Hello everyone!

Here it is, two chapters for the price of one:) Will you be happy for it, or curse me for them, that, I don't know, but I can't wait to have your reaction!

Linda: Thank you for your honesty and appreciation for my earlier work. I appreciate it! Don't worry, I completely understand that it is not to your taste and like that you chose to discuss it with me. I admit I may have dragged it a bit too long. To be true, in a Million Nights, I guess I took it in part as a test to see just where I could lead the characters, the limits of it. With WtWB... Well, it's more about exploring the emotions of the characters, show what can make them blind, how they interpret things... Not to mention it gives another dimension in Rhett and Scarlett's relationship I wanted to explore. In canon, Rhett seemed rarely to have any feeling of responsibility for what Scarlett had become, and in my story, the fact that he had a hand in it... well, that is what unsettled it all. In canon, mostly, she does a thing, he riles her and she takes the bait, and he always wins. Here, he cannot win as easily, for the ignorance canon Scarlett has is not as potent as this story's Scarlett. So they battle on and on, and truly, any plan has to be rethought quickly, barely elaborated, for the two of them adapt much too quickly, it's almost an instinct. For Rhett, it is much more elaborated, clearly, for he is used to it. But for Scarlett... It is not in her nature to fight against someone she loves (bully a bit, yes, but not thwart), and each time she thinks she had guessed him right and finally she will find a way out, the tables turn, and her certainties fall with it. She is often faced between what she truly wants, and what the reality of a fight that keeps going and she doesn't know how to get herself out (and he doesn't as well). In the end, the more it goes on, the more the sense of it as it was the beginning seem to fade in their eyes. Canon!Scarlett does not have this conflict, when she has a plan, it is much clearer-minded. At least, that's what I try to portray. The thing for me is to try to make them... Well, let's say drop weapons (pun intended)... Well, sorry for the rant, I hope, if you are reading this, that I did not bore you!

Guest: Thank you for your review! Well, for the examples you mention, I very much think some of them were on drugs... I don't do that, of course, but I am very glad you like my kind of craziness. I hope you will like the rest!

All of my love,

Elise

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End of August, September 1863. Somewhere, in Mexico

A heart is a fragile, yet easy thing to dig out. It requires softness and tenderness, and treasures of patience.

It is not a heart the young man is digging out. This is a more, much more ancient thing. Yet, almost as delicate. It is filled with foreign History, and he can't wait to see what secrets it can contain. He can almost see the shape of it, round under his fingers. He pauses in front of it, thinking, before lifting his head. He is about to ask a question, but before he even utters, a loving hand put a brush with soft hair on his palm. His fingers almost close around it, touch another skin. For a moment he stares into clear, loving eyes, full of longing and hope. For a moment, he feels grateful, and full of love and desire. It is their moment, only theirs. He wants to reach for her, to take her in his arms and tell her he is hers, and she is his.

Then, the eyes become dark, and he recalls his honorable father's hard stare, and this glare is tainted with the worst of betrayals. He feels shame, deep shame, like a little boy. A little boy, and a little girl. She does not understand, the poor soul. How can he begin to explain to her what himself, he can't?

And yet, he can't let go of her. He is weak and selfish.

His hand shakes, so does hers. The brush falls. A clatter shakes their core. She turns her head, her eyes wet with tears. She says she's sorry. She says not to be angry with her, she did not mean to. He bows, feeling the pain. He should be the one apologizing. Yet, he can't. The words are stuck in his throat, he can't get them out.

A heart is a fragile, yet easy thing to dig out. It is also a easy thing to break.

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.

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Atlanta, by the same time

Wade had barely fallen asleep in the train until the very end, tucked under her arm despite the heat. His little brow glistened with little beads of perspiration. It did not seem to matter, the number of times Scarlett tried to wipe them with her handkerchief. They always seem to appear on and on.

It was Dilcey this time that accompanied them, to help for the marriage preparation, and Scarlett found herself appeased by the quietness of the woman, and the elegant dignity and strength she exhaled, sat with poise in front of her, her brown eyes bright with intelligence. She had not talked much, but all that she said was to the point, with a brisk efficiency she admired. She gave quiet, gentle advice, on how to soothe Wade during the travel, in a way that did not make the young lady feel as if she had failed. She would say no flattery, but her soft nod was enough to reassure Scarlett.

Prissy had been left behind at Tara with her stepfather, and the goodbyes between mother and daughter had been unsettling to Scarlett to say the least. Unsettling because the obvious adoration of the girl, and the soft reserve of the mother were a sharp reminder of a time when she herself had been a girl and had wanted nothing more than a tender pat on her cheek, a tender gaze. She was once again reminded that not all mothers loved the same, but this time, she accepted it more quietly. She was but too much aware now that she wouldn't have loved her child as well herself if she hadn't found bits of hers and Rhett's in him, and loved these bits to pieces. Perhaps, perhaps, she wouldn't have felt anything at all… If she hadn't loved Rhett…

She blinked, then turned her mind to other thoughts.

Who was Prissy's father? Had he been imposed on Dilcey?

That, she would never ask the woman. She was not a fool enough not to know that "marriage" between slaves, especially from two different plantations, were often mere farces for the owners' entertainment. Very few were made out of love, she thought, and perhaps with Pork…

She did not dare to think further. Marriage was seldom an affair of love, she was learning. It was more of interest.

Wade's head wiggled as he attempted to get rid of the lingering marks of sleep, and as he blinked, she smiled, her throat tight with fondness. His thick black hair was wet on the side, and messy on the other. She kissed his brow, and attempted to comb it with her fingers. His little mouth pouted.

"Mama," he mumbled. "We there?"

"Yes, sweetheart," she hummed. "Wait a little, and you will see, Melanie will welcome us with a glass of water and a piece of cake."

"Two," he countered, still half-asleep.

She smiled. "Two, sweetheart."

One of his eyes opened, his brows knitted together, and mouth almost ready for a smile. "Tree?"

"Three? Fiddle-dee-dee, Wade Hampton, you do have a sweet-tooth!" She chided. "You shall have three pieces when you will be able to show it to me with your fingers."

His hand eagerly rose, all five fingers giggling in front of her and she laughed.

"Oh, Wade… that's not it, sweetheart. "

"F…." He stammered, furious. "Dee dee! Fff-dee-dee!"

His brows furrowed in vexation. He stared at his fingers like they were his enemies, and she laughed even more with his attempt to repeat her cursing. She had long realized that if he could say some words, recite some numbers in order, he was still not able to associate them precisely with what they meant in reality. Two in his little mind meant more than one, and three, even more, and nothing more.

She took comfort in that little failure of his. It meant there were things he could not understand.

"He's a precocious un," said Dilcey with a soft smile. "You iz proud of him."

Scarlett beamed. "He sure is, isn't he?"

She teased his knitted brows with a kiss and he grumbled a little. Still, he held her tighter, and closed his eyes again.

"it ain't goin' ter be easy for him. Nor for you."

Bigger hands on the little hands, caressing the clenched little fingers, the mother curled around her son's frame, her brow darkening. "I know."

She felt she knew him now, that little lion of a son she had. At least a little more. She knew when he wanted her close, and knew when he wanted to be alone. She knew that when he was tired, he would be the most restless, until his little body could not hold him anymore. She knew when he was curious about something and knew when he wanted to tease. And, oh boy, was he a teaser already!

And ever since that night, when she had seen him with the children of Tara… she had never felt him more hers than ever before. The deep, red clay of Tara would always join them together. They came from it, and it called to them. It was in their blood.

This was a new certainty she held on to, and which brought her a sense of relief and belonging she lacked until then.

He was his father's son. His eyes, so observant and dark, the color of his skin, his changing ways and clever mind… they were Rhett's. But he was also his mother's. He had Tara's blood in him.

So little, and yet already so full of the best of them both.. She smiled, and her face lit with ferocious pride.

Him, she could love him freely, as deeply as she wanted. If he used her love, she knew she would never be destroyed by him.

It was in a happier mood she came back to Miss Pittypat's house, and if the lady of the house could barely greet her, so gently excited by everything that was happening, Scarlett at least accepted the welcome gratefully. Dilcey was sent to see Wade to a proper nap and his promised cake and Uncle Peter took care of the packages.

There was a little box of needles in the entrance, still unopened, and she saw it was from Frank Kennedy. She dismissed it quickly. It must have been a former gift. Why would he send some now? After Suellen's departure?

However, before she could think further about it, Melanie called for her and took her into her arms.

"Melly!" She greeted.

"Oh, you look so very fine." Melanie tucked her chin for a moment on her friend's shoulder and closed her eyes with a smile.

And Melanie looked thinner. There were more angles on her face than there had been before. Her eyes had lost some of their brilliance. Scarlett felt her nervous, coddling hands pat her cheeks, her shoulders, and then idle around the hem of her shawl.

"You seem… upset," Scarlett said.

The lovely face dropped.

"It is nothing."

She put her hand on hers.

"Do you still think of…"

"Not that!" Cut Melanie, flinching from the touch. "Not that…" she faltered. "I… Well… I've heard about Tara."

"And?"

It seemed to give her strength.

"I know you do what you think is right, my darling…"

"But?"

The line between her brow creased.

"But if you do… if you free the darkies, where should they go, the poor souls?"

Taken aback, Scarlett had a slight move of withdrawal. She had expected talks of the lost groom, still obviously cherished from the lack of care on herself. No clear mention, but a presence nonetheless, like that of a ghost lingering.

Not any mention to what had happened in Tara on the doorstep. She took her hand back and went past her in vexation.

"Mother of God, somewhere where they wouldn't be poor souls! I don't believe they have to be guided more than us. It will happen anyway. "

However, Melanie kept going.

"Don't you realize? And the others… If you think so… if it is true… then what are we fighting for? Why did so many die?"

She whirled back, her hands on her waist.

Indeed. Why did so many die? She almost said, almost repeated.

But as soon as she thought it, came the suspicion that what happened in Tara had already rippling effects here, in Atlanta, something she had thought she knew, however was not prepared to just yet.

Had Melanie been bullied by others for her actions? She asked herself. Had it had any consequences on her life, the way she was treated?

"Yes, I know…" Melanie softly said after a moment. "I know that Charles died for… a cause that may seem foolish for you, and furthermore, he did not die fighting. I am not a fool, I know sometimes life has to change, even if we aren't prepared to it. But he believed in it, and for that, I cannot find it meaningless. And with Edward lost to me… I cannot let it go like you do. I love you, but… It is what I've always lived in, in a world where chivalry exists, and there is no higher thing than love and honor…"

The tension between Scarlett's shoulders faltered. No, of course. No one would go against Melanie, with the way she talked, and how she kept believing.

If there was a conflict, it was perhaps in herself. Still in herself.

You cannot let it go, because people like you are cherished in it, Scarlett thought, but she was surprised to realize it was without any bitterness in it. You will never truly see as I do, because you never were forced to look. No, in fact you do not want to see it.

She could not hate her for that. No, she could not hate someone for not wanting to look, when she herself hadn't wanted to.

She nodded and joined her, taking back her thin hands in hers.

"No, Melly, of course, I do not ask it of you."

Relief came to the round face, moistening the eyes. Melanie almost smiled.

"I am glad that you accept it."

Her brows suddenly puckered again in worry.

"But have you thought about what others might think?"

One lock of raven hair came to her eye as she stubbornly shook her head.

"I don't care. But I'll have to do as if I care, which I hate. Do you?"

Melly's hand slowly joined Scarlett's, taking it with tenderness. "Not if I'm with you. As long as you believe in what you do, I shall support you, in whatever… scheme you want me to be in."

So, she was ready to lie for her?

Scarlett softened. "How are you, Melanie? Truly? "

The head dropped with a weak smile, and never had Scarlett thought as much before that Melanie seemed like a wilted flower.

"I am better," Melanie sighed, visibly used to the question. "And I am so happy for you. Soon will be your day. I am fine. Really fine."

"She is as fine as a crying meadow, "Randa's voice interrupted them. "But she is getting better. It is good to see you, Scarlett."

Melanie let out a sheepish smile.

"Randa takes great care of me," she admitted. softly, her big brown eyes drawn to the carpet. "Oh, I shall ask for refreshments. I've made some lemonade. Captain Butler was so kind, making sure I had some lemons. You must be exhausted by your travel."

Scarlett took advantage of her departure to lead Randa to the parlor, eager for an answer.

"Has Aunt Pitty bullied her?"

Randa snorted.

"Not as you would have. She mostly moaned about "that unfortunate incident" and talks about Ashley. Listening to her, I don't know if I should have distracted her from that. But I am happy to say Melanie stood her ground."

"That's… good." Scarlett was disbelieving.

"She actually impressed me."

"Now, I believe it is too much to be true."

Randa let out a little grin as they settled on the sofa.

"Perhaps. There were a few times when she forced herself to agree," she admitted. Then, after a bit of silence: "Do you have direct news from Fairhill?"

"I've seen your mother. But…"

Randa scoffed.

"She must have been too glad something happened to make the scandal of her deflowered daughter forgotten, if only a moment!"

"Randa!" Scarlett admonished. "Your mother was lovely. I cannot fault her. Especially with the support she gave Pa."

"I suppose so. Ma is fierce when she likes people. Don't mention it. I believe she also is amused by it."

A mischievous glint came to her eyes.

"You should have waited for me to do what you did. Thunder, liberating the slaves! I am sure you and your family managed to offend all the County! And here I thought we would only hear about the MacIntoshes doing such things! Why do you do your most scandalous things when I'm not there?"

"It is not I..."

Randa waved her hand.

"Well, of course, it is you!" She squeezed Scarlett's fingers with the others. "Don't worry. I am sure anyway that it will all be alright. After all, your bad weeds are too deeply in to be uprooted."

"Shut it, Randa," Scarlett could not help but giggle. "When you talk like that, I can almost hear Grandma Fontaine!"

"I miss her. Last time I saw her, she seemed… a bit forlorn. Have you seen her?"

Scarlett shook her head. After a moment of awkward silence, Randa leaned in confidence.

"Ma told me in her last letter she saw Edward Goldin."

"What?"

"He's searching for the baby. Says he will pass it as his own… then, he will marry Hetty."

"What does your sister say about it?"

"Does she have a say?" Randa replied grimly. "I don't even know if she met him. It all went do quickly. But…"

"The refreshments !" announced Melanie from the kitchen, with her sweet voice turning into falsetto.

"It's getting worse and worse," Randa grumbled.

"What did you say?" Melanie said, perplexed, as she helped Cheyenne with the carafe and glasses.

"Nothing. Thank you… very refreshing, the… what is it, you said?"

Scarlett could not help a grimace as she herself took a sip.

It was all too sour.

All seemed to pause for a moment, as both friends tried to find a way not to disquiet Melanie.

She sipped it herself.

"It is horrible, isn't it?" Finally, the girl laughed, the kind of laughter that always bring others, and that made her spill tears.

And this was settled.

"Where is Carreen?" Asked Scarlett after a moment. "I would have thought she would be happy to see me."

Melanie bit her lip, while Randa pursed hers.

"Oh, of course, she would have, darling! But... Carreen is at bed. She had been feeling very tired these days. Not about you, of course!"

"More troubled about how to get rid of mosquitoes bothering her," Randa mumbled.

Scarlett was intrigued. However, even had she tried to ask for more, she was soon called by Cheyenne to the kitchen. Then, she would forget it completely.

After briskly discussing the supplies, the girl finally came to the point.

"Miz… you shouldn't have talked to Miz Melly like that. She is not one to understand. It is not her world."

Scarlett sighed. "I suppose so."

She took a step toward the natural child of John Wilkes, feeling the moment was right.

"Cheyenne. You must have known what happened at Tara."

"Ah done know, Miz."

"Then, you must know I will not force you to stay by my side. You have no debt to me. Or this family. Your mother will still be taken care of. If…"

The girl shook her head vehemently.

"Ah shall leave one day, Miz. But not kain decide ef ahm indebted to you or not. It's not for you to decide."

"Then what do you want?" Said Scarlett, a little vexed.

"Ah want…" she cleared her throat. "I-I want ter be able to look down on dem."

"Them?" Scarlett stood back, puzzled.

A flare was suddenly glaring in her gray eyes as she took confidence.

"Wilkes. They looked down on me. I want to look down on them. Ah want dem to ask me for help, and ter be able to say nah."

It made Scarlett lift her brow in disbelief.

"And you think you shall achieve this by serving me."

"You and yer husband… ah know you always find way to go up. There will be many places you will see and… I want to go up as well. Ah woan be free now. It's too early, and it would do you harm now people thinking I'm not yer slave, when others are already gone. But one day, little by little… I want to see the world, have an education and be greater than them.. I want you and him to find a way to make me."

She was tempted to laugh.

"Mother of God, you have some ambition! And what should you give us in return?"

"You're not farsighted, Miz," Cheyenne said brusquely.

Scarlett's bottom lip quirked in vexation. She began to turn away.

"I am beginning to rethink it."

"Ah mean… you've got cunnings. But you lack a vision. When you trick, you doan think about what will happen tomorrow, and the morrow after that… I've seen you. Tis true. You managed to trick Mr. Kennedy to go take all dat money, but truth is that it was more to spite Capt'n Butler. Always about him, you don't think. And… beyond dat, you dunno know what to do wit de money. Except guard it."

"How dare…"

Scarlett tried to find the words to say, however it was of no use.

She could not fight it. It was true. But how galling for it to be said with these pale gray eyes looking at her!

However, these eyes, she realized… they had seen many things. They had thought many things that she, Scarlett, indeed, had not taken care of pondering. This put her in a whole new light.

"And what… do you suggest ?"

"You don't trust Capt'n Butler. I know you don't. You need someone to trust, and who can think what you kain."

Scarlett clucked her tongue.

"I have my friends."

"They are ladies. Ladies cannot always be there."

"And I suppose you are the proper person?"

The young woman nodded.

"Because Ah am, Miz. Ah... I am invisible, as a servant, I am… Just here. People look down on me. What they say to me, they can dismiss. But it made me learn ter see people. As dey are. As they could be. Ah just doan… don't know how to trick them."

A brow was lifted at that insolence.

"And I do. "

Cheyenne nodded. "I know you. And you know me. I want to keep being with you. I want to know the people you will know. Learn from them."

She hummed.

"You are talking as if I am going to leave Georgia."

"You will, Miz."

"I don't believe it will ever come to it. But," A reluctant smile came to the raven-haired lady's lips. "I do like the idea of you taking India and Honey down a peg. I'll think about it. If we ever leave."

Cheyenne said nothing more, quietly lowering her head in apparent submission, and taking the way to the kitchen.

"Scarlett! What are you doing?" Melanie's voice called her. "There are two boxes waiting for you from your luggages ! Uncle Peter wants to know what you want to do with them!"

As she joined them, she had to cross a very irritable Uncle Peter, who grumbled about her copiously, stared at her for a moment with suspicious eyes, before taking the stairs. She ignored him, and put on a smile.

There, on the dinner table; were Rhett's box, which she had not wanted to open, for fear of being tempted by it, and another she hadn't known was there. Dumbfounded, pressured by Melanie and Randa's looks on her, she unsealed it, and stared in disbelief.

It was Mother's wedding gown, the one she had taken to marry Charles. On it, was a little note with her beautiful, elegant handwriting, and she read it more to enjoy the shapes of the letters, than for the meaning that came to her slowly.

Her mother was giving her a choice.

So this meant… her eyes went to Rhett's box.

Two dresses. Two possibilities of a future with Rhett.

Her head was reeling with all these possibilities, giving her vertigo.

With slightly trembling hands, she opened Rhett's box.

So long, she had tried to dismiss her temptation, but now...

She allowed herself to finally look and sighed.

The dress was beautiful. Pure white, with a pertness that made her think of when she was still a young girl, so full of love and dreams for Rhett. She touched the fabric, and it felt like skin, teased the fringes on the décolleté.

She wanted to try it. She needed to try it.

"Come on," urged Melly with excitation. "Do try it."

And she did. And it made her feel metamorphosed. It fitted. It fitted so rightly!

"You are beautiful," Melanie said softly, a look of admiration in her tender face. "But… Do you like it?"

She stared at her reflection on the mirror. There, she was confronted with the harsh reality, as she stared at Melly and Randa's reflection. Her shoulders fell.

It wouldn't have shocked anyone, had it been her first wedding, had it not been in the middle of the war and the supplies weren't so difficult to get.

In fact, it would have been the perfect dress, had he stayed that fortunate day. Her father would have led her to the altar then. Her heart would have been filled with joy…

It wouldn't have shocked anyone, then. But now… could she risk it?

And he wouldn't have been happy, she forced herself to think, else he wouldn't have left her. And seeing him, restless, so eager to run… it would have ruined it all.

She was confronted with two choices. Two futures.

But why was she feeling like she was confronted with the past once again, coming to nag her ?

Truth was that she could see herself in neither of them. In truth, what she wanted was that dress she had once put on with Melanie, when she had thought at least her friend would be happy.

But this one, she would never have.

"You don't like it," Randa voiced.

She wanted to get it done as quickly as possible, and for the sentence to be said once and for all. She had been waiting long enough. Long enough to be tortured by it.

"I don't know," she whispered. "I don't know…"

"Oh!" Cried Melanie as she dug more into the box. "There's a Honiton veil to go with it…" She marveled as she touched the light, so light veil, that seemed to have been the work of spiders, so thin it was. "It is so delicate. So pretty! Will you wear it, Scarlett?"

"It would be unseemly," she feebly said.

And yet, for a moment, she imagined herself in it, a young bride happy to be married, with in her hands a bouquet of white flowers. When she would sway, the ruffles would dance prettily with her, and the veil would gently caress her feet.

.

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September 11th

She was coming back from the hospital when she heard Rhett had come and had been invited to wait for her in the study. Miss Pittypat said it to her with flushed cheeks, excited eyes and fidgeting hands, and it took time before she even could explain, and the tentative left her breathless to the point that she excused herself and went to her room, demanding her salts.

When Scarlett joined him, he was quietly reading a copy of The Great Expectations.

The book gave out a deaf thud as he closed it, uncrossed his long legs and rose to greet her. The fresh, clear linen of his clothes clashed delightfully with his tanned skin, giving him an air of fresh crispness in such a heated Georgian summer she wanted to sigh. Her own dress was still heavy, with too many layers that had made her hot and uneasy as soon as she had set a foot outside.

His eye gave out a happy gleam when he saw her. She felt his hands slowly, carefully caress her arms, her shoulders, his touch lingering a bit too much for her sanity as he took her shawl off her and laid it to rest on the desk.

She stood still, bewildered and a little breathless, until he went back to his chair and invited her to sit, every inch the master of the house.

How changing he was! She thought.

"So. I believe I should soon lose my freedom by the morrow."

She blinked, and her mouth curled in dismay. Of course he would think that. She bit the insides of her mouth, trying to crush the little bit of vexation that pricked her. She had known it all along. Yet, why was she still disappointed?

"So should I," She uttered in the same tone.

She watched for any sign of irritation, of chagrin, for any tightening of jaw, any fire in his black eyes.

No, he rather seemed… amused by her attempt to examine him.

She clucked her tongue, dismayed. Her cheeks reddened.

He looked like a man that knew he would win in the end, a man that took pleasure in her eventual defeat, and would certainly delight even more in rubbing salt over her wounds.

Her future husband. Her greatest enemy.

She hated it. She hated it so very much!

However… she could not deny him being a victor was part of what she loved about him. Her upper lip trembled.

He arose once again, prowling toward her in his linen suit, and she could see the tightness of his muscles under the fabric. She tried not to look, tried to keep her eyes lowered on the carpet, set in a dignified, haughty expression, but that was all lost when his index pushed gently her chin toward him, forcing her to meet his laughing gaze.

"I should think I am the one that should complain the more. But well, we can at least make it pleasant, don't you think?"

Through the slits of her eyes, she tried to appear unfazed.

"Pleasant? How so?"

"Wait a little dear, you will like it, I assure you. Drink," he poured and put glasses down like peace offerings, on the little table between them. "If you have to marry me, you'll have to prepare yourself to learn new things."

Her fingers gave a tremor when reaching for her glass, and she was so offended by her own nervousness that she abruptly took it and decided to gulp it down quickly, if only to make him swallow his mocking little smile.

"Not so quickly, my little impatient!" He rushed to her, taking the drink from her and gently pushing it away from her lips. His finger grazed the flesh, catching one remaining drop. His eyes were merry, almost tender.

He licked his thumb in an absentminded way, still staring at her, finished the glass in a gulp, and regained his place, but it was too late. She was drawn to that hungry mouth. And a bit dizzy as well.

She pressed her legs together and forced herself to look down. Her cheeks burned with shame.

He gave her a questioning gaze, until something shifted, and his mouth quirked, almost in amusement, almost in… want.

His fingers tantalizingly tapped on the arm of his chair.

"Why are you here, Rhett ?" She finally managed to say.

She heard the soft whisper of velvet as he leaned forward, toward her, felt the burn of his eyes on her.

"I want to make a deal with you, my dear. You win, we live on your terms. Whatever they are, however ridiculous they are. You say it, we do it. I win, you will have to bend to my words as soon as I say it. Quite a simple enough deal."

Her eyebrow shot up, quizzed.

"There's a trick."

"How very suspicious of you," His eyes gleamed pleasantly. "It is just a simple game of cards."

"A simple game of cards that is bound to decide our lives."

He shrugged.

"Well, life is a game, I'm sure your Pa would agree. Why not honor him in that ? It certainly worked for him. Don't you have the luck of the Irish with you?"

Her eyes darkened. She was tempted to smile. If she won… she could get him to go to Pa without a fuss! She wouldn't have to plead, she would just demand it of him!

He laughed. "I see now how much you like this idea!"

She did not admit to it.

"Which game should we play?"

"Battle."

Her lips pursed.

Battle? Did he think her a child that could not comprehend the complexities of a more difficult game?

"Not poker."

"You do not know how to play poker," He said simply. "That wouldn't be fair. "

"You…"

"No, no, don't get your feathers ruffled. I am not insulting you, barely stating the truth. Battle is a game of chance. No trick. One day, I will teach you about poker. However, teaching you now would quite defeat our purpose of a equal match, would it?" He grinned. "Come on, then, what do you say?"

She needed to think clearly, this could very much be a good opportunity.

She leaned on.

"Let me add one part in your game. For each turn I win, I shall have a honest answer from you."

His brow went higher, but his mouth curled, and she knew then he was intrigued. Perhaps even interested.

"A honest answer ?"

Her lashes fluttered.

"Isn't marriage supposed to be built on honesty?" She replied innocently.

"You do look adorable when you singe the old peahens and pretend everything is normal, my little cat. Most aren't. Some say good marriages are better when some secrets aren't unveiled. Have you heard of Blue Beard, Scarlett?"

She dropped it, vexed.

"I know the story."

"Oh."

"Grand-Pere told me. Silly old story to make wives blind gooses when it comes to their spouse."

A show of sharp teeth greeted her.

"Exactly. But still you want the truth," his eyes glistened with something she could not place. "Interesting. Alright, we'll do it. And for each card won by me, you shall do the same."

He presented her with his hand, and she took it, but before she could even shake it, he drew her fingers to his mouth and kissed them. She gasped.

"Is your heart ready, dear?" He said with that soft drawl of his that made her think he was about to laugh at her.

It was so nagging!

"Fiddle-dee-dee, you're making too much of it!"

She took her hand back swiftly, to his amusement.

If her cutting tone had any effect on him, he did not let it show.

Quietly, he mixed the cards and distributed them. The stakes were so high. She felt her heart pounding. With eager hands, she tried to contain it, rearranging the cards in disarray to a cleaner pile, to the risk of his fingers grazing her as he passed her another. She did not look up. She couldn't. But she feared he could see her anticipation.

She took her pile of cards, preferring to keep them close, while he kept his on the table.

"Let us play, then," he said smoothly once it was done.

She put her hand on her pile to steady it, a feeling of excitement taking over, making her body squirm slightly.

Queen of hearts against three of diamonds.

His loss, she noted with contentement. Her eyes gleamed.

"Doesn't it bother you that neither of our parents will be there?" She attacked.

He paused and looked at her.

"Your honorable mother dislikes me. As for my father… no, darling, you certainly wouldn't have wanted him here."

She agreed.

"He is a snob."

This made him grin.

"Among many other things."

Ten of spades against ace of spades.

She bit her bottom lip in vexation.

"Does it bother you?" He asked quietly.

"Pa should have been there," she replied instead.

He paused.

"Yes. He should have."

He did not say more.

Five of diamonds against three of clubs.

"What really happened with… with the man my mother wanted to marry?"

He startled, and as the surprise faded, two lines creased between his brows, and she knew then that he did not want to tell her.

She touched his hand urgently, pressing lightly as she remembered her mother's face. There were still missing pieces in the puzzle she had, and he was part of it.

If he did not want to answer it, then it meant it was something hard to say, and something she ought to know. Her heart throbbed, wanting to know, wanting not to.

He started as her fingers grazed his skin. She had the feeling they burned him, and he could not wait to escape them. Her stomach knotted unpleasantly.

"Please. I need to know. You knew this… Philippe. I see you did."

He sighed, his shoulders settling more comfortably, and examined her face with his intense dark eyes, before seeming to decide he could afford the truth to her. To her surprise, his hand turned and caught her own gently, teasing the knuckles. He stared at them, drew them as he talked, and she stared back, hypnotized by the tender gesture, the soothing, wistful quality of his voice.

"Philippe Robillard was a friend. I had just got put in probation by West Point when he came to me, asking me for advice. At this point, it was already in my mind to make my fortune, if only to spite my father. I had wind of opportunities in New Orleans. You have to know I was still young and foolish, thinking I just had to come, and fortune would find its way. I told Philippe about it, and I remember his eyes, glinting with such naïvety," He smiled, but without mirth. "It is contagious, the foolishness of a young man in love. He told me he had a woman he wanted whose family didn't want him. It seemed like quite the adventure. I did not know it was his own cousin. Your mother."

"Men always have multiple women around them, don't they?" She could not help but say with a clipped tone.

He raised his hands in amused surrender, and she almost fell forward, dumbfounded by the loss of his grip to settle her.

"I won't argue you with that. Young men need to learn if they have to commit to the right one. Else they might live with regrets. It makes for bitter relationships. I have always thought it is the same for women, don't you agree?" He looked at her pointedly. "But still it surprised me…"

She scowled.

"Philippe was a rake like you, wasn't he?"

He hummed pleasantly.

"Oh, dear, now do not insult me. We were both around the same age, but there were quite the differences between us. I am a rake. Philippe wanted to be a rake, as much as a pampered pup wants to be a wolf. It was quite the fureur at one time, wasn't it? But it was like a puppy showing its teeth to a master. Too fleeting to be anything else than a bad, effervescent boy. I had known him talking to me about a girl, then go to another on the same breath. Now, does that disgust you?"

She rolled her eyes.

"So he did things just to be like you. How absurd must seem the word faithfulness to men!"

"I suppose he did not consider himself obligated to celibacy as long as he wasn't married. One could understand it. "

Her eyes narrowed.

"And I suppose you do."

He grinned.

"You suppose wrong. Oh, I can hear the reasoning. But I certainly don't think it myself. It kind of ruins the fun, to disperse the pleasure in too many places to impress other men by your prowess, especially when you are sure to have the affections of… the one you claim to love so deeply. "

Her lips turned into a snarl.

"Do you…"

He stopped her with a raised finger.

"Ah, no, you greedy little thing. I dare say it was well-played, I was drawn to reveal more than I wanted. If you want more answers, you have to win."

She gritted her teeth.

She had been able to ask about him, but this was a diversion, she thought. These hints were subtle, but thinking of it, she could see it had been a bait, and she would not be caught by it again.

She bit her bottom lip in concentration.

This was not what had unsettled him in her question, she realized. In fact, she saw, he could not care less whether Philippe had loved her mother or not.

When her six of hearts won against his two of spades, she chose another question.

"You said Mother's family did not want him. Who told you there were opportunities in New Orleans?"

His lip curled in dismay.

"You insist. Do you really want to know? Some parts are better left in the dark."

Her eyes darted toward his, alert. That was it.

"You already told me that much. You can't stop now."

"I could. But you would not let me, would you? And I think… I think you already know the answer to this."

She froze, the cold creeping in.

"Say it."

He exhaled, his hand for a moment sweeping past the desk of cards.

"Pierre Robillard was the one who gave me the idea. And he was the one to tell my father about our plans, and about… other things as well to the authorities, effectively preventing me from joining him. I suppose he preferred Philippe to go to his own quest alone," He gave her a little dismissing smile, but one that did not come to his eyes. "You shall have to tell him he still owes me, by the way. It is not a very comfortable thing, a day in jail."

She almost jumped to her feet.

"You lie!"

"Oh no, you don't get to call me a liar, dear."

Vanquished, she looked down and sighed. No, it did not surprise her of Grand-Père. She had always known there was something unyielding and sneaky about him.

"'I… I had an inkling… but… but..."

"But an inkling is never the same as knowing it is true," he said softly. "Now, tell me. Have you stopped loving him, knowing it?"

She scoffed.

"You talk as if it is easy, to stop loving!"

"Oh, to some persons, it can be as easy as blowing candles. Now, tell me. Have you?"

Oh, if her eyes could actually kill him!

"He is my grandfather."

"This does not answer my question. "

"Yes. Yes, I love him, are you happy now! And if I'm honest with myself…"

"Say it."

"I'll say I understand why he did it! And I would have done the same! If Philippe was as you said, then…"

She gulped, forcing herself to continue.

"Mother… she would have waited and waited. But who was to know if he would return or not? It would have been foolish of her to wait and waste herself for someone who went to his death so stupidly, and could have as easily decided finally she wasn't the right one for him. And she was too soft for such a man."

He clapped.

"Now, that's the truth. That is also why we could make a great match, dear. If only you would not be this stubborn."

He smiled, and that what when she realized it was a truth she had given out of the game.

"I am sure sure you had it coming, with that day in jail," she grumbled. "What were the other things ?"

He barked in laughter.

"I certainly did. But it is far too soon for me to tell you about it."

Too soon… that meant he intended to tell her one day ?

She tried to examine him. It was supposed to be a game of hazard, wasn't it ? Was he bluffing ? Was he just messing with her, like always ?

What was his plan ?

One thing was clear: she could not trust him.

"I take it you are enjoying the view, my dear," he drawled, and when she stared into his eyes, she could finally see something more than his usual smooth, blank expression.

He seemed very much satisfied with himself.

She could not lose ! She would not !

Her fingers deftly folded one card as she tried through her lashes to identify it.

"Don't try to cheat, Scarlett," he chided, amused.

She pouted.

After that, it seemed she lost the luck she had before , and the frustration grew so much that she did not reflect that before, her victoires had been but very small, while his tended to be quite substantial.

Most of the time when he won a card, or several at once when they battled, he would ask her meaningless questions, questions that he already knew the answer of. Her favorite color, dishes, jewels, what she thought of houses. Each time he would smile, sometimes say the answer at the same time of her, as if it was a matter of fact.

However, sometimes, rare times, he was wrong, and she almost delighted in telling it to him. He did not know her favorite flower, did not know that she preferred spring to summer, or that she liked her coffee better without sugar now.

These ignorances were very few, and so little. But they were there.

These successes almost made her forget that her desk of cards was dimming.

And then there were some hard, hitting-nails questions she would have wished to avoid.

He asked her about her quarrels with Randa and Melanie, in such a way she almost found herself doubting them. He asked her about her mother, and whether she ever mourned the idea of her.

He never asked her about Pa. Nor about Wade.

So she asked.

"Why don't you ask anything about Wade ?"

His body changed posture, very subtly, but she felt she had hit something.

"Still hammering to the point, I see…. perhaps, my dear," he said softly, slowly. "Because I intend to know my son with a clear mind. Perhaps… Just perhaps, I am still… a bit unsettled with the idea of being a father. Who knows ?"

She stared at him, not knowing what to say. He was telling the truth, she could feel it, and it unsettled her like no other.

"He is much like you," she offered finally.

He smiled genuinely at that. "I don't know if that's a blessing or a curse. But you seem to like him very much."

Her heart jumped. But before she could even react, he had played another card. And he won.

This time, he asked about Tara, and his voice had an incisive quality, as if he was trying to tell her that she did hit the nail, but he could also do the same.

"Why did you free Tara's slaves, Scarlett ?"

"I did not..." she began.

His hand wiggled in impatient dismissal.

"It is a wrong turn of phrase, I suppose. Why did you urge your parents to liberate them ?"

She straightened.

"Because it was the right thing…"

He let out a sharp, cutting laugh.

"Do not talk to me about right and wrong like a charming little parrot, Scarlett. This is not the truth of it."

She faltered.

"Well, they were hurting…"

His eyes glinted, insistent.

"We are getting close, but it is still not the real rea –"

"They wanted to leave, are you satisfied now ?!" She cried, putting her deck of cards down. "Will you stop bullying me ? They wanted to leave and I couldn't…I had to do it, Rhett ! i couldn't make them stay ! Not if they wanted to go ! I love them but… i can't force them to love me back ! Do you… do you understand ? i don't want to make them stay if they don't want to… and I don't want to… i don't want to realize… to realize one day they…"

"That they never loved you at all ?"

He took her hand and kissed it, so softly, she was surprised of it, and it made her spill some of the tears she had tried to stop.

"Now, that's the truth of it."

He closed his eyes, her hand still tucked between his own and his lips, and she felt her knees go weak, so very confused by what seemed to be an act of pure devotion.

"You've done good, Scarlett. You've wanted to be fair for those you care about. It was foolish to do so at that moment, but it was damned good of you if you truly believed in it."

At this words, something lifted from all of the heavy mass of fear and doubts that had settled on her chest, taken away in the warmth of his breath on her skin, in the relieving strength of his grip.

When he finally released her, it was with such a nonchalant, off-handed manner that for a moment, she doubted it really happened at all.

"They are your final cards," he said quietly.

Ace of heart against ace of clubs. She breathed in, put a card face down, another up, and in the way, her fingers grazed his.

"Do you still love me, Scarlett?"

She startled. Her eyes fell to the cards.

An ace of spades.

"I win."

She threw away the cards on the board, letting a flare of anger out.

"You knew it! You knew you were going to win, and you just… oh, I knew you were up to something! I don't know how you did it, but you did! I never had any chance!"

He rose, quietly pushing down the cards that had fell on him, but never ceased to look at her with his insistent way.

"Don't be such a sore loser, Scarlett. You lost because your intentions are too clear on your pretty face, and you get easily distracted," He said quietly. "You wish to ruin me, and obviously want something from me and it shows. More than that, you are so focused on your own game that you don't truly look at mine. But I have to ask. If you knew, my dear, why did you play?"

She froze.

"Indeed. I never should have bothered."

"But you did," he insisted. "You did, because you had the vain little hope you could outdo me. And now, you lost. You know what it means, don't you?"

She said nothing, her lids lowering as if in submission, lashes fluttering over the white cheeks, but her jaws stayed shut like a prison's door. She quietly stood, nodded toward him.

His thumb and index came lifting her chin, trying to meet her gaze. And she did, the defiance glaring from her heart.

He looked at her with strange eyes that seemed to relish on the sight, then left.

Quietly, she took back her shawl and went to her room, where Wade was already asleep. She watched him for a moment, then returned to the two boxes, her mind settled.

She may have lost at that game. But life was no game.

Let him keep that little girl's dress, she thought. After all, he never actually ordered her to wear it…

As for the veil, that beautiful, pure white veil, with its lilies in laces that were meant to kiss the end of her feet, she would not even remark on it. It was ludicrous to even believe she would wear it. This was not her first marriage. What would others say?

It was a taunt, a jab for her choice of marrying Charles.

She would just ignore it. There was no Charles now to save her if need be. Was it what he had been attempting to say? Was it his mean to make her understand that while she was shackled, he could still roam free as he did before?

Her heart froze for a moment. A doubt crept.

.

.

.

On the morrow

"Oh, my darling, how pretty you are !"

Oh, pretty she was, indeed.

But from inside, Scarlett was boiling.

She stayed still, unseeing, as Melanie fussed over her, flattering her, adding and taking off ribbons, tucking loose strands of her hair into her net and pulling the fabric of her dress to crisp smoothness, as a little girl would her doll.

She could not know, the poor fool, all of the thoughts that came to Scarlett, all of the feelings that crossed her body in waves. For her, the glass vial contening red clay she had received just this morning was just a little blessing from her parents for her nuptials, one she could turn into a lucky charm, set in a necklace that made the little object disappear between her breasts.

But Scarlett knew better. She knew the words that came with it, knew the oath it referred to. She knew all too well this burden.

Bring him home, Puss.

It took another tucking of hair for Melanie to realize her friend was not paying attention.

"Smile a little for me, darling," she murmured. "It is a happy day !"

The bell rang. Scarlett jumped.

"Has he left?" She cried, her eyes wide like a frightened doe. "Is Rhett gone ?"

Melanie laughed.

"Of course not ! He is waiting for you, silly !"

.

.

And waiting, he certaintly was. Waiting in that great building of stone and tainted glass, among strangers and one overdressed priest who looked at him as if he was the devil.

Well, at least, the man and his peers had been paid enough to keep their tongues to themselves and allow this to take place.

But not everything could be paid, Rhett reflected as his gaze swept quietly across the heart of the church.

Father, Son, Holy Spirit.

Ha.

He did not like the idea of the authority of one overpowered father figure. He did not like the hypocrisy of a man celebrating marriage, while still being unmarried himself. He did not like the many stories he had heard, of children being preys to such men.

Sure, his belief to one powerful man was dubious at best. The only certainty was of power, and who had it, and he preferred it was his rather than one who could lord it over him.

Nonetheless, for a moment, he missed the old Episcopalian church of his youth. Sure, he despised the display of accumulated richesses that existed in both churches just as much as he despised the austerity of others, so outrageous especially in a time of war. But there was almost a feeling of appeasement, of belonging, in his old memories of masses.

He missed the people, he realized. He missed the sharing, the genuineness of gathering and believing whole-heartedly together in the same thing, of looking in the same direction.

He missed his family. Mother, with her dry wit and aristocratic élégance. He missed his little brother, that had once looked at him in wonder. He missed the image he had made of little Rosemary, a sweetness that had faded with the bitterness of reality.

For a moment, he was utterly alone among strangers, in a strange home.

He smoothed the fabric of his pants, trying to quiet the urge to run and to hell with it all.

Then the music began, and all regret left him. His head swiftly darted toward the entrance, his heart skipping a beat.

They were there, both alone, without any other family but themselves. Not orphans, but outcasts, together.

He wondered if she felt the same. If she missed her family. A sharp pain came through his chest, a mirror of the pain he divined in her.

For a moment, she was only a figure. Then, she began to to walk, and he drew a sharp intake of breath.

She stood alone at the end of the church in a heavy and terribly sober and out of fashion gown of ivory satin. The dress had obviously been dyed twice, once for mourning, and then for marrying again. A very proper thing, in this time of war. A very insulting thing for him.

Her hair was strictly tucked away in a net of laces that seemed to him like snakes snarling to keep their treasure. As she walked forward, he suspected she might bite him herself if he dared throwing that away, and it was almost an incentive to do so.

She stared right ahead and wore no veil, obviously dismissing the one he had dared her to wear. A veil to signify to her all the time they had lost, and what should have been.

Oh, he knew she would not wear it. To wear it would have been quite a provocation. He just wanted her to keep it, and regret, like he did. To keep it and to hope, like he did, that they could solve it all together, and throw the past behind them once and for all.

But she wouldn't let him, would she?

She was in her mother's dress, and the message was doubly clear to him. She was marrying him for duty, had already been married thank-you-very much, and was certainly not here in hope of romance. His fist clenched.

And yet, she was so beautiful, so vibrant! She was his.

The fact that to him, despite the dress, she was heartbreakingly beautiful still puzzled him. Never was she as tempting as she was now cornered and yet gloriously defiant like a fox.

He wanted to destroy that dress himself, and all that it tried to signify to him. However, he reasoned it would be more glorious if she decided on her own to do it herself.

Oh, to see the glory of that hair freed, tumbling down her shoulders, the only veil she would ever need, the only one he would actually ever bear on her!

The matrons certainly approved for once, but he did not..

Well, he supposed at least it was better than black.

Of course she would fight him until the end, he thought with a fond smile. His reluctant little bride.

Or was she?

His brows knitted with the worrisome frown that gave a terrifying darkness to his expression.

Could a simple piece of paper bind her heart and soul to his, and give him what he wanted for so long?

He doubted very much so.

'I shall ruin you,' She seemed to hiss as she came to his side. Her eyes glimmered viciously at him, the eyes of a cat ready to pounce.

Already, she was showing her teeth.

Of course she would fight him on this. He was a fool for even thinking otherwise once second.

"Spend away." He replied softly to her silent defiance, and she cocked a brow, looking at him questioningly.

What care had he of money if it brought her to him?

Dear heart, he thought. If you knew what was good for you, you would never have thrown that peach at me. You should have run to your Mammy like a good little girl.

Yet, she had never been a good little girl, and it was certainly because she was not a good little girl that his heart had been caught. She had fired twice, and it had gone straight to the chest.

Now, it was too late, far too late… He was damned if he let her run now !

Like marries like, Gerald had said once. There was certainly a truth in that. But would she care to be appeased by such teachings? He very much doubted that.

His hand took hers as she reached his side, pressing her lightly. Her pretty little hand, soft, smooth, with these long fingers and their deceptive air of fragility, but who, when they came and held him, were firm and strong like iron. How narrow her grip, how delightfully tight!

How much power had her only presence over him! She with her flushed cheeks, radiating warmth and vivacity from each pore of her skin. She who when she practiced her charms consciously was already charming enough, though quite silly according to him, playing the moon to the one she chose to proclaim sun, while when she was unrestrained and wild like that, glowed with her own light!

She would look at him like that again.

She glared at him with fierceness, vanquished but not defeated. His lids felt heavy with the love he had to repress, the love she make him hide.

I want to make you dream, he thought; but you don't dream of me, no, not yet. I want to pull you in that dream, and pull you out, to make your breath hitch, your heart beat. I want to make you live, damn woman! For when you don't, I can't.

How terrible to think that his own happiness was to be had only if she reached for it! Would that he could reach it himself, it would certainly be less of a pain.

Oh, he knew then that if such thing happened, he would never be sure of her. He would never be sure of anything. But the temptation was great.

He sounded pathetic. So very powerless. What kind of man thought so? Certainly not he, Rhett Butler!

No, she would not have him whining for a bit of love! Not him! She would not make him! He would not bear she kept making him like this!

She looked at him through the narrow, burning slits of her eyes.

"Stop looking at me in that way."

"In what way?"

Her bottom lip uplifted, he wanted to bite it.

"In that mean way of yours."

He kept his gaze on her.

"Look again."

He said his vows in earnest, and with a sense of irony, for hadn't he already pledged himself to her, from the moment he chose to interfere with her life?

She said hers with her eyes tightly closed like a child refusing to see reason and forced to apologize for something she felt she did not have to, her nose wrinkling and mouth settled on a pout, yet the corners were twitching. He wondered if it was a scowl or a smile she was refraining.

Nonetheless, her hand was trembling when he took it in hers, when he put the ring on her finger. She was holding her breath as he did so.

"Nervous, Scarlett?"

It was an opening he could not miss.

He kissed first the corner of her lips, and she opened her mouth in indignation. With a grin, he took full advantage of it, and in her surprise, her little bouquet fell on the floor, rolled down the four stairs. He could feel the taste of her anger and her want in the pressure of her lips on his, an intoxicating mixture that he knew would never keep him fully satisfied, though he wanted to taste it more. He kept it brief, with barely all appearances of propriety, and when it was done, she turned her head, leaving him her flushing cheek to contend with. Her lips opened to let out a breathless, hissing "Bully!". He almost laughed.

He could turn her anger around. He had the power to, if only he could grasp the crack on her armor. He knew there must be, and he was about to find it, he could feel it. Something to soften the rigid stature. There must still be some tenderness here he could bring back, some tenderness he could pull on him like a blanket.

He would throw the dice on that gamble.

With one dance, he could make it right. With one dance, she would melt in his arms, her anger faded away. She would put her tender cheek on his chest, her eyes closed until slowly, with the encouragement of his kisses, dropped softly on the silk of these ebony hair, she would raise her head to meet his eyes.

He would make her tremble with his love, would break the resolve that did not include him by her side.

The both of them moving to the same rhythm, their bodies meeting, touching, only separating to meet again.

Just one waltz. It all could begin in one waltz.

He had to give it a shot.

And if it did not work...

Well, it would have to work.

"You did not wear the dress," he began quietly as they turned to the crowd.

She cocked a brow.

"You had not expressively ordered me to wear it."

Oh, how she still had spirit!

He smiled, and that surprised her.

"I suppose I was curious on what future you intended to choose. However I should have known better. You chose the proper option."

It sounded like an insult though.

They left the church together, hand in hand, and he looked at her, hoping to find some little hint of joy. A small drop of pleasure at being the center of attention with him, at least.

His heart dropped.

She was staring thoughtfully ahead to a horizon where he wasn't, her face basking in the sun that tenderly caressed her like a lover. So far away, with her misty eyes, far, where he could not reach her. Her tilted lashes fluttered for a moment, until a tear caressed them longingly. She blinked it away.

In another world, one where she had given her heart to him, he would have kissed her and taken her into his arms, and they would have laughed like friends that knew each other inside and out. In another world, he could have shown her all marks of tenderness as he saw her grow with child. He could have seen her little belly growing, could have carried the burden of it with her.

In another world, she would have looked at him and smiled, and he would have seen her love reflected in her eyes.

It never hit him as it did now, as the wet trail of her tear still glinted in his mind.

It lasted one minute. But for this one minute, he hated her. Hated her deeply for being so close, yet so far, for ruining the illusion, the vain hope she might return his love, that they might just start their new life together as they should have years before.

For that minute, that expectation was lost, and he felt like the carpet had been pulled from under his feet.

His hand left Scarlett's. She started, her eyes darting on him questioningly. He smoothed his features back to indifference. His legs ached once again with the need to run.

He needed a drink.

.

.

The room was thronged with all kinds of people, some she hadn't even seen before. After a few minutes of Rhett presenting her to those, he had excused himself to talk to them at the other side of the room, and she could see his irritation showing in the stance he took, almost haughty, in the corner of his lips that refrained a mean little smile. She could see the hand behind his back , tight in a fist, and the tension between his shoulders.

He would certainly startle if touched, Scarlet thought.

How entirely brazen he had been at the ceremony! And the priest looking at her not so subtly, as if trying to guess if she was with child!

That had been unbearable !

But as she took his arm, she had thought… how happy she would have been, had it happened years earlier!

And then, Rhett.. that dark face as they left the church… she could not comprehend his strange behavior. Ever since, he had been flippant and dismissive.

Needless to say, Scarlett was all too alert herself to appreciate her own wedding reception. She could not appreciate the luxuous decoration, nor the smell of the decadent and unstopping lines of plates presenting at turn crab cakes, shrimps and grits, slowly cooked beef that fell the bone, biscuits and baked yams dripping with melted butter… some of them were her favorite dishes, she noted longingly.

An insolent display, that as much offended and ravished a crowd that had starved themselves of such feast for months. Scarlett wondered what had led Rhett to such extravagance, when it was clear it would be severely recalled later.

Until then, most of those who would criticize the most were eating quite scrumptiously, she noted, with the exception of a few persons that standoffishly by, chin high and curled lip, as if the sight made them ill.

On one corner of her eyes, she could see Honey Wilkes and her friends, not so close to be obvious, but close enough to be the first to know if anything happened. The ugly crows, Scarlett thought meanly. India was not there. Since their last discussion, she had barely seen the girl, and she was apparently now in so great pain that she could not attend the wedding. Well, at least her haughty silences would have been better than Honey's thrill voice complaining about the food one moment, and tittering when any gentleman drew close!

On the other, she saw young Carreen, finally off the bed, so reserved and delicate. She looked especially pretty that night, in a tender clear blue dress. Scarlett, as she finished dancing, prepared herself to come to her and urge her to relax, when suddenly Frank Kennedy came to the girl with a glass of lemonade. Carreen bowed her head, visibly uneasy, and Scarlett frowned. What was that ninny doing with her sister?

"If you keep frowning, my dear, that wrinkle will stay put."

The bride pursed her lips, turning to Rhett.

"Oh. So you're there at least."

"Please, do forgive me for my absence, he grinned, and she saw he was not sorry. It seems even a newly married man can't even be left alone on his own special day. Dare I hope you missed me?"

"Humpf," she huffed. "Barely. You looked to have fun in your corner with these gentlemen. Who were they?"

"Already forgotten their names, have you? Well, it doesn't matter. Funny people doing funny business," he dismissed. "Now for the more important part, I came her to tell you that you cannot dance the night away with every gentleman present without dancing with your husband, my dear. People may talk."

She rolled her eyes.

"Fiddle-dee-dee, I have barely danced with Dr Meade," she prevented herself from saying it should have been Pa she was dancing with. Dr Meade was nice, but he was not her buyant father, and was more ready to sermon than to laugh. You gave me the permission to. And why should you care? People already do."

She continued with all the appearances of indifference, a look he had never seen in her, and he found he did not like it. Not one bit. "You made sure of it by advancing this marriage. My not dancing with you is actually quite proper, thank you, she turned her head back to the dancing crowd. It is unseemly for a wife to dance with her husband."

He wondered at her selective, twisting sense of propriety.

How freezing are your manners, dear! He said lightly in jeering marvel, but the gleam in his eyes almost unsettled her. He leaned over her, his lips so close it felt like the ghost of a kiss. His voice was low and soft, and dangerous. You know why I had to marry you sooner, don't you? But it doesn't mean it is a pain to me. And what if I say it would please me to dance with you? What do you say? Should we brave the crowd?"

She shuddered violently and turned her head.

"I'm not in the mood to please you, Captain Butler."

His brow went up.

"Have you eaten yet? You are always sullen when you're hungry."

She gritted her teeth.

"This display ruined my appetite."

"Liar,"he quipped, raising abruptly. "You are setting yourself as a martyr."

Her eyes glowered as she looked at him aside and said with a surprisingly calm voice.

"And what if I do? You haven't set the rules that I have to abide to, dear husband. Why not then enjoying any last remnant of my freedom while I still can?"

He dug his pockets, his fists tight with anger as he turned.

"Suit yourself. There's more pleasant company to be had anyway."

A man came to him in hurry.

"Captain Butler ! I have some urgent messages for you."

"Well," he said with a tone of venomous pleasantry as he turned half-way to her. "It would seem I am needed. Come on, boy, let's find somewhere quieter."

Dumbfounded, she watched him leave, and it took a few seconds before she had the idea to come after him.

"Where has he gone?" Scarlett froze as she heard it from the other corner. "It's unseemly to leave like that! On the day of his own wedding!"

"Oh, honey, don't be a goose! Certainly to that woman," Honey whispered gleefully, her shrill, too excited voice destroying any attempt at discretion, if it had ever been her intent to be. "Everybody knows he sees her often. Another fast piece of luggage easy to be lured, like Scarlett."

She giggled like a ninny, and it took everything in Scarlett not to slap her. Fury made her pale and frail in her knees, as if she tried not to let it show. As she looked to the crowd, she could see Melanie's worried eyes on her, and Randa trying to approach, but before they even drew close, the old Guard was already on her, pestering her in a flurry of heavy black crêpe and yakkings.

"You, my dear, are his bride, and he already uses you ill." Mrs Whiting murmured with an air of sympathizing outrage.

Her eyes glinted too much with a mean little pleasure to be compassionate.

Scarlett bit the insides of her cheek as she felt the claw of the harpy on her.

"Know that you shall always have our support. Do not give up. With the Cause, we are greater than him. It is our perseverance through you that will make him bend. We will make him bite his words!"

His words? Scarlett lifted a brow. How could that witch overhear what he had said to her?

"Poor one!" cried Aunt Pitty, not wanting to be left out. "It is no fault of yours. That satyr followed you since you were a child. Oh, would that Charles was still alive!"

"He is a disgusting man," agreed Mrs. Merriwether. "I've always said so. But even disgusting men can be used for the Cause. Do not let yourself be reduced to misery. Thanks to your help, we might still do great things."

Scarlett duly noted that while they said they could do great things, they never said she could be great. They never did truly. She was not even needed to approve, for already Mrs. Whiting, who she had seen take a big piece of fried chicken, whispered in agony: "But, Dolly, have you seen the food! The sight of it nauseates me, I can't believe…"

"I know!"

Only Mrs. Meade seemed to take notice of her distress. She took her by the arm, saving her from the other women, and said softly :

"You look a bit pale, Scarlett. Would you care to sit down and take a drink?"

"I…" she stared, before nodding, a little glint appearing in her darkening green eyes. "Thank you, Mrs. Meade. I would like some red wine."

She waited a moment on the bench in her own vicious thoughts, when Mrs. Meade returned. Then, she found she could only take a few sips.

This suited her, as she needed to save some for later, she darkly reflected.

"I… well I suppose some marriages begin with some shades… but it can get better." She pressed her hand, gave her a gentle smile. "And where the men can disappoint… well, the support we women can afford to one another don't."

She could see Mrs. Meade was trying to be earnest and comforting. But it was that attempt that seemed even worse to her.

She hated their kindness, which looked too much of pity to her. How she hated it!

And Rhett was the cause of it.

"Like Honey's support?"

Mrs. Meade shook her head.

"You are still young, my dear. Young women are bound to fight among themselves before they're settled. We're bound to do so, as it is the men that will choose in the end. But when you become old and your child is grown… you see that you care much less about what they choose, but rather what you choose. And what you choose has much more strength."

She tilted her head in connivence.

"Mrs. Whiting was quite the flirt when she was young, she whispered with a conspiratorial smile. And she had a hear on every door!"

Scarlett lift her brows in surprise.

"She?"

"Oh, yes, despite her now prudish air. And Mrs. Merriwether was an insufferable know it all."

Scarlett let out a smile.

"She still is…"

"Oh, she is, Mrs. Meade let out a little smile. "But she means well. And Miss Pittypat… well, despite her childish air, I do believe she wasn't the last when it came to mischief… however, she was so sweet, that no one dared to say anything!"

"And you were like Melly! Always finding good in everyone!"

Scarlett's enjoyment stopped as she realized she may have gone too far in her assumption.

Mrs. Meade quietly nodded.

"Indeed. I see a bit of myself in her. Too shy to dare speak her own mind, waiting for a strength that had to be built, not given. Your presence, and that of the young Tarleton quite helped her."

Scarlett lowered her head for a moment. Then, softly,

"Thank you, Mrs. Meade."

She patted her arm.

"You are very welcome. I shall call for your friends, I am sure you would like to see them."

Watching the kind lady leave, Scarlett felt her spine bending , and she had to prevent herself from gathering herself like a child and cry, which would have been unseemly.

"Scarlett, you are upset," Melanie said, as she slowly sat by her side, and tenderly pressed her hand. "Why didn't you come see us?"

She smiled, albeit too weakly for her taste.

"It's nothing. It'll be alright in a moment. "

The grip tightened.

"Scarlett… Don't worry, I am sure it is a misunderstanding. Honey was just being mean…"

"Oh, Melanie, of course you would think so."

Randa joined them.

"I'm going to kill him."

Scarlett unwillingly scoffed.

"Fiddle-dee-dee ! You are a lady."

"And he will be killed by a lady. If you don't I will."

Scarlett snorted. Randa grinned and shrugged.

"Well, it does seem like a good idea."

"I admit it is. Thank you, Randa. I needed that laugh. Well, I shall have to make do without him. "

"But not without us."

And this was well for a moment, until they had to come home with a crying Miss Pittypat, who had drunk a little too much of the punch, and had begun to heavily make her place in the one-sided discussion between Frank Kennedy and Carreen.

Scarlett suspected he had quite liked having two women at hus disposal.

Her half full glass still on her hand, Scarlett finally decided it was the time when she finally spotted Honey alone, about to leave and waiting for her chaperone. Demurely, she declared she felt a little in a swoon with all the excitement, and bumped into Honey the first chance she got, that would seem to be accidental of course.

The stain spread delightfully across the embroided dress. She fluttered her lashes, but her eyes were malicious.

"Oh, sorry, Honey. I had not seen you. I'm sorry to say, you should have been more noticeable… pray, take one of mine. I do believe you will feel better in it. Cheyenne will lead you to it. She does have a eye for clothes. Perhaps she shall find something that could go… with your complexion."

Honey opened her mouth, dumbstruck, before closing it. With furiously flushed cheeks, she nodded, and hurried, head down, past her.

The satisfaction was brief, but pleasant. However, once she found herself, alone finally after having wished good night to her sorry guests, in that luxuous hotel room where she was meant to have her wedding night, it felt hollow.

The room was filled with flowers. Their perfumes lingered with a familiar, lingering sweetness, like a hope that would never be fulfilled.

She shook her head. It was not for her, no. It was for Wade, and for Pa. She had to do it for them. She had to forgo all other feelings.

Her hands trembled.

All alone in that room, she stared at herself at the mirror, and for a moment, it seemed it wasn't her, but her mother in front of her. She looked older, darker, and weary. So serious in this sober dress, so perfectly proper and humble…

One by one, she took the pieces of clothes off, until all was left was her shift. Her body, once released from its prison, felt warm and effervescent, as if slowly it was fading into the air, for lack of envelop to contain it.

Her fingers shook, her mind was numb. Among her things, she found her Pa's gun, and tried to clear her mind by arming, then unarming it again. Arming and…

She sighed. She would give it to him once he accepted to come back. He couldn't just have it without anything. Why would he ? It wouldn't be fair ! Especially after leaving her alone like this !

She put it in the nightstool. She would think about it later, when everything wouldn't seem so muddled and break.

For a moment, she felt strange, like something was lacking. Then, she realized she had seldom slept alone in her room. Wade had always been there, quiet or unquiet. It was perhaps the first night since a long time since she was not able to take any comfort from his presence.

She climbed up the bed, tucking the covers quickly around her like an armour.

She laid down, her heart pounding, as she waited for Rhett.

.