“Well, don't cry about it,”he said, but his voice was kinder.“You are much safer here in Atlanta even if the Yankees do come than you'd be at Tara. The Yankees won't hurt you and typhoid would.”
“The Yankees wouldn't hurt me!How can you say such a lie?”
“My dear girl, the Yankees aren't fiends. They haven't horns and hoofs, as you seem to think.They are pretty much like Southerners—except with worse manners, of course, and terrible accents.”
“Why, the Yankees would—”
“Rape you?I think not. Though, of course, they'd want to.”
“If you are going to talk vilely I shall go into the house,”she cried, grateful that the shadows hid her crimson face.
“Be frank. Wasn't that what you were thinking?”
“Oh, certainly not!”
“Oh, but it was!No use getting mad at me for reading your thoughts. That's what all our delicately nurtured and pure-minded Southern ladies think.They have it on their minds constantly.I'll wager even dowagers like Mrs.Merriwether……”
Scarlett gulped in silence, remembering that wherever two or more matrons were gathered together, in these trying days, they whispered of such happenings, always in Virginia or Tennessee or Louisiana, never very close to home. The Yankees raped women and ran bayonets through children's stomachs and burned houses over the heads of old people.Everyone knew these things were true even if they didn't shout them on the street corners.And if Rhett had any decency he would realize they were true.And not talk about them.And it wasn't any laughing matter either.
She could hear him chuckling softly. Sometimes he was odious.In fact, most of the time he was odious.It was awful for a man to know what women really thought about and talked about.It made a girl feel positively undressed.And no man ever learned such things from good women either.She was indignant that he had read her mind.She liked to believe herself a thing of mystery to men, but she knew Rhett thought her as transparent as glass.
“Speaking of such matters,”he continued,“have you a protector or chaperon in the house?The admirable Mrs. Merriwether or Mrs.Meade?They always look at me as if they knew I was here for no good purpose.”
“Mrs. Meade usually comes over at night,”answered Scarlett, glad to change the subject.“But she couldn't tonight.Phil, her boy, is home.”
“What luck,”he said softly,“to find you alone.”
Something in his voice made her heart beat pleasantly faster and she felt her face flush. She had heard that note in men's voices often enough to know that it presaged a declaration of love.Oh, what fun!If he would just say he loved her, how she would torment him and get even with him for all the sarcastic remarks he had flung at her these past three years.She would lead him a chase that would make up for even that awful humiliation of the day he witnessed her slapping Ashley.And then she'd tell him sweetly she could only be a sister to him and retire with the full honors of war.She laughed nervously in pleasant anticipation.
“Don't giggle,”he said, and taking her hand, he turned it over and pressed his lips into the palm. Something vital, electric, leaped from him to her at the touch of his warm mouth, something that caressed her whole body thrillingly.His lips traveled to her wrist and she knew that he must feel the leap of her pulse as her heart quickened and she tried to draw back her hand.She had not bargained on this—this treacherous warm tide of feeling that made her want to run her hands through his hair, to feel his lips upon her mouth.
She wasn't in love with him, she told herself confusedly. She was in love with Ashley.But how to explain this feeling that made her hands shake and the pit of her stomach grow cold?
He laughed softly.
“Don't pull away!I won't hurt you!”
“Hurt me?I'm not afraid of you, Rhett Butler, or of any man in shoe leather!”she cried, furious that her voice shook as well as her hands.
“An admirable sentiment, but do lower your voice. Mrs.Wilkes mighthear you.And pray compose yourself.”He sounded as though delighted at her flurry.
“Scarlett, you do like me, don't you?”
That was more like what she was expecting.
“Well, sometimes,”she answered cautiously.“When you aren't acting like a varmint.”
He laughed again and held the palm of her hand against his hard cheek.
“I think you like me because I am a varmint. You've known so few dyed-in-the-wool varmints in your sheltered life that my very difference holds a quaint charm for you.”
This was not the turn she had anticipated and she tried again without success to pull her hand free.
“That's not true!I like nice men—men you can depend on to always be gentlemanly.”
“You mean men you can always bully. It's merely a matter of definition.But no matter.”
He kissed her palm again, and again the skin on the back of her neck crawled excitingly.
“But you do like me. Could you ever love me, Scarlett?”
“Ah!”she thought, triumphantly.“Now I've got him!”And she answered with studied coolness:“Indeed, no. That is—not unless you mended your manners considerably.”
“And I have no intention of mending them. So you could not love me?That is as I hoped.For while I like you immensely, I do not love you and it would be tragic indeed for you to suffer twice from unrequited love, wouldn't it, dear?May I call you‘dear,'Mrs.Hamilton?I shall call you‘dear'whether you like it or not, so no matter, but the proprieties must be observed.”
“You don't love me?”
“No, indeed. Did you hope that I did?”
“Don't be so presumptuous!”
“You hoped!Alas, to blight your hopes!I should love you, for you are charming and talented at many useless accomplishments. But many ladies have charm and accomplishments and are just as useless as you are.No, I don't loveyou.But I do like you tremendously—for the elasticity of your conscience, for the selfishness which you seldom trouble to hide, and for the shrewd practicality in you which, I fear, you get from some not too remote Irish-peasant ancestor.”
Peasant!Why, he was insulting her!She began to splutter wordlessly.