Note: I tried to put some important plot points from other chapters into this chapter, in case you, like me, couldn't remember what was going on in the story. And please excuse the inevitable errs and such. I'm as rusty as the Tin Man pre-Dorothy.

Thanks for those of you who have prodded me to finish this story.

Cheers.

Chapter 12

When the war's first battle finally came, it effected no great change in Scarlett's life. She was told the South had won. She was told Jackson had proven immovable, that McDowell had proven hesitant, and that in one more measly battle, the Yankees would throw up their white flags and relent. She was told all this and more, most of it barely making any sort of impression on her and none of it altering her habits, thoughts, or indeed, her world. In fact, the only way that the start of the war had any real effect on her at all was that Melanie returned to Atlanta.

Charles had been wounded at Bull Run and, owing to his connection with his beloved commander, was sent all the way home to Atlanta for an indeterminate recovery. When Scarlett heard the news it drew no amount of sympathy from her. It would do nothing for her but deprive her of a companion and she wondered mulishly if it wasn't Wade Hampton's sly way of getting rid of an odious admirer, her vanity still piqued that Charles had abandoned his admiration of her for that of another. Only a day after the battle's banners had been posted Melanie bid Scarlett farewell at the train depot, promising to write, begging her to come visit after the baby was born, and drenching her reluctant friend with tear-soaked hugs and wishes.

Scarlett stood at the busy platform, a pretty but lone figure amidst the teeming chaos. People moved all around her, jostling her shoulders and dirtying her skirts. The air stunk of bodies. It rang with noise. A thick film of sweat and dust coated every inch of her skin. She languidly fanned herself, her eyes following the steam of the engine as it chugged away. Begrudgingly grateful, surprisingly disappointed, she had chosen to endure the late July heat to see Melanie off at the train station. Since coming to Charleston, she had made only one friend. And now that friend had gone. Almost indifferently, she wondered if she would ever see or speak to Melanie again.

Somewhere nearby, she heard church bells ring out five times. Dropping her fan back into her purse, she searched over the heads of the crowd for the hack driver who had vowed to her that he would wait for her until five o'clock. She spotted the gristly-looking driver about a half a block down the street and hurriedly pushed her way through the throng to the sidewalk. The traffic thinned a little within only a few yards beyond the platform and Scarlett slowed her step. She was just about to cross the street when someone called out her name. Turning around, she didn't notice anyone that she recognized. She shrugged, hiking up her skirts—her gaze set again on the wizened driver—when a hand clamped down on her elbow and she found herself staring into a familiar face.

"Rosemary Butler," Scarlett gasped.

Rosemary immediately dropped Scarlett's arm and stepped back. The late sun's rays gilded her head in a brighter shade of gold and her eyes sparked with wild excitement. Her beauty was so effortless, that for an infinitesimal instant even Scarlett was slightly awed by it, until her envy quickly prevailed.

A new engine screamed into the station, spilling out another horde of people and pushing the lingering crowd all the way onto the sidewalk where the two young women stood. They stared silently at one another as the depot madness swirled noisily around them. Scarlett didn't know what her sister-in-law wanted, nor if she should deign to care after the way Rhett's family had treated her. She glanced at her driver across the street, and back at Rosemary.

"I have—"

"Please," Rosemary interrupted. "Please, I had hoped to catch Mrs. Wilkes before she left."

Without another word or explanation, she shoved a small note into Scarlett's hand and began to back away. Scarlett looked down at the crumpled paper, confused and irritated. "God's nightgown!" she thought. "What am I supposed to do with this thing?" She turned sharp eyes back onto Rhett's sister.

Rosemary continued to face Scarlett about a yard away, slowly retreating into the shadows of the throngs. She chewed her lip as she shuffled backward. "Please," was the single word that drifted to Scarlett's ears over the din of the train station. The crowd was on the verge of swallowing up Rosemary again but before Scarlett could say or do anything a middle-aged woman stepped in between herself and Rosemary's disappearing, desperate face.

"There you are child! I nearly lost my voice calling out for you for the last quarter hour. Why on earth—" The stranger stopped speaking the minute her frantic gaze fell upon Scarlett.

She had shocking blue eyes and a complexion as clear as pure porcelain, but she was not pretty. Her nose was too small, her chin too round, and her hair too dull. She was a large woman, her considerable girth overwhelmed only by her considerable height. No matter her looks. She clearly came from good blood, and old money. Only one thing was clearer to Scarlett: this woman hated her.

"You dare insult me this way?" the woman spat, her blue eyes narrowed in disgust.

The loud depot seemed suddenly silent as Scarlett was overtaken with surprise and affront. The perceived silence pulsed with resentment. All her irritation with the irksome, impatient driver or the foolish Rosemary was instantly redirected and she glared up at the unknown woman: never one to flee from a fight, no matter how big the opponent.

"Excuse me but who are to speak…" Scarlett's voice faltered as the woman turned to look at Rosemary.

"You dare insult me, and not only me, but your father also? To defy him and risk your reputation—for, for what my dear, Rosemary? A slick story to gossip about with your silly, petty friends? Hasn't the family suffered enough disgrace?"

Rosemary's desperation bled from her face, a steely anger tightening around her jawline. Her gaze remained fixed stubbornly on Scarlett. An ugly smiled stretched over her mouth.

"Good day to you darling, Scarlett. It was lovely running into you today."

Scarlett was utterly at a loss. The crowd's loud murmur burst clear and loud once more into her awareness. She stood dumbstruck, her mouth in a delicate "oh" as travelers and well-wishers bumped against her, scenes of happy and heartbreaking farewells ringing all around her.

"My but you must be in a hurry to ignore such an obvious salutation," the woman said, dropping back from Rosemary and straitening up. Her bright blue eyes looked over Scarlett with blatant disapproval. "But I have heard tale that you are a fast one."

Scarlett rocked back on her heels. Her green eyes gleamed and a torrent of wrath bubbled to the tip of her tongue. But once more she was left without an opportunity to let spew her thoughts. All too suddenly, the woman bit her lip in a huff, almost as if to hold back tears, and yanked a defiant Rosemary away into the shield of bustling people. Furious as she was embarrassed, Scarlett rose on her toes and craned her neck to try and follow the red of Rosemary's gown, but all she saw for her trouble was the sight of her hack driver scuttling off into the distance without her.

~ ABS~

Over an hour later, Scarlett stalked into her hotel room. Dust covered her skirts and sweat her skin, caking her with street grit. She tore off her gloves before the door slammed shut behind her, next flew off her hat with the ribbons flapping in the air. She sputtered curses to herself as her fingers fumblingly unclasped the front of her dress.

"Can I help you with that?"

Scarlett's heart leapt into her throat and she flung her hand over the beating drum. A brownish haze of late afternoon overlaid the entire room and she blinked into the muddy dark, Rhett emerging a few feet in front of her as her eyes adjusted.

"No, thank you," she said, her voice strangled. She flattened her partially-opened dress front against her chest, covering her stays. "Although I would be much obliged if you would ring for Rebekah, as it is your fault I'm covered in soot."

She twirled around onto a nearby chair and began tugging off her boots. They were darling white leather ones, with the most divine etchings carved into the sides. Rhett had bought them for her in England, and the sight of them dusted in filth and muck was too much. Hot, angry tears sprang to her eyes and before she knew what had happened she was sobbing into Rhett's shoulder about hateful people and how terrible her life had become.

"There, there darling. It's not really Mrs. Wilkes' fault that she had to leave Charleston, even you would take care of your sisters if they were maimed and motherless. Why I'd wager, maybe not a hundred in gold, but certainly a hundred in greenbacks that you'd rise to the occasion should the challenge present itself."

Scarlett felt the laughter twitching at the corners of his mouth, and instantly pulled away. Sniffling, she drew herself up in what she imagined was elegant affront. The dirt smeared across her cheeks only added to the portrait of her shabby dignity.

"You are as coarse and unfeeling as ever," she sniffed. "And in this instance, as in so many others, you are entirely mistaken."

"Is that a fact?" Rhett slid his hands into his pockets, not bothering to hide his amusement.

"It is."

Scarlett sank back down onto the chair and started to unlace her boots with slow deliberation. She needed time to calm down, to breathe, to think. Blood pounded dully in her ears and she knew it wasn't from her crying jag.

She hadn't let Rhett hold her so closely since the night he had come home. "Believes he can laugh at me and throw my love right back at me," she had grumbled. "Fiddle-dee-dee! See if I care. I'll throw the cad right out of my bed." And so she had. The morning after his return she had claimed that the baby had made it so she could not get a wink of sleep with him in the bed beside her. His eyebrows had drifted up so high into his forehead that she had known he had seen straight through her ruse. For the first and only time, she had relished his annoying perceptiveness into her mind. Her delight had lasted only as long, however, as it had taken her to realize that he wasn't even going to object—not one single polite protestation or even a quiver of disappointment over his swarthy, bland expression. "As you wish, my pet," Rhett had uttered with a specious civility that was entirely wasted on Scarlett. And with suave indifference, he had chastely kissed the top of her head and walked out of the room.

Scarlett had smarted for days over his complete lack of care over their new arrangement, growing more and more impatient with Rebekah, Aunt 'Lalie, and until this afternoon, Melly, throwing more tantrums, indulging in the worst kind of sulking and whining, and hating that no matter how trashy her behavior had become the other women just shrugged it off as the woes of motherhood. Toward Rhett she had become the exact opposite—as silent as possible and as cool as she was able. An outburst had flared up here or there over the few weeks but all in all her marriage had been marked by nothing more than an icy impasse, at least on her part. Rhett had been unnaturally reserved, but equally unnatural in his solicitousness to her comfort and attention to her health. And if she hadn't suspected his reasons were wholly wicked, she might have forgiven him and invited him back into her bed. Or so she had told herself night after night when she had to hug herself with her knees tucked under her chin to stop her legs from taking her across the hotel hallway to his bedroom.

It had been a relief to her tired, stubborn heart when a few days ago he had taken a quick trip to New Orleans. But now he was back. Scarlett eyed Rhett from her hunched-over perch. Even in this dim light she could see the crisp perfection of his appearance. He wore a tailored grey suit, the soft fabric taut across his shoulders. The deep tan from his days on the high sea had faded into a creamy olive. And his hair had just begun to need another trim. His head was turned away, his stance casual.

Her feline eyes watched him from behind thick lashes with unchecked hunger. "I hate him," she thought. And she did. She hated everything he had done to her; tricking her into marriage, sealing her away from Tara and Ellen, forcing her to face truths about herself and realities about the world that she was unprepared to accept at sixteen—most of all, she hated how much she wanted him, how much she was in love with him. No matter what he might think or even what she prayed he would believe based on her coldness, she knew she loved him more and more with each passing day. It wasn't anything like what she had felt for Ashley. It consumed her. It nearly drove her mad. It made her forget all the skills of seduction she had painstakingly perfected on her beaux back home. It made her a lovesick fool that fell right into his arms the minute he came home. Frustrated, she yanked off her boots and sat up.

"I thought you weren't coming back until tomorrow," she said. "Not that it makes any difference to me."

"Ah! She speaks! Tell me, my dear, am I going to be blessed to hear a long, loud litany of my incorrect assumptions or are we going to continue our tedious and taciturn truce?"

Scarlett glared. "I have nothing," she yelled, throwing a boot at Rhett, "to say," she threw the other boot at him, "to you."

He had deftly caught both boots and was laughing outright at her fit. She slunk back into the chair, resting her head against the back and waited for him to stop laughing. The heat of the day lay upon her muscles like a heavy blanket. Pregnancy hadn't drained or weakened her the way Rebekah claimed it should have, but after the sweltering sun and the long trudge back to the hotel she could feel every added pound on her body and every extra minute outside. She let the cool of the room wash over her, too tired to care that she was once again the object of derision for her husband. After an indecent amount of time, Rhett finally calmed down. A devilish grin lit up his dark face and, wiping the tears from his cheeks, he approached her.

"Come now Scarlett, I know you're itching to tell me off about something or another." His careless gaze traveled down her face and lingered on her chest. "Or seeing as you are in a throwing mood, perhaps you have more sportive things in mind."

Scarlett looked down and saw that her dress top had fallen open again. She crossed her arms over her chest, suddenly aware of how very close he was to her. The top of his knees were brushing against her skirt. And with determined fingers, she buttoned back up her front.

"I believe I asked you to call for Rebekah—"

"When you accused me of—what was it this time? My nasty jokes? Oh, no, that's right," he leaned over and tapped his finger on the end of her nose, "of being the reason you look like a London street urchin."

She swatted his hand away. "I look like no such thing."

Rhett turned down his mouth, surveying her with a muted expression, and then spun away without a word. Scarlett watched him move around the room as he turned up a few lamps and opened the shutters. A fresh sea breeze swirled pleasantly into the room and a few evening stars winked faintly at her from beyond the balcony. The sun had dipped below the rooftops but its crimson light seeped out along the empty boardwalk. The reddish relief that the sunset threw against the streets and sidewalk made her think of home.

How she longed to go back to Tara! She never knew how much a comfort those wavy hills and piney avenues were for her. How much she missed the rusty smell of the clay and the sweet blossoms beside the porch. Oh why hadn't she gone home while Rhett was away? She shouldn't have listened to Aunt Eulalie. What did she care about stodgy Charleston and its stodgier residents? No matter how hard she had worked they still would never accept her. What was the point of being prim and proper if no one would ever see her as anything but the wife of an unreceived renegade? She wanted to be loved and held by her mother—her anger at Ellen quite abating as her absence from her mother rolled on longer and longer.

She held herself a little more tightly. Her family might not be as carefree and affectionate as the Tarletons were, or as seamless and similar as the Wilkes ever acted, but she missed them dearly. They were more like her than she had ever cared to recognize. Annoying Suellen may be, but no matter how whiney her sister could get, she couldn't hold a candle to any one of the Butlers.

Scarlett felt around her skirts and pulled the crinkled envelope from a pocket. She turned the envelope over and squinted at the slanted writing. She couldn't be sure in this light but she thought it was addressed to Melanie. She certainly saw an "M." Rhett's family was determined to ruin her for good. First Rockwell and his scandalous dance with her, and now this enigmatic note from Rosemary. Not to mention that horrible lady with Rosemary today.

Rhett coughed, right beside her, startling her and making her drop the letter. She scowled at him as she bent down to retrieve it. "No, first Rhett," she thought savagely. "He was the first Butler to ruin me." Distracted with anger, she wasn't as quick as she meant to be and Rhett reached the letter first.

"Now what could this be?" he asked, holding the letter delicately between his thumb and finger. He shook it at her as one would shake a handkerchief. "It can't possibly be from Mrs. Wilkes; she only left a couple hours ago."

"Never you mind what it is."

Scarlett leapt up and failed to snatch the letter from Rhett's grasp. He dangled it above his head and raised that errant eyebrow at her.

"Is this the reason you are two hours later than expected?"

Scarlett kept her eye on the letter and tried again, unsuccessfully, to grab it. "What do you mean I'm two hours later than expected? I never said when I would be home. And I certainly never told you anything."

"Rebekah told me what time Mrs. Wilkes' train left. You should have been back hours ago. Rebekah's probably still combing the streets in search of you."

He grabbed onto her wrist on her third attempt and easily forced down her arm, making her look at him. She wasn't certain if he was upset, uninterested or curious. Who knew with him? His voice was a banal drawl, his face an unused canvas. But she refused to be baited by him, and stuck out her bottom lip in silent complaint.

"So instead of coming back with a chaperone, you come back alone, looking like an alley cat and harboring secret love letters."

"What—I'm not…" she stuttered.

Rhett released her and she stumbled back a bit. He lifted the letter toward the lamplight and she let out a ragged cry of protest. She didn't know why it was so important but she didn't want Rhett knowing anything about her strange meeting with Rosemary, just as she had not wanted him to know anything about her dance with Rockwell. As far as she knew, Rhett was still happily oblivious about the now latent scandal involving his wife and his brother. Not even a hope at inspiring some jealously in Rhett had tempted her to divulge that secret.

"Rhett, give me that letter," she repeated. "It's mine."

"I think not, at least not a love letter of yours," he replied, and then to her utter bafflement, handed her back the envelope. Confounded, she stood motionless as he moved over to the decanter beside the fireplace.

"Would you like some tea?" he asked. "I had some chilled and brought up earlier. I'm sure it is warm by now but you must be thirsty."

"Thank you," she said, suspicious. Warily she walked over to the large chaise by the fireplace and sank down into its cushiony folds. She studied the envelope again, still unable to make out the name on the back.

"Mephistopheles."

Scarlett looked up to find Rhett directly in front of her, offering her a brimming glass with one hand and holding a pitcher which dripped with condensation in his other. She accepted the glass without a word of gratitude and gulped it down in one large swallow.

"More?" Rhett asked, with a smile, refilling her glass without waiting for her to answer. They repeated this three times before Scarlett waved Rhett away and wiped her mouth dry with her sleeve.

"How refined," she heard him mutter as he set the pitcher and glass on the decanter stand and walked back to the chintz chair next to where she sat. But she didn't care about his opinion on her manners at the moment.

"Who's Mestopheles?"

"Mephistopheles," Rhett corrected automatically. "And, more or less, he's a devil." He gave her a searching look. "Didn't Mrs. Wilkes tell you what the name meant?"

"Why would Melly do that? What has she got to do with the letter?"

"I assumed that I had indeed been mistaken and Mrs. Wilkes had embarked on a myopic campaign to enrich your mind with the delights of foreign literature, starting with Faust."

"My mind's rich enough, thank you very much."

"I won't comment on that score at the moment, as you are the one to judge the wealth of your own intellect by merit alone, but if I have been correct all along, and that letter is truly not yours, whose is it and why do you have it?" His black eyes bored into her green ones and she had to look away, worried at what he might see.

"Why do you care?" she said, pretending to be interested in the painting above the mantle. "What's it to you?"

"Apart from you being my wife who is carrying my child, I have no interest at all."

She shot her gaze back to him, wondering for the thousandth time what went on behind that smooth nonchalance. He was unlike any man she had ever known before, as cruel as he could be kind, as indifferent as he could be passionate. But she had never been one to enjoy mysteries. She was as straightforward as stone was clean, and she hated that Rhett was as murky as mud. Why did he always seem to know what she was thinking and be rude enough to remark on it? Why could it never be the reverse? He could stand getting taken down a peg or two.

"Come, Scarlett. Cat got the cat's tongue?"

"I am not a cat," she spat. "And if you had any husbandly kindness, you would stop calling your wife a mangy animal."

"I have more husbandly kindness than you've allowed me demonstrate of late, a rather unkind thing for a wife to do I should think, especially a wife who has claimed to be in love with her husband."

Scarlett gasped as though he had kicked her in the gut. It was the first time he had broached the topic of her misguided declaration and she was in a fragile enough mood right now that the thought of enduring any snide remarks on that subject would undoubtedly unhinge her. But he continued on as though he hadn't heard her breathless shock.

"So if you will not simply tell me, I may be forced to sink to nefarious schemes. And as cunning as you can be, I daresay I can outmaneuver you on even my worst day."

Scarlett thought for a moment, weighing her options. Curse him! He would get it out of her somehow, she knew. It might as well be as much on her terms as possible. And if she played her hand right, she may be able to hold some of her cards back. She knew enough about poker to know when not to throw her ace in the hole. She scooted to the edge of her chair, slipped the envelope back into her pocket, and folded her hands daintily in her dirty lap.

"It is a letter from a friend to Melanie."

"If that were the entire truth, you wouldn't have fought so hard to snatch the letter back from me."

She opened her mouth, and then closed it. After some consideration, she carefully said, "It is not intended for Melanie only. It is also intended for her brother."

"A love letter?" Rhett crossed his long legs and leaned over toward her. "But who would give you a love letter for Charles Hamilton? Your only female friend in all of Charleston has just taken the late train out of town. Why the theatrics then?"

Now Scarlett was cornered. She knew it, and she knew Rhett knew it. "That's all you need to know," she said shortly. "I'm not about to break confidences simply because you ask it of me. That wouldn't be—"

"That would be entirely within my rights as your husband and more, entirely within the color of your character."

"Are you calling me a liar?"

"I'm complimenting you on your ability to see the world in its glorious shades of grey, actually. Most poor saps, especially so many of the young ladies you consider your peers, will only ever see the world in lines of black and white."

"That doesn't sound like a compliment to me."

"Nevertheless, it is one."

"And I suppose you see the world in what—puce and violet?"

"These days I only ever see it in red." Rhett frowned for a moment. "Now are you going to tell me who gave you that damn letter?"

"Don't swear. And anyways, I already told you all that I can."

"You already lied to me; let's not confuse semantics with substance."

"How dare you insult me—" But as the words sped out from her mouth, she was reminded of the awful woman from today and cut herself off. "It is from a friend and that is more than you need to know."

Rhett cast her a strange look and then to her astonishment, reached out, covering her small hands with his warm, large ones. They were softer than she remembered.

"Scarlett why do you have to be so damn stubborn? Who gave you the letter? Did they threaten you? Did they hurt you? I know I was teasing before, but you do look like someone's trampled all over you and tossed you into the swine pit." He lifted a hand and gently caressed her cheek. "Who are you afraid of, honey?"

Mystified by his softness, drawn in by his nearness, Scarlett said it before she knew what she was saying: "You."

Rhett's expression was unfathomable in the soundless minutes that ticked on. The silence reminded her of that suffocating stillness from when she had told him she loved him. A charged span of time that can only be measured by the sufferers it houses. Rhett dropped his hand away from her face and sat back into his chair, wordless and unknowable.

"I'm not the one you should be afraid of," he said at last. His voice was thick with something she could not define, but had heard before. "Now who's the letter from Scarlett? Or are you going to make me start listing off anyone with the last name of Butler?"

"What—what do you mean?"

"I mean exactly what I said. Now I could tear open the letter and read it but that might not be the person who delivered it to you. And frankly I care more about the messenger in this particular instance than the message."

He spoke so calmly, as if he were merely discussing the weather, that it unnerved Scarlett. His cool always disturbed her more than any violent outburst or surly epithet would have done. She'd grown up surrounded by men who couldn't keep their tempers, spitfires ready to explode at the slightest provocation, but Rhett's chilly reserve in the face of opposition was something she could never replicate, could never comprehend.

"Unfortunately," he drawled on, "the only persons I can think of that would cause so much clever chariness in my normally unimaginative wife all bear the Butler name."

His words, spoken in that smooth cruelty, stung. "Fine! You always needle me and needle me until you get exactly what you want," she seethed, jumping up from the chair and chucking the letter at Rhett. It floated feebly to his feet. "It doesn't matter anyway. Nothing matters anymore. I don't know why I ever cared about you or protecting you from your stupid family. Go on! Keep the letter. It's from your precious little sister to that calf-faced, coward Charles Hamilton."

Scarlett stood, with her fists clenched, every line of her body rigid with fatigue and fury. She couldn't think of anything bad enough to call Rhett. Those ties to her mother were almost completely severed, her ties to the Scarlett before Rhett nothing but gossamer memories. And it had all happened so quickly. Rhett and his family had all happened too quickly.

"Damn you," she swore, cutting that strand even finer. "Damn the whole lot of Butlers! I'm going home. I don't want to stay another day in the same hotel, in the same city with you or your nasty family!"

A strong hand lashed ahold of her arm as she twirled away, and in another fluid turn she was encased by Rhett's embrace. His hands massaged her shoulders and he pressed her face against his chest.

"I'm sorry, darling. Sometimes I forget how young you truly are."

She couldn't be sure but she thought she felt the brush of his lips on her forehead. She was shaking from the rawness of her anger and so it took her awhile to realize that Rhett was also trembling. Somehow the tremor of his body stilled her own and pushing ever so slightly away from him, she stared up into his face with innocent wonder.

"You're shaking," she said simply.

"It's cold."

She frowned. He laughed under his breath and sat down, pulling her on top of his lap. He played with the folds of her splotchy pleats for a moment before speaking. And in his voice, she detected something she had never before heard, never even imagined he could feel: fear.

"Who else have you met in my family, Scarlett?"

"What—"

He took a deep breath, the edge lifting from his voice, the tension from his arms. His eyes were clear when he looked at her. "Obviously you have met Rosemary. Have you met my mother?"

Scarlett hesitated. Did that brief, bizarre exchange with Eleanor at Aunt Eulalie's house really qualify as meeting her? She certainly couldn't say she knew her mother-in-law. But saints preserve her—she didn't even know the son, and she'd been married to him for weeks. Slowly, she nodded.

"And of course, you danced with Rockwell," Rhett said as an aside, causing Scarlett to topple off his lap.

"What?" she cried, staggering to her feet. "How long have you known?"

"Long enough" he cryptically replied. He stood back up and slid his hands into his pockets, a secret amusement in his eyes. "Well this makes things simple, doesn't it?"

"Simple? I don't see how any of this is simple."

"No? Well my family's continued interference has spared me some breath, if nothing else. I thought I would have to do more to convince you but I'm glad we are of the same mind."

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about us leaving Charleston."

"Us?"

Rhett grinned and bent his head to her ear, whispering, "Just because you kicked me out of your bed, doesn't mean I have entirely given up on the institution of marriage, Scarlett."

The muscles of his big body rippled against her dress, and, as always, the sense of his great physical power struck her like a blow. Her knees nearly buckled. Her breath blew out from her lips. Rhett stepped back, leaving a flush upon her cheeks and a chill upon her skin. She crossed her arms to try and keep out the sudden cold.

"Where are we going?" she asked distractedly.

"Since you are so adamant, we can make a stop at Tara, and even another one in Atlanta, since my sister seems to think you're trustworthy enough to deliver her letter. But we won't stay long in Georgia, we must continue on to our new apartment in New Orleans."

Unexpectedly, he walked away and shrugged out of his jacket, rolling up his sleeves, before kneeling in front of the fireplace and starting to pile logs into the empty grate."There's going to be a storm tonight," he observed. "I can feel it in the air."

Scarlett waited, mulling over the idea of New Orleans. It would be the farthest from home she had ever been, and despite her genuine homesickness, her heart swelled with sweet anticipation. New Orleans! It sounded like a song, some exciting, daring song. A carefree, youthful smile lit up her smudged face, as she crossed the room to where Rhett knelt. His back was to her and instinctively, she trailed her eyes along his wide shoulders, with a fascination that was as frightening as it was becoming familiar. The thrill of a new adventure, a fresh beginning matched the energy that emanated out from Rhett, enticing her in still new and confusing ways.

"You went all the way down to Louisiana to set up house for us?" she wondered aloud.

Rhett finished stacking the logs and struck the match against the flint, methodically setting the open flame to the kindling. Scarlett was about to repeat herself when he responded. His face was still set toward the young fire, his profile as sharp and tough as his voice. The harsh sound deflated the bubble of pleasant trepidation expanding in her breast.

"I always intended on leaving, and I couldn't see a reason to delay; particularly after Helena gave me a mouthful, and your fan, or what was left of your fan, after she had chopped it into little pieces." Rhett glanced over at Scarlett. "Or have you already met the indomitable Mrs. Rockwell Butler yourself? She's hard to miss—the largest woman you'll ever meet, with the bluest eyes you'll ever see."

Scarlett nodded, comprehension lighting up her face before grim anger clouded over it. "Yes," she clipped. "I've met her."

"Is she the reason for your raggedy appearance?"

Scarlett looked down, scowling even more deeply. "Not entirely her, at least, but she wasn't exactly nice to me this afternoon."

"Well, no, I imagine not, but she isn't exactly nice any given afternoon." Rhett laughed darkly, tossing one more log onto the fire. "Ironic, though, that you two are bound to hate each other when she might be the only woman on the planet who you would understand."

This time, Rhett's laugh at Scarlett's mollified expression rang loud and deep.