Author's Note: This is just a oneshot story for your enjoyment. You'll notice it incorporates several details and characters from Alexandra Ripley's Scarlett, but, mercifully, has little to do with that novel. And, on that note, a standard disclaimer: I do not own Gone with the Wind or Scarlett.

Lastly, I would be remiss if I did not thank the lovely skyebugs for her kindness and help in reviewing this. The rumors are true--you're the best beta a girl could ask for!

Scarlett O'Hara Butler leaned against the wide railing of the piazza and looked out into the still summer night. A mild breeze swept in from Charleston Harbor, swaying the nearby palmettos until their palms crackled, their rustling the only sound to upset the darkness. The air was balmy and the night was black and the whole world was still. And she was alone with her thoughts, thoughts she did not want to think. She pushed them aside and let the languid summer heat envelop her like a fog, one so sweet and humid and heavy that she felt herself grow drowsy. Fatigue settled deep in her bones after another fruitless day.

Tonight when Charleston was so warm, she could close her eyes and imagine she was back in the indolent heat of New Orleans and that life was carefree, happy…that life promised to be nothing but carefree, happy… She sighed and suddenly she could feel it all again, as vividly as if it was yesterday—the dizzy sweet taste of champagne, the thrilling newness of Rhett's caresses, the rich exotic foods and deliciously sweet desserts, and best of all, the warm nights with Rhett in the still darkness, his strong arms about her and his—

The wind picked up with a cool sudden chill that tore her rudely away from her reverie and made her clutch the sash of her wrapper closer around her nightgown. After six months here she was still not accustomed to how quickly the coastal weather could change, how ever-shifting the wind could be that blew in from the fickle Atlantic...how everything here was like the wind, nothing stable or secure to cling to… Another gust blew in, its breath mingled with sea salt that stung her eyes, and before she could help it, her throat contracted with a hard little lump. Yes, she was here in Charleston and everything was wrong, as wrong as it could possibly be.

Despondency swept down to sit heavily on her shoulders and she fought the urge to cry. Everything was wrong, entirely wrong, and she did not know how to fix it. She had been so certain—so entirely certain!—when she had embarked on her campaign six months ago that she could reclaim Rhett's heart. Then she had come to Charleston, buoyed with promise, fortified with hope, and defeat had seemed an impossibility. But now—now—she was not so sure…

This was exceptionally disturbing because she knew that her campaign had been a good one—and by every outward measure, she was succeeding with it. Yes, she was succeeding in every measure that mattered besides the most important one—Rhett's love.

He had left Atlanta last October and she had been in Charleston by December. She had arrived stealthily and unexpectedly, showing up with Wade and Ella at his mother's house a mere four days before Christmas. It had been a terrific gamble, of course, but she had placed her bets on the likelihood that Rhett wouldn't dare to throw out his own wife and stepchildren—ostensibly come to celebrate the holiday—in front of his mother and sister. She had bet correctly.

Of course, Rhett had been completely furious with her. That first night, he had hastily made their excuses after supper and, with a deadly grip on her arm, propelled her up the stairs and into his bedroom where he launched into her with a barely contained fury, the likes of which she remembered from only one other night. Frightening though his murderous rage was, it was also oddly thrilling and made her skin crawl excitingly. For it was nothing like his cool impersonal demeanor of the night he left—and anything, absolutely anything, was better than that, even his callous anger. That first night in Charleston, Rhett had threatened her and upbraided her and called her any number of hard names, and she had countered with a slew of vicious accusations of her own. It had been a brutal fight, but out of it she had won a temporary victory: he agreed to let her stay through the holidays, but only if she acquiesced to separate bedrooms and promised to be gone by the end of the first week of January.

She had agreed and then quickly moved on to the first part of her plan—securing herself a place in Charleston. (Part two of her plan was, of course, to win Rhett back. But she needed to buy herself time first and obtaining a foothold in Charleston was the best way to do just that.) To this end, she had come prepared. She hadn't understood all of what Rhett had been talking about the night he left, but the parts she did vaguely grasp—making peace with his people, wanting the charm of the old days—informed her course of action.

Rhett wanted to go to Charleston and be respectable—and so if she was going to follow him to Charleston (which of course she was), she'd have to try to be respectable too. After all, what was even the point of going to Charleston, only to be run out of town before she had any chance to win Rhett back? And the better liked she was in Charleston, the harder it would be for Rhett to dislodge her—and that was the only thing that really mattered, being close to Rhett so she could get him back.

And so she had come to Charleston obstinately determined not to set a foot wrong. In preparation, she dusted off the long-forgotten lessons of ladyhood bestowed to her by Ellen—lessons she had discarded at Rhett's encouragement and now took up only to serve her purposes of winning him back (though the irony of this did not occur to her). With immense, near-palpable reluctance, she had even left her rouge back in Atlanta and packed her trunks full of matronly dresses in demure lilacs and grays and tans and other prim colors (all newly purchased, of course—nothing she owned was so dismal and tacky as to be considered matronly). This had been a point of deep frustration for Scarlett, as she desperately wanted to be at the height of her charms to woo Rhett back. But she knew the stakes were too high for her to blunder and be cast out of Charleston. Plus, once she had Rhett back, she could—and planned to—dress just as magnificently as she always had.

Thus with the gauntlet thrown for her January departure, she swiftly embarked upon her plan. She moved first to charm Rhett's mother, a surprisingly delightful task, for Eleanor Butler reminded her of Ellen and Scarlett found herself genuinely wanting her approval and favor. She gained both in short order. When the first week of January came, the elder Mrs. Butler rejected out of hand the distasteful notion that the younger Mrs. Butler should leave so quickly. No, declared Rhett's mother, Scarlett simply must stay—and stay for a nice, long visit. None of this nonsense about rushing back to Atlanta. She must stay in Charleston.

Of course, at this pronouncement, another bitter fight had ensued between her and Rhett. But this time her victory was far sweeter. When Rhett railed at her, she simply smiled and played her trump card: If he wanted her gone so badly, then he had better plan on telling his mother precisely why he was sending her back to Atlanta—or better yet, perhaps she would tell Julia Ashley and Sally Brewton and Anne Hampton and all the other nice ladies she had met here in Charleston that she was going back to Atlanta because he had left her. And how, Captain Butler, did he envision that news would help him make peace with his people?

For once, she had outmaneuvered him. Rhett was trapped and they both knew it. And so she had stayed—stayed and succeeded in securing herself a place in Charleston. With her single-minded determination driving her like a bloodhound on the hunt, she had enacted her campaign, skillfully affecting a veneer of lady-like decorum, yet all the while employing the bewitching Scarlett O'Hara charm to the full extent propriety would permit. The effect—the charming, vivacious, but still genteel Mrs. Rhett Butler—was dazzling. And now six months later, she had integrated herself into the very fabric of Charleston society, become a favorite of the preeminent Julia Ashley, a confidant of Sally Brewton, a member of all the very best ladies' committees. Rhett's mother adored her and considered Charleston her permanent home. Even prickly Rosemary had at last succumbed and could now be considered a tentative ally rather than an outright foe.

Yes, she had succeeded beyond her wildest hopes with her campaign. But, oh, it meant nothing! Nothing at all! It meant nothing if she did not have Rhett's love—and she did not have it, was no closer to obtaining it than the night he left Atlanta.

For, excepting his early flashes of temper, Rhett had treated her with a cool impartial air that stung her more deeply than any of his malicious barbs ever had. He seemed supremely indifferent to everything she did and said, as if her continued presence in Charleston elicited only a careless shrug—as if she was of no consequence to him at all. And nothing—nothing!—had worked to evoke even the slightest bit of feeling from him. All her smiles, her flirtations, her little jokes, her attempts at doting kindness, even her ploys to provoke jealousy and anger, blunted before the implacable wall of his courteous indifference. He was unmoved. He did not care. And that cut her, cut her bitterly, cut her more and more each day until her heart ached with constant sharp pain.

So now, six months later, she was left with only an ominous, sneaking thought that she could not shake—that perhaps he had not lied to her at all the night he had left, that perhaps his love had truly worn out…

Another cool wind came in from the harbor and Scarlett shivered, both from the chill and the horrendous fear borne by her thought. No, she resolved stubbornly, she wouldn't think about that now. Love couldn't wear out. Rhett loved her. He had to! And tomorrow she'd find some way to make him remember that he loved her. She was just tired, that was all. Tired and afraid and letting her mind play tricks on her. There was no reason to think about things that would only upset her. What she needed now was to get a good night of sleep—not to stand out here freezing to death and thinking about things that served no purpose.

With this, Scarlett moved from the piazza to her adjoining bedroom, closing the white French doors behind her and shutting out the crisp air. Her bedroom greeted her with its usual placid elegance. Against one wall stood the four-poster mahogany bed with its pale lavender coverlet and soft pillows. Below it a wide ivory rug spanned the mahogany floor like a sandy island, amicably offsetting the ivory wallpaper that adorned the walls in a delicately swirled pattern. On the wall nearest her bed, a cream-painted door with a brass handle peaked through the ivory wallpaper, adjoining her bedroom to Rhett's own room. A dresser and small vanity, all again in the same tasteful mahogany, were situated on the wall across from her bed, as was the outer door to the hallway.

The room exuded a quaint calmness and order, but tonight this calmness and order disturbed her—stood in glaring variance with the turbulence in her heart. She moodily tossed off her wrapper into a chair huddled in the corner and climbed into bed, suddenly feeling very old and worn.

Nothing had worked out how she expected. Nothing. She had nothing. And she was tired, so tired and hurt and very nearly sick of making overtures only to be rebuffed. She did not know how much more she could take. She had not envisioned how deeply it would hurt to be here in Charleston—to have Rhett so close at hand yet still so beyond her reach. She had not envisioned what a cruel grinding torment it would be to see him every day and want him so desperately—to long to feel even his simplest caress or see his old mocking smile or hear his warm teasing laugh—and not have him. No, she had not envisioned how it would hurt—how it would hurt stingingly and bitterly because of Rhett's sheer closeness. For every day she saw him, lived with him, talked to him, dined with him—and every day she could not have him.

She could not have him and this hurt—but never more so than at night, with Rhett just beyond her reach, just a lockless door away, and her huge lonely bed such a poor substitute for the comfort of his arms. At this thought, Scarlett stared hungrily at the adjoining door linking her bedroom to Rhett's own. She loved him and she wanted him and he was on the other side of the door.

Actually, she corrected herself, he was probably not on the other side of the door just yet. It was far too early—only a little past ten o'clock. Since her arrival Rhett had made a habit of going to bed quite late and rising long before she woke up. When she first had learned of his nocturnal habits, she had taken it as blinding proof of his feelings—he loved her and wanted her so badly that it was torture for him to sleep so close to her own bedroom!

But now, under the cold cumulative effect of his indifference, even her enormous vanity could not permit herself to believe this was true. More likely, he thought her foolish and desperate enough to attempt to seduce him, although she had never once even rattled the doorknob connecting their rooms. Or perhaps he was genuinely consumed by his business affairs. She did not know. But though she yearned for it to be the case, she doubted he avoided his bedroom because he loved and wanted her, just as she loved and wanted him. If she was honest—painfully, brutally honest with herself—she doubted that he even loved her at all.

This thought sent another cold chill down Scarlett's spine, but her old defiance rallied. She wouldn't think about that now. She'd think about it tomorrow. It was pointless to think about it now. It would only hurt her—or, worse still, cause her to dream her old nightmare—something that had been happening with greater frequency ever since Rhett had left Atlanta.

No, she decided obstinately, she wouldn't think about that either. She sighed wearily into her pillow. Tomorrow was another day. Somehow she'd make everything right tomorrow. How, she did not know. She wanted Rhett but he did not want her. She wanted to stay and he wanted her gone. They were at an impasse and one of them would need to bend and break—to give in to the other. It could not be her who gave in. That was exactly what Rhett wanted—for her to give in. She could never give in. Her whole life's happiness depended on her not giving in. And she would not give in. Not now. Not ever.

Warmed by her renewed sense of conviction, Scarlett extinguished the lamp beside her bed and soon drifted off into what was to be a restless sleep.

~~o~~

Rhett Butler glanced at the grandfather clock in his study and rubbed his temples in frustration. Two-thirty in the morning. He had gone over the books for Dunmore Landing twice, had drafted sheet upon sheet of needless correspondence, and spent the last forty-five minutes absentmindedly skimming some arbitrary book of Roman history. He could put it off no longer. It was time for him to retire for the evening. He rose from his plush armchair like a man condemned and tried without much success to ignore thoughts of the nightly torment that awaited him.

It was that goddamn door. Oh, he thought he had been so clever when he had relegated Scarlett to a separate bedroom and spun a hastily concocted excuse about his "snoring" to explain away the odd situation to his mother and Rosemary. But he had not bargained on the unique torture that had arisen in knowing Scarlett was sleeping just on the other side of his own bedroom, with nothing but that lockless door separating them. He should have given the matter more forethought and instructed the servants to prepare a room for her far down the hall by his mother's bedroom. Hell, he should have put her in the servants' quarters in the back of the house—or, better yet, marooned her out on the ruins of Fort Sumter.

Although he doubted it would have made any difference, for he still wanted her more than he had ever wanted any woman. This knowledge in and of itself did not cause him distress; he remained, as he always had been, a man of lusty and unashamed appetites. And, after all, there was a vast difference between desire and love—and he was certain that he was motivated by the former, not the latter. He desired her; he did not love her.

And so this knowledge did not bother Rhett Butler—likely because he did not consciously permit himself to remember that, when it came to Scarlett, desire had been tangled up with love for nearly as long as he had known her. Instead he only saw that he wanted her.

God help him, how he wanted her. There were so many things that made him long for her—the sway of her hips in her smooth skirts, the rosy natural blush of her cheeks (so much prettier than the garish paint she'd worn for the last several years), her tiny waist, her dimpled smile, her arresting green eyes that still made his breath stop after all these years. And those maddeningly demure dresses that covered every inch of her womanly frame, until he yearned to peel them off and reveal the soft ivory skin he remembered so well. He could not count how many times over these last six months he'd restrained the impulse to take her in his arms and kiss her unceasingly. During the day he could normally avoid thoughts of Scarlett by keeping himself occupied with business dealings or his work at the Landing. But at night—at night there was no escape, not with her sleeping just mere feet from his bedroom and that lockless door a silent invitation to sate his desire.

So it was an undeniable fact that Scarlett's continued presence in Charleston made his life a merry hell. But, thank God, it was also a fact of which Scarlett was completely unaware; he had been especially careful to treat her in an offhand manner that revealed nothing of his inner torment. And the more he wanted her, the more he retreated into smooth blandness. It was exhausting work, though, and he wondered how much longer he could go on with it. Certainly he had never expected she'd last this long under the hot glare of Charlestonian society.

That she had managed to do so was enough to sober his thoughts, at least temporarily. For it seemed apparent to him that Scarlett's grim determination in this matter bore all the trademarks of stubborn fixation—the kind she had trained on Ashley Wilkes for so long—and none of the tenderness of actual affection. Not that he wanted that from her, anyway.

Rhett frowned and extinguished the gas lamps in the study. Starting to climb the stairs, he considered his options regarding his wife. They were few. Divorce was an impossibility for many reasons. He doubted he could even find adequate grounds to pursue such a course in the draconian courts of South Carolina. Even if he could, the proceedings would likely take years and offer only a modest chance for success—and Scarlett would be sure to fight him tooth and nail to ensure that modest chance became no chance at all. Occasionally, he allowed himself to indulge in fantasy and imagine he might secure a swift divorce in the span of a month or two—but that was so outlandish as to be completely laughable and he quickly recovered from these fits of momentary idiocy.

Besides, the plain fact was that a divorce would ruin him socially in Charleston. It had taken months and months of calculated effort to gain a moderate foothold on respectability in the fair coastal city. Here his past was too checkered, his sins too well remembered, to permit leniency in any future offenses—and divorce would be about as offensive in Charlestonian eyes as anything that could be imagined. Yes, it would be offensive enough to destroy him beyond any hope of repair—especially given that Scarlett, damn her, had established herself as such a favorite in the city of his youth. He would inevitably be deemed the villain in the saga and Charleston, quick and merciless as always in its retribution, would cast him out once more.

Moreover, if he was honest with himself, he felt divorce would be an unspeakably cruel thing to do to Scarlett. The pleasant hypocrisy of Southern society allowed that a divorced man, given he had enough charm and sense, could with a little effort on his part still be considered a gentleman—but the burden for a divorced woman was much, much heavier. As a divorcée Scarlett would likely find herself removed from everything decent in the South. Where would she go then? He knew she would be unbearably miserable up north in Yankee-infested territory. And she was too pedestrian and uncultured to enjoy living abroad. Haughty England or urbane France would hold no charm for her—and it wasn't as if she was about to go native and live among the peasants of Ireland. God, now that was an insane thought. So where could she even go if he divorced her? She would have no place left to turn. He did not love her, but it nonetheless pained him to think of her adrift in the world, scorned and friendless, by his own doing.

So divorce was out of the question. A genteel separation would have suited his purposes perfectly. He could have endured with good grace a few sporadic visits to Atlanta each year. But Scarlett, relentless in her pursuit, had struck first and followed him here to Charleston, thereby making any kind of separation impossible. She was here in Charleston and she was here to stay. And there was nothing he could do about it.

Which meant his only course of action was to outlast her—and force her to leave. By every measure, he was succeeding in this endeavor. Oh, Scarlett had had a good run here in Charleston—that much was true—but she was far too impatient to succeed at a long game of endurance. And if he had learned anything from his lengthy association with Scarlett O'Hara, that was how to master the painful arts of endurance and patience. Already he could tell that her resolve was beginning to fray and fade. For the last several weeks she had worn a pinched look on her face and her eyes had followed him endlessly, confused, questioning…nearly but not quite yet resigned.

He was certain it would only be a matter of weeks now, perhaps a few months at the most, before she signed her final warrant of defeat and boarded a train back to Atlanta. He very nearly had what he wanted—for her to be gone from his life forever. Yet this knowledge carried with it none of the sweet thrill of impending victory. Instead it stirred only a queer pang of some nameless feeling. Relief, possibly. Or acceptance. Certainly not disappointment. Or regret…

Ignoring this thought, Rhett reached the top of the stairs and walked down the hall towards his bedroom. He silently slipped inside and immediately moved to his dresser, not daring to look at the door that loomed on the other side of the room. Once he was clad in his pajamas, he quickly climbed into bed and turned on his side so that he faced away from Scarlett's bedroom. The absurdity of this small gesture struck him and he laughed contemptuously. What a melodramatic fool I've become, he thought, and sighed wearily into his pillow.

He resolved to somehow get a better handle on the situation. How, he did not know. He still wanted Scarlett more than he had ever wanted any woman, but he could not take her. He needed her to leave and she wanted to stay. They were at an impasse and one of them would need to bend and break—to give in to the other. It could not be him who gave in. That was exactly what Scarlett wanted—for him to give in. He could never give in. His whole life's freedom depended on him not giving in. And he would not give in. Not now. Not ever.

Warmed by his renewed sense of conviction, Rhett extinguished the lamp beside his bed and soon drifted off into what was to be a restless sleep.

~~o~~

The air was cold and the night was gray and the whole world was still, still with eerie stillness. She was in a blighted nightmare country and the mist was all around her, mist so thick and swimming and heavy that she could not see. She was lost and she had nothing—nothing to guide her. But something was chasing her, something horrible with icy gaunt fingers, something she could not see or hear but that drove her to wild fear and made her run. And she was running, running madly, running and crying out, running towards shelter, running towards that warm place of comfort and safety, the only haven there was—Rhett. But where was he?

He was here, somewhere, somewhere in the mist, and she needed only to find him and be safe. She tried to scream his name but the mist was too thick and she had no breath. It was getting closer now—that evil unknown nameless thing—and she was so tired and so frightened and so cold, but she was still running, running, she needed to keep running. She needed him, she needed to find him. And then—then—there through the mist like a beacon in the night came the faintest glimpse of the powerful silhouette that was her only refuge. She tried to scream his name but still could not speak and he disappeared. He left. He went into the mist and suddenly the thing was upon her now, dragging her down, down into the mist that was thick and swirling and all enveloping...

She did not know that she had been calling Rhett's name until she awoke, crying brokenly, to a hard grip on her shoulders that shook her from sleep. She heard a fumbled movement in the darkness and then the room leapt to light. And there was Rhett standing by her bed, his expression smooth, his eyes unreadable. He looked down at her.

"Shh…shh…calm yourself, Scarlett," he said quietly—but it was the courteous voice of a stranger and the sound of it sliced through her like a knife.

Once he had loved her and would have taken her in his arms and comforted her. But now there was only this left—his kindness and his pity. She loved him and she wanted him and he was here, but not to hold her or comfort her. There was nothing left for her, nothing that mattered. For there was nothing left besides this—this hideous courtesy that stood as an affront to her love.

Suddenly it was too much to bear. Suddenly she could not endure with any fortitude the sight of his dark swarthy face when there was no love on it. And before his calm gaze she finally gave way under the long strain of the last six months. Hysteria and despair violently flooded her tired mind and she began to sob, sob loud racking sobs, careless of anything besides the pain of her thwarted love and her futile hopes and her foolish dreams. Hot wet tears burned her cheeks and, burying her head in her pillow, she surrendered fully to her sadness—sadness that was scorched with shame and indignation that she was so weak as to want him and weaker still to make such a fool of herself in front of him.

Scarlett sobbed uncontrollably and before such a passionate outpouring of sorrow Rhett stood stunned, unsure about what to do. He had never seen her so disturbed by a nightmare. The urge to take her in his arms, to cradle her tightly to his chest and soothe away her fears, was visceral, overwhelming. But he did not want to deal with that kind of physical—or emotional—closeness, and so he held back.

However, it was obvious he needed to do something. He placed a tentative hand on her back and tried a friendly tone.

"Hush now. It's alright." But this did nothing and, at his failure, he felt a curious surge of helplessness, one that irritated him. So he swiftly moved on to another tactic—if kindness wouldn't work, maybe he could rouse the infamous Scarlett O'Hara temper to distract her away from her terror.

"Come now, don't be such a child, Scarlett," he jeered viciously.

Another futile attempt. This was bad, very bad. Something was deeply wrong when Scarlett would not respond to such a callous taunt.

Rhett ran a hand through his hair in frustration. This was too much to bear. He did not love her, but that did not mean it was easy to watch her tear herself to pieces like this. To stand idly by when she needed him—needed him so obviously. That settled it.

"Oh, for God's sake! Come here," he muttered lightly and, picking her up in his arms, moved over to a nearby chair.

"Hush, darling, hush," he said, his voice gentle, his manner soothing, as he pulled her securely towards his chest. He held her like a child, rocking back and forth, murmuring wordlessly, until her sobs quieted into slight sniffles and then stopped altogether.

At Rhett's comforting ministrations, calmness flooded Scarlett. This was all she wanted. And she wouldn't do or say anything to ruin so perfect a moment as this. If only she could shut out the whole world and stay just like this forever. For with Rhett's strong arms about her, surely nothing could ever harm her. Already her despair was fading away, receding as if trivial before the warmth of Rhett's embrace. Her patchy breathing was settling into normalcy and her heartbeat was returning to its steady rhythm too. She sighed contentedly and closed her eyes.

Yet even as Scarlett's heartbeat slowed down, Rhett felt his own heartbeat begin to race at her closeness. And he was so disgusted at the old familiar ache instigated by her touch that part of him longed to push her out of his arms and straight on to the floor. The other part—the stronger part—greedily pulled her closer to him, taking in the light scent of lemon verbena mingled in her hair, the feel of her soft full breasts pressed against his chest, the heat of her small body cradled so close to him. God damn it. This was exactly what he was trying to avoid.

For even as the old desire coursed through his veins, he could feel the companion fear that always rose with it—fear at the uncontrollable hold she had on him, fear at whatever treacherous feeling it was that made him long to hold her this close forever and keep her safe, cherished. He valiantly tried to think of something else besides Scarlett, but failed. He couldn't help it. How long had it even been since she'd last been in his arms? Years. God, it had been years—not since—

He frowned with passionate irritation. That was the absolute last thing he needed to think about right now—that infamous, wild night. This situation was quickly getting away from him. He needed to calm himself. With every ounce of self-control he possessed, he forced his mind back from the choppy waters to more solid ground. He closed his eyes and drew out a long breath. Several moments later he was the picture of calm composure.

His face returned to its trademark blandness, he glanced down at Scarlett with an expression he hoped resembled blasé amusement.

"Do you feel better now?" he asked casually.

Scarlett stirred slightly against him, hardly even raising her head from its resting place on his upper chest. "Oh yes. Thank you, Rhett. You are so nice."

"I am not nice. I just can't very well have you waking up the whole house, now can I? You are more Irish than I thought, Scarlett, wailing like a Banshee in the middle of the night."

"Don't be hateful, Rhett," came the murmured reply from against his chest.

He smiled in spite of himself. "I won't be. Was it your old dream?"

"Oh yes, Rhett," she lifted her head and nodded. "It's been much worse ever since—"

Then Scarlett paused and fell silent. She hadn't meant to give that away—that her dreams had gotten worse. At least she hadn't divulged when they had gotten worse, though she realized the answer was likely plain as day. Especially to Rhett who had always read her like a book. Heat rushed to her face and she swiftly ducked her eyes in embarrassment. Making an attempt at preoccupation, she started to smooth out the lace cuff on the sleeve of her nightgown.

Rhett watched her fiddle awkwardly with her sleeve and felt his heart contract with an underused emotion—guilt. Though the words were unspoken, it was obvious that her dreams had gotten worse since he had left Atlanta. Obvious too what haven she now sought in her dreams, if the way she frantically called his name earlier was any indication. She had needed him, but he had left her and now her nightmares were much worse—all because of him. Marvelous, just marvelous, he thought miserably. Let's add that into this whole ridiculous mess.

Rhett said nothing, and the silence stretched out between them until it became heavy and awkward. Still crimson from her unintended disclosure, Scarlett sought to break the uncomfortable spell.

She cleared her throat and affected a careless tone. "I am sorry to be such a ninny, Rhett. I don't even know why I'm afraid of such a silly dream."

Rhett smiled, thankful the tense moment had passed. "But it doesn't feel silly to you—and that's why it's frightening. Though that in itself is certainly nothing to be ashamed about. Everyone is afraid of something, after all."

Scarlett looked at him in frank disbelief. Then she scoffed.

"Ha! That's easy for you to say, Rhett Butler. Why, I don't think you have ever been afraid of anything in the whole time I've known you."

He couldn't help but laugh at this reverential pronouncement. For he doubted she'd say something so foolish if the memory of her dream wasn't still so fresh. Although maybe she would—maybe after all these years she still didn't suspect that the only thing he'd ever really been afraid of—was still afraid of—was her.

At this, he laughed in self-contempt and muttered softly under his breath, "Not afraid. Isn't that a pretty lie."

Apparently he had not muttered softly enough, for Scarlett suddenly perked up and trained two hotly curious green eyes on him.

"What?" she asked. "Whatever are you afraid of, then?"

You, he thought bitterly. But he made a light answer.

"I don't know," he shrugged lazily. "I suppose there was once a time where I was afraid of a thing or two—but that was so long ago that I can hardly remember what the things were that frightened me—or why they even did in the first place."

Scarlett dimly sensed that this was a dig in her direction, but she was too tired to want to pick up the gauntlet and fight.

"Fine then, don't tell me. You never would tell me anything of consequence," she sighed.

"No, I wouldn't," he agreed and his eyes began to gleam. "And I certainly don't plan to start to at this late stage in the game."

"Oh fiddle-dee-dee," she pouted. But it was such a feeble attempt at anger that he couldn't help but be amused by it. He smiled lightly down at her. She smiled back and an oddly companionable silence washed over them.

For several moments they sat in stillness. Then, hesitantly, softly, Scarlett moved to nestle closer to him. Instinctively he tightened his embrace and drew her nearer. He reasoned that it was harmless. After all, it was just a simple embrace—she wasn't trying to seduce him or begging for his love. Of course, his better judgment told him it was far from harmless, but try though he might, he couldn't bring himself to care.

For that was always the trouble when Scarlett had a nightmare—afterwards she became the most disarming version of herself—all softness and charm, with none of the hardness or cruelty that had once wounded him nearly beyond repair. And right now she looked so small and gentle in his arms—so harmless—her tumbled hair gleaming like black satin, her pale green eyes bright and warm, her soft face imbued with a light rosy glow. In quiet moments like these she was once again the young girl who had first enthralled him at Twelve Oaks all those years before…once again the young widow who he had first held in his arms at the bazaar…once again the young bride who he had first awoken from a nightmare like this one and who whispered "Hold me, Rhett" into the darkness, wanting only him…

No. This little trip down memory lane needed to stop right now—before he took leave of his senses and did something really stupid.

He glanced down at Scarlett. She was curled up against him, content as a cat napping in the sun, and clearly had no intention of going anywhere any time soon. He nudged her.

"You had better go to bed. It's quite late."

"Oh. I suppose so," she said and reluctantly rose, looking in her white nightgown far more young and innocent than she—a shrewd, scheming woman of nearly thirty—had any right to look. So utterly and completely disarming… He shook this thought aside and got up from the chair.

Scarlett moved in the direction of her bed. As she did an idea seemed to suddenly strike her, for she smiled vibrantly, her green eyes lively and dancing.

"Would you tuck me in please, Rhett?" she asked sweetly.

He threw back his head and laughed in spite of himself at her obvious flirtation. "That's the trouble with you, Scarlett. You never have the good sense to quit when you're ahead. How I wish you were a poker player, my darling. I'd have robbed you blind years ago for you never know when to fold and when to call."

She sighed, though her eyes still sparkled. "I take it that means no?"

"How observant of you," he answered mockingly.

"Fine," she said with a small pout. She airily moved to fluff the pillows on her bed, but made no effort to actually get in it.

"I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself after all," she remarked. And as if to reinforce her point, she gave her head a saucy little toss.

"Indeed you are," he replied, amused. Then he realized he had unconsciously moved several steps closer to her—and that he now stood a mere two feet away from her, right by her bed.

At this, his face contorted with a sardonic grin and he continued caustically. "You are more than capable of taking care of yourself, Scarlett. However, I fear you find it endlessly more rewarding to try to manipulate me into taking care of you, no matter how much I try to stress my disinterest in the matter."

It was a cruel jab and he knew it. But suddenly he wanted to goad her, to infuriate her—to do something, anything, to make this charming vision disappear. It was much easier and safer to deal with Scarlett on the warpath than grapple with the beguiling little coquette that stood in front of him.

Unfortunately his words had the opposite effect for she looked at him stung and crestfallen. "Must you always think such terrible things about me?" she asked, hurt in her voice.

"No, not always." he answered before he could stop himself. Then, realizing his mistake, he shrugged and grinned. "Once in a very great while I even have a benign thought about you. And besides, you of all people should know that I don't even mean half the things I say."

It was not the best rejoinder he could conjure up on short notice, but he delivered it so cavalierly, his eyes snapping with malice, that it effectively cast a cloud of suspicion over his earlier remark. And Scarlett, always easily misled, looked at him in new confusion, trying without success to decipher his now perfectly blank face.

"Yes," she said with a delicate frown. "But I never know which half is which."

"And that's precisely how I intend it, my dear," he smirked.

"How you do run on," she replied icily. Then with a dizzying speed that caught him off guard, she dimpled brightly and returned, undeterred, to her earlier inquiry. "Well, would you tuck me in now, please?"

Refuse, he thought. Say no and leave. Don't be a fool. He opened his mouth to decline, but entirely different words came out.

"Yes," he replied softly, caressingly, "I shall tuck you in now, my pet."

Oh dear God. Rhett reeled at his own words—and his monumental stupidity. Here he was using frivolous endearments and agreeing to tuck her into bed when he had no intention of doing it in the first place. What the hell was the matter with him? Nothing good could come from leaning over Scarlett in her bed. He was putting himself squarely in the line of temptation. He was a glutton for punishment. He was a goddamn fool.

There was still time, he told himself. He could still turn and leave. But she smiled—smiled an adorable dimpled smile—and then the coverlet was in his hands and then she was slipping into bed. Time slowed down and his pulse sped up. This was so stupid, easily one of the stupidest things he had ever done—and that was saying a great deal, given the ridiculously long list of stupid things he'd done in his life, almost all of them in relation to Scarlett.

For here she was in bed just a heartbeat away from him—every glorious inch of her on display, just waiting…waiting for him… He started to draw the coverlet over her slowly—far, far too slowly—moving with elaborate care and deliberateness, reluctantly beginning to hide her body behind a wall of pale lavender fabric.

Already he was too close—dangerously, thrillingly close. He could feel the heat emanating from her slender body beneath the thin coverlet and she shuddered at his nearness, drawing a quick soft breath. His heart was pounding now, but he continued on his journey unabated, saying an unwilling goodbye to her shapely legs, her curvaceous hips, her taut abdomen as they all disappeared under the coverlet.

So stupid, so incredibly stupid…

His gaze fell next to her chest, where those two perfect breasts were so inadequately disguised by her flimsy white nightgown. God, this was torture—absolute, exquisite torture. With difficulty he drew his eyes away from her alluring décolletage and raised them northwards to her face, steeling himself as he did so against the smoldering look of seduction he knew he would find there.

But he did not find it. Instead her pale green eyes shone with clean and earnest feeling—a feeling that could be interpreted as nothing but what it was—love. Rhett drew a startled breath.

Suddenly his heartbeat drummed wildly at the base of his throat, swift thumps coming in like the flurried rhythm of wild flying birds. Scarlett loved him. She actually loved him. This was not stubborn fixation—this was love, genuine love. Once he had spent over a decade straining to see love written just like this on her face. And now the sudden sight of it sent a hot surge through him, sweeping him out of the time and place and circumstances, sweeping him away before his cool mind could recall its protests. He wanted this. He wanted this too much to remember he should no longer want it and he moved to claim what was now finally his—his—at long last.

The coverlet had dropped from his hands now and he was sitting on the side of the bed and leaning in close to her. One hand had found its way to her smooth cheek and the other had started to caress her long dark hair. And all he could see were those gleaming green eyes and those trembling red lips before him. He was close to her now—so close—just a hairsbreadth way from her softly parted mouth. Her eyes fluttered closed in anticipation. And he leaned in further—closer still now—so enticingly close—and then—

"Goodnight, Scarlett." Cold rationality had descended and he was halfway across the room when her eyes flew open in bewildered frustration.

He swiftly moved to the door separating their rooms and, opening it lightly, leaned against the doorway with casual grace.

Scarlett's brow furrowed violently and she opened her mouth as if to berate him—but he was quicker and he raised his eyebrows in swift mocking crescents, challenging her to speak. She wavered momentarily and then sighed.

"Goodnight, Rhett," she said softly—and her voice sounded with a such note of disappointment and longing that it took everything he had not to cross the room back to her.

Such a fool. Always, always such a goddamn fool when it comes to her, he thought bitterly.

He looked at Scarlett, her face hurt, her body small against the wide lavender coverlet, and his heart squeezed with a queer tight pain. Yes, he'd plainly admit it—he was afraid. He was both a fool and a coward. He'd gladly relive any of the moments his life had been in physical danger—the knife fights in the California gold fields, the cool steel of dueling pistols starring him down from twenty paces, the harrowing scrapes from gun running in Central America, the roar of cannon fire and explosions on the battlefield, the narrow misses with armed patrol boats in blockade running—than have to deal with the dark-haired, green-eyed creature lying in her bed just mere feet from him. Yes, he'd gladly relive any of it—all of it—than have to grapple with Scarlett—than have to give a name to the resurgent warm feeling in his breast.

At this, he swept into a florid bow and, nodding goodnight, stepped through the doorway and closed the door behind him.

Safe in the privacy of his dark bedchamber, Rhett cursed passionately and leaned his back against the closed door in impotent frustration. What the hell had happened back there? Out of the disastrous affair, two things stood to the fore: she loved him and she wanted him and she was on the other side of the door. And he needed to push her away, to keep her at arm's length because—what were his reasons again?

They had made so much sense when he had left Atlanta last fall. But now, somehow, he could scarcely remember them. Somehow, he realized, their urgency and potency had dulled over the course of the last six months—hell, over the course of the night—melting away as slowly and as unremarkably as the last frost before the warm sweet breath of spring. Melting away before the heat of her charm and her stubbornness and her presence…

He shoved this dangerous thought aside and tried with difficulty to remember his reasons. They were good reasons and he must think of them now and sober himself.

Yes, they were good reasons:

He would not be pursued as the luckless Ashley was pursued.

But he was up against Scarlett O'Hara, so of course he had been pursued anyway, he thought.

He feared for his liberty and his peace of mind.

But he had neither his liberty nor his peace of mind with her here in Charleston and so tantalizingly close at hand.

He couldn't live with her and lie to her and he certainly couldn't lie to himself.

He had spent the last six months living with her and lying to her and, God knows if he was honest, certainly lying to himself.

And, ah yes, the most important reason of all—his love had worn out.

He laughed bitterly. Worn out. Yes, his love had worn out. It was worn out and gone. That was why he was leaning against the door separating their bedrooms like a goddamn fool. That was the reason for the painful burning in his chest right now. And that was the explanation behind the thousands of unexplainable things he'd felt since she'd come to Charleston—like how he yearned for her beyond belief or wanted to comfort her from her nightmares or refused to really consider divorcing her. Yes, it was all because his love had worn out.

He laughed again, but this time it was the rueful but oddly exhilarating laughter of a man recognizing his fate. The truth was so plain. Despite reason and common sense and good judgment, he loved her. He was in love with her—he was irrevocably, unendurably in love with her—as in love with her as he had always been. At this realization, he felt none of the angst he expected such a realization to bring—only a deep and stirring calmness, as if a hand stronger than his was about his affairs, settling his problems for him.

For the second time that night, Rhett considered his options regarding his wife. He realized they were in fact simple. He could stay here in his empty bedroom and be both a fool and a coward. Or he could open the door behind him and be just a fool. Both options were gambles. But years of high stakes gambling reminded him that the safer course rarely yielded a sweet enough reward.

His heart confirmed his instincts and he reached for the doorknob. And so after walking out on his wife the year prior, Rhett Butler opened the door and walked back in.