar charm, she turned to him. He was fully recovered from their entanglement, his cape jauntily askew on his shoulders, his dishabille somehow finer than men in tailored suits.
"I apologize for my impetuosity," he said in a tone which gave nothing away. "My only excuse is that I was swept off my feet by your declaration, and hastened to act by the very real possibility that we might only have this morning to properly address our mutual admiration."
"Am I to assume by this that you believe me now?" she asked with evident relief, plucking invisible dust from her glove—from Aunt Pitty's glove.
"That depends."
Scarlett crossed her hands in her lap. Her composure was dangling by a frayed strand. If Rhett wasn't as gentle as earlier, she didn't know what she would do.
"On what exactly?"
"On you telling me why you are here."
"Not this again!"
She flounced to her feet, but Rhett quickly placed his hands on her shoulders and barred her from stalking off.
"Listen to me, before you fly into a temper and call in the calvary. I can believe that a changed you would soften toward my appeal but still be hard-pressed to forsake her religious upbringing, particularly in the unromantic setting of a neglected office, and act offended by my, in consideration of your sensibilities, shall we call it enthusiasm? I can even believe that an enamored you would nevertheless trust me less and treat me differently than the honorable Mr. Wilkes—"
"Don't start on Ashley, Rhett. I won't be able to bear it. I tell you, I'll leave this instant if you so much as think of mentioning him again."
Rhett laughed once and shook her shoulders. "And there it is, my pet."
"There what is?"
He stepped back, slicked his hands into his pockets, and lifted his brows high into his forehead. "The longer you are here, the more convinced I am that you are the same willful, vain child I met at Twelve Oaks. And if that is the case—which I would bet my worthless life that it is—you are no more in love with me now than you were when you sent me off to war with a hard slap and harder words."
He spoke this softly, almost kindly, but it carried the sting of a physical punch. Scarlett bled red in the face and sputtered, refuting his accusation with as little poise as her shattered nerves and dashed hopes would allow. He waited for her to finish, with that irritating and suave disregard, shrugging his shoulders when she had plopped back down onto her chair, a green-robed mess of disappointment and dogged denial.
"Call it foolish optimism, most likely inspired by my lonely situation, but you almost had me convinced that you actually cared—"
"But I do care!"
"They could hang me as high St. Paul's and you wouldn't bat an eye."
"How you can say such a thing, when only minutes ago—"
"Minutes ago you were crying, but not for me--or not for me by much."
"I don't know why you're being so mean, Rhett Butler, or saying these awful things," she pouted, stuffing down her rising anxiety. What was she to do if this didn't work out? And after all she had done to compromise herself! He had to help her. He was her only hope. Her worry heightened her voice and the color in her cheeks. "Why else would I lie to Aunt Pitty and Mammy, drag myself across town to this horrible jail, force myself into the company of Yankees and prisoners, and, and," she mouthed the words, her skin a bolder shade of pink, "let you kiss me like that--if I didn't come here for you?"
"That is the question I cannot answer on my own."
A fledgling hope sprouted anew in her heart at the note of uncertainty in his voice. Maybe all was not lost. Maybe he needed some more coaxing. Rhett always acted so sure of himself and of the world around him, but he had lived among bad people for years, and might require a little extra convincing that a decent woman like herself could fall for a rogue like him. Scarlett did not understand people in general, but she understood how to flatter a man undeserving of praise. It was the skill most at home and in use amongst southern ladies.
Her green eyes warmed an inviting emerald and her mouth softened in a kind smile. "Rhett, darling. You can talk and talk until you're blue in the face and come up with the most ridiculous excuses for why I don't feel something tender for you, but that won't change the fact that I am here and that I came here for you, because I wanted to see you. I don't know how it happened or when it happened. I only know it did happen. I needed to see you, because," she imagined Ashley before her, not the broken figure who had spurned her in the wintry orchard, but the proud, fair man who had come home in summer and introduced her young self to the treasures of the heart, "because I love you, Rhett Butler. And I won't leave here until I prove it to you."
"I will ignore your obvious coquetry," he said laconically, "giving it the lack of acknowledgment it deserves, and offer you a branch of good faith by admitting that I have never had so little fun living a waking dream, or been so well entertained while suffering a serious blow to my ego and an attack on my heart—always a risk where pretty women are concerned."
Scarlett gaped at him, her brow creased in consternation. She had never come up against someone as obstinate and impossible as he was. Throwing her hands into the air and surrendering was out of the question, though.
"Why are you making this so difficult?" she asked, standing and offering up her palms. "What can I do to convince you, Rhett?"
"You can tell me the truth, Scarlett."
The truth! Her mind screamed. The truth! She could never do that. Not now. Not ever. If she told him the truth it would spell certain ruin for herself and Tara. She cast her thoughts about to unearth some story that he might believe that wouldn't destroy her last shred of dignity or crush her sparse hope in rescuing Tara.
At that moment, one of the Yankee officers knocked on the door and poked his ugly head inside, telling Rhett that he had mere minutes before he must return to his cell. The officer glanced at Scarlett, a leer on his tobacco-stained mouth, and slammed the door. She stared after the soldier, the wheels in her head rotating around and around, grinding out a sordid, scandalous idea, an idea so preposterous and shameful, Rhett could never question it.
Pale of cheeks and lips, Scarlett locked her wild gaze onto Rhett. His eyes widened at the haunted expression on her face but she saw nothing but Tara before her. This was all she had left. If this didn't work on him, nothing would. She bowed her head, steeled her spine, and began:
"A Yankee deserter came to Tara. No one else but Melly and I were in the house at the time. She was upstairs, though. I was, I was," Scarlett's voice drifted to a softer, more eerie melody as she told the story of the man she had murdered—changing two small details: claiming the timing of his visit had been only a couple months ago, and in a halting quiet, revealing that she had not got her shot in before he had enjoyed his way with her.
"So you see, Rhett," she lifted her eyes to him for the first time since she had started her false story, her heart lurching into her stomach at the blank darkness on his face, "I am, that is to say, I am—Wade will have a brother or sister."
The silence in the cramped room was its own presence. Rhett looked upon her with a glittering gaze.
"Why come to me?" he asked, his hands fisted in his pockets, unnoticed by her.
"You were the only man I could think of who wouldn't judge me. You were the only man who I knew might help me." That much was true, and she had poured all of her will into the words. Now one more final, false declaration. Her jaw hardened; her eyes simmered a lovely shade of desperation. "And when I realized that Rhett—I realized, oh darling, I realized that I loved you."
Cold, baited breath lay on her tongue, and she waited for his reaction. She had never told such a bold, outrageous lie. She couldn't say how she had come up with the deception, or if he would see through it, as he had seen through every other attempt to beguile. Some part of her believed that angels must have planted the fable in her mind. She waited for what felt like an eternity, her pulse quickening, her lungs constricting. He was stone to her. His face. His body. Likely his heart. And then in one swift movement, Rhett crushed her in his arms, and his unvarnished words amazed her.
"Scarlett, my love! I'm a fool, a damn, blind fool. Forgive me, darling. I should have trusted--but my God. I have been waiting for so many years to hear you tell me that you love me that I nearly drove you away when you finally knew what I have known since the day I met you." He touched his forehead to hers, laughing. "That we are meant for each other, my brave, ruthless girl. My heart, my soul, my one true love."
The sincerity of his voice and the purity of his declaration stunned Scarlett. She didn't question its truthfulness--not even a scallawag like him could lie so well. No, it was true. He was true. For as long as she had known Rhett—he had been in love with her! Despite all of his cruelty and coarseness, his jokes and his jabs, he had not only desired her body, he had wanted her—all of her. She felt neither smugness nor triumph at this development, though those would surely and swiftly arrive, but overwhelming, numbing surprise.
"I don't want you to worry about anything," he urged, taking her by the hand and leading her to a chair. He sat down first and pulled her onto his lap, enveloping her in his arms, combing back some loosened strands of hair. Scarlett stared at him, her mouth parted and eyes wide. "I need to know what you need, though, sweetheart. I'm so sorry you endured that disgrace. I would offer to kill the bastard, but you," he pecked her on the nose, "already did the job. So what is left? Do you need a home set up, honey? Adoption on the sly? Money?"
At the last word, Scarlett snapped out of her stupefaction. Her lashes beat furiously and she inhaled deeply. Resting her hand on his hard, bristled cheek, she nodded. "Money, Rhett. I do so need some money. To keep things secret, of course, to stay away from Tara for awhile."
He kissed her gloved palm. "How much?"
"Three hundred," she blurted out. He wagged one eye brow up, and she lowered her gaze, her hand sliding into her lap. She tempered her tone. "It's how much we worked out." And to lend the number some credence, she added: "Melly and I came up with the figure. She's the only one who knows about, about this—apart from you now. She made a list, you see, of, of everything I might need."
The idea had come as a grasping reach, as every bit as spontaneous as this stressful ordeal, but Rhett had always shown such deference to Melanie—though who knew why. What did Scarlett care if her sister-in-law was implicated in her baby deceit? The woman had actually helped bury the Yankee's body. Nothing was off the table after murder, not even for the godlike Melanie. Scarlett held her breath, exhaling at his words.
"I can't draft anything at the moment, without the Yankees jumping on me like a duck on a June bug," Rhett said thoughtfully, his eye on the door, "but I can call in my chips with a little more urgency. I've been holding off on cashing them in, hoping to use them for a different rainy day. Looks like the storm has come to shore."
"What are your chips?"
The odd reference piqued Scarlett's interest, and she observed Rhett through the slits of her downcast gaze. Concentration sharpened his features as his hand absent-mindedly twirled the fringe on the belt of her dress.
"One of my remaining arrows, my dear." Rhett smirked, and tilted up her chin with one finger. "Why doesn't it surprise me that you would be the storm? Do you know I was planning a trip to your backwoods farm before my arrest?"
Scarlett failed to hide her dismay--the idea of Rhett showing up on her rundown doorstep, stumbling upon her in the cotton fields, or catching her in the stream washing laundry, roiled her stomach, and he laughed heartily at her discomfort.
"Don't trouble yourself, Scarlett. I swear not to intrude on your Arcadian paradise in Clayton County."
"My Arc--Acadi what?"
"Arcadian--your heavenly idyl. It doesn't matter. You came to Atlanta and spared us both the inconvenience."
"Oh," she said airily, always perturbed when people used words she didn't understand.
"Oh indeed. And as you took the effort of leaving your beloved home, I think it only fitting that I exert myself enough to win back my freedom. Although, if pulling some strings proves ineffective, I will ask you to sew some files into your hoops and break me out of here."
"Did you already try to escape? Is that why you're in the barn?"
"Good lord, no! How desperate do you think I am?" he laughed again, pinching her cheek. "I'm in the barn because northerners don't know a lick about hospitality, and treat their guests abominably."
He laughed some more, in that irksome, indecent way of his, but she couldn't bother to act the part of the dewy-eyed lover. She was busy counting the number of days until taxes were due.
"Rhett, darling, about how long do you think it will take to call in your—to help me out?" she asked, a hitch in her lungs.
"Always practicality before sentimentality, my dear."
He tugged on her belt fringe, and she opened her mouth to make a reply, but he cut her off before she was compelled to invent another lie.
"Don't worry, Scarlett. I won't hold your pragmatism against you—the elasticity of your morals is one the more charming traits about you. In any case, I'll be exonerated and able to access my funds within the next couple weeks, or dead in the next couple days, and you'll be able to inherit my wealth long before anyone suspects there may be something growing in your belly."
He glanced at her tiny waist, and frowned. Scarlett covered her stomach, recalling that if she were forced to keep up the ruse, she was going to have to figure out a way to fatten her tummy. "I won't think about that now," she comforted herself. "I'll think about it later." If she had possessed any real idea of what an avowed lover like Rhett might expect of his chosen one, or what would happen if she should somehow fall into the role of mistress, her anxieties over her most flagrant untruth would have been much more difficult to ignore. As it was, she shooed away the worry with a shrug, and smiled at him, a sweet, genuine smile, rarely seen on her face of late.
A few days or two weeks! She would have the three hundred dollars to pay the taxes on Tara by this week or the next! She happily skipped over his aside about dying. Bah! If only she should be so fortunate, but she had learned too well in the past several months the truth of not looking any gift horse in the mouth, or counting her chicks before they hatched. As unpredictable and dangerous as Rhett could be, however, she did not question his reassurances. If he said he would have the money before the month's end, he would have the money before the month's end. All she had to do was keep him happy and ignorant for the duration. Until those taxes were paid. And as he was in love with her—oh! How easy was it to flatter and flirt with a besotted man! It would be the most fun she had known since that long, hard march to Tara, teasing and tampering with Rhett Butler, making him pay for all his nastiness; exacting vengeance for him leaving her to join the army! Relief poured into her, bathing her as a liquid balm, relief and unchecked delight. Giggling, she hugged Rhett around the neck in a strangling grasp.
"I know you'll outsmart them, Rhett. You're so clever. You'll come up with some way to," she stopped herself from mentioning the money, "some way to get out of jail."
"I may become a believer of the divine if I don't come out of this alive," he said ruefully, breathing into her hair and running his hands up and down her back.
"If you don't?" Scarlett asked, smiling through her confusion.
"Only a god would be cruel enough to take you away from me when you are finally mine."
That familiar jolt of electricity thrilled her at that note in his voice, sizzling all the way to her toes when he kissed her. She was growing used to the feel of his lips and the heat of his touch. Riding the high of relief and triumph, she discovered to her perplexed wonder that she didn't need to pretend to enjoy his kisses. He was an experienced lover, no doubt from crude liaisons, she disturbingly recalled--her revulsion vanishing as quickly as it had come.
The shape of his mouth and the rhythm of his passion excited her with new sensations. He played with his kisses, encompassing her in a whirlwind of carefree caresses, tickling her at the elbow, nibbling on her neck, curling his tongue behind her ear, and she realized why it felt so different. Always, he had held something back from her, reserving a piece of himself. Even during his earlier embraces this morning, he had controlled the tempo of their intimacy. Now he kissed her as a man without a care in the world—as a man who believed he owned the world. Something almost like regret poked at her, but she forced the unpleasantness from her mood. Giddy with victory, encased in strong, steady arms, it was not difficult to do.
As his mouth began to wander toward her bosom, and his hands to foray underneath her skirts, that spiraling, unknown heat building in her core, she was saved the necessity of worming her way out of this latest embroil by the entrance of the officer prison guards. She had never been so glad to see Yankees—or so mortified at the sight of them. Flushed with embarrassment, she shot up from Rhett's lap.
"Most peculiar behavior for a brother and sister, I would say," clipped the ugly one, spitting a stream of tobacco juice from his mouth.
"No one faults us for a lack of friendliness," Rhett oozed in his thickest Charlestonian drawl.
"Does that mean your peach of a, er, sister might be inclined to show me some of that southern warmth? It's awfully chilly in this place."
Rhett stood up, his graceful movements belying his barely-leashed strength. He rested a gentle hand on Scarlett's shoulder, the threat of the gesture louder than his satiny voice. "I would keep a more civil tongue, my good sir. Unsavory things happen to those who display unsavory manners." Scarlett slitted her eyes up at Rhett, wondering how these Yankee fools hadn't tucked their tails at the menace in his slow grin. "Now, gentlemen, I trust my sister will be safe with you on her departure."
"You may rely upon it, Captain Butler," interjected the young soldier with the kind eyes. Scarlett fluttered her gaze at him and thought his cheeks must be pinker than hers were. "If you would follow me, miss. I'll escort you out myself."
Scarlett smiled demurely at her gallant savior in blue, her practiced air of feminine helplessness refined to the point of a reflex, winning the heart of the hapless and homesick soldier in a flash of a dimple. He blushed redder as he motioned for her to join him at the door.
Scarlett paused before leaving and looked at Rhett, who watched her with a knowing amusement. He moved his hand from her shoulder to her chin, flicking it lovingly with his thumb.
"I don't expect to see you here again, my dear, unless there is a noose tied up with a bow just for me."
"Don't tease about that, Rhett."
"No, no," he said more seriously, but with a stubborn twinkle in his eye. "We wouldn't want to send you off on another crying jag. I meant what I said, though. I don't want you to visit here a second time. You can write me chaste, sisterly letters, if need be. Now come here, Scarlett. Give me a kiss on the cheek for luck."
Somewhat bashfully, she complied. After so many ardent kisses and intimate touches, it was strange to feel so shy. Rhett held her for a moment too long before releasing her. Scarlett hurried from his presence without looking back. She kept her head down through the damp headquarters and out onto the street. Her feet flew through the crowded town square and busy sidewalks, heedless of the bustle of strangers and the hustle of friends. It was only once she had reached the deserted end of Peachtree street, and she could see the outline of the brick mansion, that she slowed her pace.
Out of breath and sweating, with mud splattered on her dress made of curtains, she clutched at the stitch in her side. She had done it! She had found the money! A low, wild laugh erupted up from her belly, a liberating hysteria in the sound. Tara was safe! Or would very soon be safe! And what was more—she had somehow tricked a confession of love from the most heartless man in all of Georgia, and possibly the entire world. She cupped her hands to her laughing mouth, the lace of the gloves scratching her lips, and staggered toward Aunt Pitty's quiet, unassuming house.
Note: I've had this rolling around in my head for sometime. Like maybe twenty years. And here's the truth of it--GWTW and fanfiction are my coping mechanisms. Thanks for all the kind words and encouragement. This is such a supportive community. I hope the chapter wasn't too torturous. I think Scarlett is a terrible liar, except when she's an excellent one. It's never in the middle with her.