Somewhere in Haiti, 1801

Slashing. Cutting. Stabbing. Slashing. Cutting. Stabbing.

All the right moves, all the grace, the strength, carefully mastered in one daring dance, the dance of life and death.

He must have looked a beast, with the gore of thick blood on his clothes, and the fiery glare he bore, as sharp as his sword. He was a beast, thoughtless and wild. It was his element, and he roared as he jumped in again. Under the hot sun, all men bore the same color, and that color was red. Scarlet, more precisely. Light and dark, bright and dull, all shades mixing in and out. He breathed it, fed and drank from it, until oblivion shouted in his veins with a delirious bliss.

And as he raised his eyes to this wonderful landscape of death and destruction, two slanted black eyes glinted back at him with interest.

Everything stopped. Everything froze.

Those were two black pearls, perfect and mysterious, and he found his soul definitely sold to the devil. He tried to dismiss it, for there was nothing more glorious than a bewitching woman to woo after bloodshed. It was common, after all.

Yet, the lady was running away, sheltered by her slaves until she could take refuge in the church. He looked at the shadow of her until he felt the breath of one sword barely missing his nose.

The bells were ringing, the war continuing.

Nearly three months later, he managed to find who she was, and where she stayed.

Solange Prudhomme. Heiress to one important sugar plantation in the land.

Heiress to upcoming ruins. Upcoming ruins that he visited, by simple curiosity, he told himself. Yet, that curiosity turned to madness as his eyes caught her in the crowd that surrounded her.

She was there, a queen among her subjects, and ruled it with an efficient hand and authoritative yet soft voice.

"Ne me parlez pas de guerres, Messieurs. Parler de guerre est ridicule en cette saison, et non avenu. Si vous continuez, je jure que j'ouvrirai la porte et affronterai ce Toussaint moi-même. Bien que je répugnerai à faire du mal à toute créature sur cette terre."

From the look of her, he strongly doubted it. This was a woman like no other, that would be able to lead a battlefield. And her subjects were in awe, already praising her as if she was the next Amazon queen.

"Vous créeriez certainement du désordre," He quipped loudly and grinned as he finally had his attention. "Avant de vous faire violer et tuer quand l'un de ces hommes se rappellera qu'il en est un."

From all sides, all protested vividly and swore their willingness to protect their goddess to the death, quarreled about who would die for her first.

The subject on question though did not seem to care very much for the havoc they created. She was staring at him, and on her proud, haughty face came a look, almost of disgust and disappointment, yet with a certain alertness that she could not quite conceal, and he felt his heart dropping.

"Oh. Ce n'est que vous ."

And, looking back, Pierre Robillard thought it seemed as if history was repeating itself, and would repeat once again until the end of times.

….

...

...

Christmas 1862, Tara Plantation

Pa welcomed her with open arms, and the exuberant gestures made her feel warm, but Scarlett knew it wasn't exactly him, and she had the confirmation of it when he looked behind her, as if expecting something, before letting his shoulders drop, his brow furrowing in disappointment.

So, she smiled harder, as if nothing was left, and flattered him outrageously as she did once. But the grin was not to widen again. And she felt defeated by it, defeated by a feeling she only knew too well.

She remembered Melly, remembered their quarrels before parting, and felt a tinge of regret now that distance had been put between them. She could see things more clearly, but it did not lessen the hurt.

For a moment, Scarlett had hated her too. Hated that distant gentleness that touched without distinction with a cold touch, like a soft admonition: 'be a good girl. Don't move. Don't be too close.' Hated that this girl was even afraid of words to the point of not trying to utter them, and when they did, she would not abide by them.

But what she hated more was that these thoughts weren't hers exactly. They weren't Melly's exactly. They were someone else's, someone cynical and wild, that she would rather not think of. And she felt the missing of him quite acutely, without even wanting to think of him.

So, she continued and tried to dismiss it. But the more she tried, the more it hurt.

Just as all these little details she continued on and one to remark. The spaces left, the voices unheard...

She sighed. Peace was not for her in Tara, it seemed. Nowhere in Georgia, perhaps. Savannah was distant, almost missing, Tara silent and busy at the same time, Atlanta aching and shivering...

From Grand-Père only came a short missive, telling her he expected to meet her in Atlanta for the New Year's Eve.

And Randa...

She had met Randa the other day, and her friend was gloomy and restless, cursing on all men on earth for the fate of her sister and fiercely determined especially to ruin the one that had led her there.

After the birth of her baby, Hetty had run away, her precious bundle in her arms. The family raved and searched, yet until then, nothing had come. She had left her letter, telling everyone she had made her decision, and that decision was love, leaving Beatrice Tarleton, her husband and daughters bewildered that she would not choose to stay with a family that loved her.

Hetty was the most compassionate one, it was known, the prudent one. The most perceptive of the family. So many times had she been the cool hand to soothe her siblings' tempers that it was actually a surprise she would do such a thing. And yet, she had, and now the family regretted she revealed so scandalously she had any of the hot blood of theirs, for now there was no cooling off their feelings.

And Randa was her fiercest defender, though it did give her quite the side eyes in her family. Yet, her own feelings were hot.

Randa knew. Randa had listened. Her earlier reproaches had faded as she saw the passion in her sister's eyes, and the despair veiling them as she understood she loved the man still, and that he would not be allowed near the house, lest mother, brothers and sisters shot him for even trying.

She never said the name, but Randa was sure of it. It was that man, that Goldin which had charmed Melanie as well, and not even Scarlett, once musing that he must have had quite a busy schedule, with the harassment he had suffered from their brood, could make her doubt it. To that, Randa snarled it had to be him, relating how Hetty cried when her father, to cheer her up, attempted to play her some guitar. Goldin fancied himself an artist, so it had to be him!

Scarlett had only shrugged.

The Tarletons were stubborn to a fault. Once they had something in mind, they had to persist in it with shots and war cries.

As for Scarlett herself, if she thought of it, the idea seemed quite pleasant, indeed. That a treacherous man should seduce her own treacherous friend.

Why, serve her well, she thought with a pout. She was no better than herself, and certainly she, Scarlett, was not to apologize for remarking it!

Yet, it did not make her feel easy. Not at all.

She sighed and left untouched blancmange on her plate as Mammy gave her Wade reluctantly back to her arms at her demand, already too fond of the boy. Family... Thank God, her family wasn't that silly about honor!

But just as she thought that, Ellen O'Hara softly urged Gerald to announce one happy new.

Frank Kennedy was about to return with a lot of money from his deals, and, full of this adventure where he claimed he almost lost his head five times (only five! Thought Scarlett), he intended to make Suellen his bride.

The happy girl had rosy cheeks as Gerald swore it was about time. Yet, her hands were fidgety, and Scarlett couldn't help but notice it, just as she couldn't help wincing at the image of old Kennedy claiming any bride at all.

"Isn't it what you wanted?" She blurted out.

Her sister threw a dark glance her way, as if startled by such doubt. Her voice turned cold and low, from the side of her cheek as the others around applauded the match.

"Yes. Yes, it was what I wanted," Suellen swiftly retorted. "A marriage like Pa and Mother's. He'll take care of me."

Was it? Scarlett wondered. Suellen lowered her gaze and flushed.

"It's what everyone wants." Before finally dismissing it. "Tsk, you can't understand it."

She was about to ask about it when suddenly the peace was startled.

"What is it that I hear?" Came a deep voice booming in the room, startling Mrs. O'Hara with dismay. "Un mariage et je ne suis à nouveau pas invité?" In the scene came a grinning Pierre Robillard, his arms open as if to embrace the whole family, yet with gloves that covered his hands. "Hello, Gerald," He saluted respectfully, yet with conniving mischief in his eyes. "You seem tired, vieille branche. Does my daughter tire you so?"

"Father!" And there was something indeed of the indignant daughter in the usually poised Ellen O'Hara, and the startlement of it gave a more relaxed atmosphere.

"You're a good man," Gerald gave a lazy grin to Pierre as he squeezed back the hand that was offered. "Surprising as ever."

"I made a good entrance, you think? No, no, don't bother, I won't eat, dear heart," He berated Mammy softly as she was already mumbled about serving him a piece of cake, and bowed at the crowd, a born actor, smirking at his latest victim's blush. "Joyeux Noël, tout le monde! Le petit Jésus est-il déjà né?"

His eyes twinkled as he looked at the girls, from Carreen blushing with a girl's smile to Suellen's hopeful glance, before settling on Scarlett with a grin.

"Oh, le voilà."

Scarlett was tempted to smile as she saw him take Wade in his arms. Yet, Gerald's eyes suddenly turned, and it pained her as swiftly as if he had stabbed her to the heart. So, just as she did many things these days, she dismissed it, and crossed elbows with her grandfather, allowing him to lead her out of the table. "Oh, you're so very silly. Fiddle-dee-dee, comparing him to Jesus."

A conspiratorial wink was sent her way.

"You're right, ma chère. Knowing who's his father, I'm sure he would never be able to wear shoes with the size of his ankles."

"Why, his father always had small feet!"

Pierre roared in laughter.

"Oh, ma chère... Never say that to a man. You might offend him."

She stared, then shrugged.

"You seem upset," He noted. "What happened in Atlanta, Scarlett? Your last letter was quite... distant, I'd say."

"Oh, you've actually read them?"

"You're angry. Angry at a lot of people, I see."

She winced.

"Angry, and you don't want to be it."

"Grand-Père..." She faltered, her voice breaking as she looked at him, as she saw the trembling of his hand, and the end of the glove where she noted one hint of a fresh scar. "Where have you been ? What happened to you?"

"Une question à la fois!" His laughter boomed in the room, but she was no fool. "Oh, here and there, visiting friends."

Her brow furrowed deeper.

"Peculiar friends."

"Very peculiar," He quipped, slightly irritated by her insistence. "Scarlett, have you ever gone to Canada ?"

"Canada, uh?" She mused. "What is so special about it?"

"La famille, petite chipie," He chuckled. "Petit poisson rouge, have you forgotten where you come from?"

She batted her lashes. "From the mud of Tara ?"

His smile did not weaver. "That too, there is certainly a little clay dust on that adorable face." His bony fingers pinched the tip of her nose. She smiled and squinted, the bridge creasing in amusement as both pairs of eyes sparkled affectionately. "One of my cousin settled here with her family."

"Quite far away to make courtesy visits."

"En effet. But being far away is not a bad thing. Especially during that time."

She rolled her eyes. "No, Grand-Père, you won't make me go there."

"It'd be a little late for that. But one ought to try," He shrugged. "After all, I thought with you hiding there, one other place to hide would not be such a big affaire ."

She flushed. "I'm not hiding!"

"Well, well, ma chère. That's not how it looks."

She turned her head away in dismay.

"You're angry, alright," He said. "But do you truly want to be the one hiding?"

She winced.

"There's nothing for me in Atlanta."

"There are choices you need to settle once and for all, for you in Atlanta," He swiftly retorted. "And I'm not letting you drop them. I will not let you lose your spirit while not having lived. That's not what I want, and not what you want as well."

She snorted. "It seems everyone knows exactly what others want."

"Perhaps because I know what you are. Do you want it?"

Was it really what she wanted?

She was tired of hiding, of running. She was tired of being angry.

"You're not made to be angry, my dear," He insisted softly. "Believe me, you don't want to be it. Your grandmother became it, and it hurt her even more."

"And what am I made for?" She scowled.

"For happiness, dear. At least if you let yourself be."

Made for happiness, made to be loved, they said. Mammy, now him... And yet, love was not for her. It couldn't be. And she... she was not what she meant to be.

But who did she want to be, exactly?

Was she truly the one that had been so vicious to Melly? The one that was revengeful and bitter?

Or could she be more than that? More than all these quarrels and misjudgments?

Pierre Robillard leaned toward her with a knowing smile on his face and a gentle pat on her hand.

"I'll leave you to your thoughts. When you're decided, I'll get you back to Atlanta."

And he did right, for three days later, it was settled as Scarlett suddenly decided that Tara was quite a dreary place to pass the holidays, in fact. So it was a time for goodbyes and wishes for the new year, and she did her part to Mother and Carreen, but when it came to Suellen's part, she hesitated, before shaking her hand, and squeezing.

"Come see me soon in Atlanta, Suellen," she said suddenly, and it surprised even herself. "Why, as Grand-Père always says; 'Plus on est de fous, plus on rit.'"

Suellen's eyes widened at this, then narrowed, suspicious.

"You've never really laughed with me."

"Because we never had the same humor," She dismissed it with a wave. "But if you don't want..."

"I'll come," Suellen quickly, so quickly it even seemed to baffle her, how ready she was to leave. "Soon enough. If only so that the good society of Atlanta could see that the O'Hara's girls aren't all hoydens."

She only smiled and continued her way. The new her shouldn't be vexed, she thought. It was a childish thought.

Mammy enveloped her with her strong arms, and she swore she would melt in her embrace, until she promised she would come back soon and not forget to send news.

She turned to Pork, who was anxiously watching Gerald, whose gaze was faraway, expectant.

"Miss Scarlett..." The old man, the dear old man pleaded "Please do make yer fader smile before ye go. He be very upset... Yea... When he be smilin', everyting be alright. He be alright."

"How upset?" Scarlett brow lifted, a worried glint in her eye. "Pork, is there something you're not telling me?"

Her lids lowered as she thought of it, irises shaking ever so slightly as she counted it all, all the little details that she had wanted to dismiss, ignore, hoping everything would be just as it was. Pa's shaky nervousness, Mother's broken smile, the dust gathering around the corners...

"Where is Teena, Pork? And Rosa..."

"Dey be sick, Miss."

There was something very queer in the way he replied to her, so swift and avoidant, and it seemed he did not want to meet her eye. On her face, one brow lifted as she pondered over that new mystery.

"Both of them?"

He nodded once again, his chin trembling, and she stared.

He was lying.

She closed her eyes, opened them again, and went to see Pa with a wide, fake smile. He took her hands in his, and she felt surprised at how cold they were, and how truly tired he seemed.

Yet, once again, he refused to see Wade's face.

...

….

...

Atlanta, New Year's Eve, 1862

"I don't want to begin the new year angry."

These were the first words that were pronounced as Scarlett finally came back to Aunt Pitty's house and she met Hamilton eyes, pleading on her to forgive them and to stay forever by their side.

"Darling!" Melly cried, her two thin arms thrown over Scarlett's shoulders, giving her the impression of a warm shawl being tucked over her. "I've missed you so!"

"And I you." She admitted, and the chin lowered so that she could put her nose closer to the fresh lemony scent of her friend.

Fingers knitted in the long dark hair, tossing it tenderly, before nervously tapping in her shoulders.

"Scarlett... Scarlett, there's something I must tell you."

"Oh, Melly, no!" Scarlett protested, sitting back in dismay."From your face, I know it's something serious, and I don't want to hear it! I want no worry until the next year! Whatever you want to tell me would have to wait, lest you want me to scream!"

Melly's eyes softened.

"Alright, sweet-heart. I'll tell you tomorrow."

"You're a dear."

"Dinner's ready!" Uncle Peter announced with glee.

Scarlett blinked.

"Will there be enough for us?" She worried, though her stomach already protested and demanded. "We did not..."

"Oh, silly, there will always be enough for you!" Melly giggled. "I was so happy Mr. Robillard sent me a note saying he would come back with you."

She glared at her amused grandfather who shrugged at her with that very French way that meant 'Of course I did it. Why not?'. "He's very foresighted."

Dinner was composed with an attempt at the infamous coq au vin to celebrate Grand-Père Robillard's arrival, which had him chortle in his wine, barely refraining the biting remark that it was indeed a poor one, and that coq au vin certainly was no meal for a feast. Yet, at least, he mused he had managed to get one wine that would remedy it all, and the deep, red color soon seemed to dissipate on the ladies' cheeks. Discussion went just as easily as Melly settled on the piano and played a carol, her voice just the good note of softness for such a song. Aunt Pittypat gladly knitted and babbled about Mrs. Elsing's last meeting, and Pierre amused himself in discovering the mechanisms of her silly mind.

He was remarking on the happy contradictions to Scarlett, hoping to get a smile from her, when he finally realized with dismay:

"Scarlett, are you even listening to me?"

She was not. Instead, she had stopped abruptly before the window, her eyes captivated and already far away, almost misty in their bewilderment. She blinked once, and he shook his head in amusement.

"Tsk. In that, you look like your father. Always going from one thing to another, but very stubborn while doing so..."

He stopped at the sight of Scarlett's profile, the tense leaning of the window with cat eyes staring at on spot, alert and expectant.

"Mais ce regard..." He wondered with a breath short for a moment. "Your Grand-Mère used to have the same when she was angry with me. That accusing glare that told me the sight of me was a horror to her eyes. It took years to finally figure out it was especially because she wanted to come to me."

"I don't want to come to him."

"Oh, you do. But you're afraid," He looked once again at the window, pensive, then smiled a little. "He'll be waiting a long time."

"He'll get tired. Soon enough he'll decide he'll have more fun elsewhere," She whispered without thinking. "He doesn't need anyone."

"N'importe quoi. Everyone needs someone."

"He's happy on his own. In his own, adventurous, free way."

"If he were, he wouldn't be there," He remarked. "Does he know?"

She looked at the window, not daring to meet his eye.

"Yes..."

"Then, you know he won't give up."

Her fingers clawed at the curtain.

"That's not what he wants. That's just his pride leading him there. He's always been... so boastful."

"Beastful?"

"Boastful."

"Oh." He pondered it for a moment, before letting out a wide smile. "Tsk. Sometimes I swear these words sound the same."

Leaning over her shoulder, he looked at the direction of her eyes, and a tiny smile came to his lips. She shrugged, irritated.

"He doesn't respect me."

"He doesn't respect himself," Was corrected softly. "That man is angry at the world and wants the world to be angry with him."

She snorted, her head swaying with disbelief and dismay.

"Je sais, je sais, ma puce, tu es bien sceptique," Pierre Robillard chuckled as he looked at his granddaughter with fondness. With the strength of that feeling, his accent, discreet enough when he controlled, cut the vowels and roared a little like a pesky mosquito with a slight drawl on the 'th'. "Eh bien... sometimes, it is the most boastful that are the least confident."

Oh, he was so very insistent!

"Rhett?" She was tempted to laugh. "He's the most confident man I know!"

"Would a man confident in his strength be so determined to prove the others are wrong?" He relented. "A man who's confident about his own worth wouldn't care at all. I'm sorry, darling, that it might hurt your ears, but..." His grin turned ironical. "Ma chère, ce serait le cadet de ses soucis."

She pouted. "And I'm sure you're still polite."

"I am. The other words are quite... deplaisant," He bit on his pipe, and the object dangled on his lips as he talked. "Well, you can mourn all you want in self outrage. Or you could just talk to him. A toi de voir, ma fille."

"Fiddle-dee-dee!" She cursed, and the fingers gripped harder. "That's all nonsense!"

Yet, why did she feel as if she had already made up her mind?

And Pierre Robillard seemed to have felt it. He smiled in his own mischievous way, his eyes glinting. "You're certainly more forgiving than your grand-mother ever was," He shrugged pleasantly, before turning away with a dramatic air. "Eh bien... If he does something you don't like... Just remind him I'm there, and I'll be watching. And I was a franc-tireur before he ever learned to say 'shoot'... Which ironically, was his very first word, if I remember well..."

...

The night was fresh and pleasant, despite the heavy scent of the street that tinkled her nose. Dust and mud alike, earthy and dark, thick with the weight of blood and sweat.

Scarlett embraced her son closer to her chest, hoping her perfume might prevent him from getting bothered by it. Yet, there was a peacefulness on his face that surprised her, as if that scent of war was his very element. However, somehow, she understood.

It was her element as well. Theirs. And Rhett... She lowered her eyes to the crouched man at her side, and a fresh gulf of wind pushed her skirts against her legs.

His eyes went alight with the sight of her. His black lashes lifted for a moment, then went down slightly, following the descent of the black crepe over her body, softly, so softly, until she felt so very naked. She tucked Wade closer to her and sat carefully on the step.

"The Virgin Mary and her babe...Oh, that's just you, Scarlett." She ignored him, focusing on the wrinkles of her dress. "So, what brings you to my spot?"

"That's the porch to Aunt Pitty's house."

She faced his gaze for a moment, before turning deliberately to her son with a moue, her hand cradling his head, fingers threading through the thick black hair. She smiled a little and cooed lightly, hoping it might elicit his good mood. She needed him to appear happy, utterly happy with his mother, without a need for anything else. For anyone else.

But the baby remained quiet, as if perplexed by her will. She sighed in frustration, yet her eyes softened.

"There's the little monster."

She gritted her teeth, her irises snapping back to Rhett's form.

" My son ."

"Indeed. With a little help from the Holy Spirit."

"There's nothing holy about you," He laughed, and it echoed queerly in her rib cage. "He wanted to see you."

"Did he? Surprising. Has he been missing me?"

"Of course not."

"Of course not," He repeated. "Then it's curiosity perhaps that sent him there."

"Perhaps."

Thumbs rubbed against one another, and she looked at them, at the swarthy and surprisingly agile members that danced, caressed and scratched at the same time.

"He's calm." He remarked after a moment.

"Too serious," For a moment, she was tempted to tell him how she wanted to make him smile, to make him laugh. But she refrained from doing so. She had decided she would not let him in, and she would not.

"He's strong too," she said instead, softly.

He only nodded, and she did not know if he thought it a blessing or a curse.

What had happened to us? She wanted to ask. Why are we here?

She wanted to curl against him and forget it all. She wanted to be petted by him, to let him hold her into his arms and play with her hair.

But there was no turning back. Here they were, and here they'd stay. There was no turning back. She could not possibly forgive, especially when he certainly did not see that he had many things to be forgiven of.

"So. You went home."

She nodded quietly. Her heart squirmed at the word "home", and she wondered what he meant by that. Yet, she said nothing. She couldn't entertain it.

"Everything's alright there?"

"Everything's the same." Almost. Almost the same. And not at all. It would never be the same. Never without Rhett. She was forced to admit it, as much as her craving.

But could she confide in him? She wanted to, so much, for she knew it would bring the light to Pa's eyes. Oh, poor Pa! So sweet and buoyant, and now he was the shadow of himself, waiting for his body to return.

Rhett looked at the sky, and she wanted to see what captivated him so much, but Wade was hiccupping, and she tried to soothe him. Her worried mind buzzed as she flustered, aware of the attention it brought. Humming nervously, she swayed harder, and Wade wailed harder. Cries went up her throat and prickled in her eyes.

No, no, it couldn't happen in front of Rhett, not in front of him!

Oh, what would he think of her?

"Ssshhh..." Rhett's hand sneaked to her back, and she felt the pressure of his fingers, warm and so delightfully calm. "Easy, Scarlett. You're all nerves. It's alright... There... Sweet..."

It was something very primal, that touch on her, striking every place that gave her a feeling of relief and calm, like fresh water on her face. She leant on these fingers, like a cat under a caress, willing herself not to purr and reveal more of herself. It was already enough that he maintained such a power over her.

"Thank you." She said reluctantly.

He stared at her for a moment, and she could not quite see what was in these eyes. A revelation, perhaps. An understanding? But of what?

His hand retracted to join the other on his lap, and she cursed herself for missing the feeling of it.

"You've grown too fast. I suppose it's my fault, in part," he said quietly. "I've missed you."

This took her entirely by surprise, and for a moment, she was left gaping at him. He had always gone for the unexpected, but was it really what he thought? Or was it just part of a game, some twisted game that would come and bite her?

No matter about his saying it was his fault. She did not think he thought it, and she did not care. He had said he missed her.

And I too. And I too...

But she didn't say it. She couldn't allow it. She swallowed it down.

"Pa misses you."

An abrupt movement of his head told her it was a very sensitive spot he had not dared ask, and she guessed his own true reply. He had missed him as well.

"Does he?" Asked he lightly, however. "Perhaps. But I won't go to him. Not now."

"Why not?"

He gave her a lopsided grin.

"Because, my dear, I do believe he will only accept me if I come back with you in my arms..." He stared at her, as if gauging her reaction, before nodding. "No. Too soon."

Her eyes narrowed, the arched brows furrowing.

"You love him. Is that why you want me now? To get to him?"

"No."

Then why? Bright eyes turned to him, questioning. Is it only because of Wade? Why do you want me now?

He looked back, the question returned to her, lacking the first word, and she fidgeted.

She shook her head, trying to gather her thoughts. A thread of dark hair escaped her chignon and came grazing her brow. She needed to treat it lightly. It didn't mean a thing, after all.

"So. Are you making new resolutions?"

He smiled.

"More like a plan of action. I've been doing it quite for a while, you know."

"Oh really? And what do you plan?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

"I don't like surprises."

"Oh, you do."

"I like gifts. Not surprises."

"True enough," He tittered, before turning to her, his eyes for a moment serious. She watched the ardent coals flicker on her features, as if analyzing them closely. "I plan to make you dance. I've done it. I'll do it again. To make you smile and laugh. You smile less often, my dear, and it's a pity because you're more beautiful when you do."

"And when I laugh?"

"You're irresistible," He drawled.

"I didn't know you flirted like any beau."

"I thought I'd try to be at your level by behaving as you'd expect. How is it?"

"Terrible. You're not at my level at all."

He chuckled.

"I'm not a beau at all," He breathed out. "I plan to make you drop the black. This crepe is dreary on you and defies my purpose."

"So that was what it was all about. I thought it must be so. That was a pretty hat, by the way."

"Cutting off your nose to spite your face, aren't you, Scarlett?" His chest shook with a deep, guttural laugh. "For all my respect for Miss Hamilton, I'm afraid there's been a misunderstanding. It would have been prettier on your head."

She held her head upward.

"Don't flatter me. It doesn't work."

"It does. You can't hide that dimple, dear." His eyes devoured her, and he looked once at her lips. "I plan to kiss you."

Her shoulders trembled, and he fought the urge to place his hands on them. She hiccupped with an attempt at a nervous sneer and avoided his eyes.

"Ah! As if you could!"

"I think I can. But not now. You're like a ruffled little bird, and I don't think I would like to kiss a bird."

"From child to pet, and cat to bird! When am I to you a..."

She bit her lip, but it was too late.

"A woman?" He breathed out the words, as if baffled by them.

His brows knitted, and a shadow came.

"Yes, it must surprise you as much as it did me, I suppose," he said quietly. "I've seen a child that ran on the clay and climbed trees. A fierce little thing that looked from ahead and attacked, and yet was ready to jump to get what she wanted. I've seen that girl growing, questioning the world, and I wanted her to follow my tracks, even if only for the amusement of it. I've seen her bloom, and it caught me by surprise. From amusement to tenderness, from tenderness to surprise, surprise leading to speculation, I must admit, and then..."

And then, she did not want to hear any falsehood. Her heart wouldn't take it.

"And then you've used me." She quipped, and it felt as if she had slapped him. "As if I'm something to sell and be bought as it suits you!"

Something shifted in his eyes as she said the last part. Surprise, perhaps. Incredulity.

She was not angry at him for that night in the cotton. She was angry at his dismissal. His many dismissals.

She flushed as the suggestion came to her mind but held on.

Well, no matter what, she was angry at him and would not back down!

Angry, but not indifferent, he remarked.

"No, I do see it now." He answered, alert, and looked at her over, before sighing. "It would never work with you, wouldn't it? I'd try to buy you, and if it pleased you, you would take it. But it'd be your pity I'd buy. Your reluctance. Not you."

His brow was lowered to his intertwined fingers for a moment. Crouched posture for a man that still managed to tower over her while still being in a position of vulnerability.

"And yet, there's no turning back now..."

She huffed at the resignation of his words, not knowing exactly why she was offended by it.

"Oh, I know you. If you wanted to turn back, you would without hesitation. You'd find a way," Her head turned to her son, anchoring herself to his eyes, so dark and serious. Searching, searching for that love that should be hers, that should be shown openly. "You're no man to be pitied."

"Indeed. And yet, I'm here."

And yet, he was here...

She bit her lip, but the question came anyway.

"You didn't win it, did you? That bet..."

"What do you think?"

She did not look back. Only heard him shifting, his big body hovering over her as he tried to see her face. She squirmed under his scrutiny and squared her shoulders, the hair on her neck ruffling angrily.

"I'm not to be the replacement of your sister."

"You never were. Never could be."

She bit her lip. What was he saying? What was it? Did he mean to say she could not compare to the great sister of one Rhett Butler? She felt indignant. That big silly goose that thought too highly of herself?

Or did he...

She felt dizzy with the thoughts.

Oh, it didn't matter! It didn't matter anything he said, or anything she'd said!

"You're jealous," he said, and she was about to reply sharply when he chided softly. "Stupid, stupid girl. I am here. You have all the cards in hands, and it's up to you to play them. What do you think?"

It was a trick. A good old trick of his. One that was supposed to make her feel safe, in control, when in reality she wasn't.

"I think you're out of your mind."

His breath was hot on her ear, and it spread to her cheek like a kiss.

"I think you want me to kiss you."

She looked away, afraid with her hope, of the warmth in her belly, embarrassed of its growing.

"How about you kiss a snake and leave me alone?

White teeth gleamed at her in the darkness.

"I did. Once."

She snorted and rolled her eyes.

"Why doesn't it surprise me?"

"There. You smiled to me."

She tried to make it disappear but couldn't.

"It's all a game to you, isn't it?"

"Life is a game, darling, so why not playing it?"

A curious thought came to her, and she couldn't help it anymore. It crumbled her walls, breaking her in half in a wild laugh. His brow creased, though he seemed happy enough.

"Second victory. Though I would like to know what could be so funny."

"Why, it's so funny, because you talk and talk about kisses, but I've been stealing them from you so many times, and you didn't see!"

She bit her lip. She had not meant to say it.

"So that was you."

He let out a wild roar of laughter, and it was merry. Her arched brows furrowed as she looked at him.

"Now, what are you laughing about?"

Laughing about how the one thing that I thought would get my mind off of you was yourself, he thought. Yet, he couldn't say it. Not now.

"A private joke. I'll tell you later."

"Well, I'm not interested in it," She huffed. "As for that plan, I shall thwart it all. You'll not have more from me. I'll be the perfect lady even if that means I shall never leave that place!"

"It doesn't begin well," He grinned. "You're out, dear."

"It's a truce. For Wade's sake. It won't happen again."

"Then, I'll try harder," He whispered confidently. "Not to mention you have a debt to me. For every kiss you stole from me, you owe me at least as many. If not more. It's quite a grave prejudice you did me, and I do expect interests."

She felt herself trembling as her mind began to count.

"God's nightgown! What do I care about your interests?"

"Because they are yours, Scarlett."

The clock of the city rang, final and loud.

"Oh. The year is over," she said stupidly.

By a knuckle, he drew her face to his, and it tickled her skin pleasantly. He kissed her, his lips brushing over hers in a passionate promise that made her spine straighten to lean into his embrace. Yet, all too soon, it was finished, a simple caress that left her holding desperately on a rope as she wondered for a moment how it was that she did not fall when the dizziness had been so inviting. His eyes were soft as she opened her eyes, and his hand warm on her cheek.

"Happy New-Year, Scarlett."

Around her shoulders, he put his mantle and joined the lapels on her throat like a cloak. She felt the tip of his thumb grazing her skin, and for a moment, she thought he was going to kiss her again. She expected it, no, wanted it. His breath was warm, his eyes bright with fire, and she wanted to burn. She closed her eyes and waited. But leaned toward him, she realized she could not get enough. The scent of smoke, horses and whiskey intoxicated her, led her home to them, to Tara and the time of innocence and expectations. She wanted to fall again, fall again to his strong arms and rest there until she had her full.

And when he turned away, and she was left with the warmth of his coat and Wade's tender, sleeping weight on her lap, she realized some terrible things.

She had already forgiven him all. And hope, that rose with many thorns, was already blossoming before her eyes.