She extinguished the lamp and curled up tightly under the covers after Pansy undressed her, trying to hide from her own desperate unhappiness. If only she could sleep, forget Sally Brewton, forget everything, escape. Darkness was all around her, mocking her dry sleepless eyes. She couldn’t even cry; all her tears had been spent in the emotional storm after Sally’s hellish revelations.

The latch grated, and light poured into the room as the door swung open. Scarlett turned her head towards it, startled by the sudden brightness.

Rhett was standing in the doorway, a lamp in his raised hand. It cast harsh shadows on the strong planes of his wind-burned face and salt-stiff black hair. He was still wearing the clothes he’d worn sailing; they clung, wet, to his hard chest and muscled arms and legs. His expression was dark with barely controlled emotion, and he loomed huge and dangerous.

Scarlett’s heart leapt with primitive fear, yet her breath quickened from excitement. This was what she had dreamed of—Rhett coming into her bedroom with passion overriding his cool self-control.

He strode to the bed, closing the door with a kick. “You can’t hide from me, Scarlett,” he said. “Get up.” In one motion his arm swept the unlit lamp off the table onto the floor with a splintering crash, and his big hand set the lighted one down with such force that it rocked perilously. He threw back the quilts, grabbed her arms, and dragged her from the bed onto her feet.

Her dark tumbled hair fell across her neck and shoulders and over his hands. The lace that edged the open neck of her nightdress quivered from the pounding of her heart. Hot blood stained her cheeks red and deepened the green color of her eyes, fixed on his. Rhett threw her painfully against the bed’s thick carved post and backed away.

“Damn you for an interfering fool,” he said hoarsely. “I should have killed you the minute you set foot in Charleston.”

Scarlett held on to the bedpost to keep from falling. She felt the surging thrill of danger in her veins. What had happened to put him in such a state?

“Don’t play the frightened maiden with me, Scarlett. I know you better than that. I’m not going to kill you, I’m not even going to beat you, although God knows you deserve it.”

Rhett’s mouth twisted. “How fetching you look, my dear. Bosom heaving and eyes wide with innocence. The pity of it is that you probably are innocent by your warped definition. Never mind the pain you’ve caused a harmless woman by casting your net over her witless husband.”

Scarlett’s lips curved in an uncontrollable smile of victory. He was furious about her conquest of Middleton Courtney! She had done it—made him admit that he was jealous. Now he’d have to admit that he loved her, she’d make him say it—

“I don’t give a damn that you made a spectacle of yourself,” Rhett said instead. “In fact it was rather diverting to watch a middleaged woman convince herself that she was still an irresistible nubile girl. You can’t grow past sixteen, can you, Scarlett? The height of your ambition is to remain eternally the belle of Clayton County.

“Today the joke ceased to be funny,” he shouted. Scarlett recoiled from the sudden noise. He clenched his fists, visibly took command of his fury. “As I left church this morning,” he said quietly, “an old friend, who is also a close cousin, drew me to one side and volunteered to serve as my second when I challenge Middleton Courtney to a duel. He never doubted that that must be my intention. Regardless of the truth of the matter, your good name had to be defended. For the sake of the family.”

Scarlett’s small white teeth bit into her lower lip. “What did you say to him?”

“Exactly what I am about to say to you. ‘A duel will not be necessary. My wife is unaccustomed to society and acted in a way subject to misinterpretation because she didn’t know any better. I’ll instruct her in what is expected of her.’ ”

His arm moved as rapidly as a striking snake, and his hand closed cruelly around her wrist. “Lesson one,” he said. He pulled her to him with a sudden jerk. Scarlett was pinned against his chest with her arm twisted and held high on her back. Rhett’s face was close above her, his eyes boring into hers. “I do not mind if the entire world thinks I’m a cuckold, my dear, devoted little wife, but I will not be forced to fight Middleton Courtney.” Rhett’s breath was warm and salty in her nose and on her lips. “Lesson two,” he said.

“If I kill the jackass, I will have to leave town or be hung by the military, and that would be inconvenient for me. And I certainly have no intention of making myself an easy target for him. He might accidentally shoot straight and wound me, which would be another kind of inconvenience.”

Scarlett struck at him with her free hand, but he trapped it easily in his and twisted it up next to the other. His arms were a cage holding her against him. She could feel the moisture in his shirt seeping through her nightdress to her skin. “Lesson three,” said Rhett. “It would be the irony of the age for me—or even an imbecile like Courtney—to risk death in order to save your dishonest little soul from dishonor. Therefore—lesson four: you will follow my instructions for your behavior at all public appearances until the Season is ended. No head-hanging chagrin, my pet. It’s not your style and it would only add fuel to the fire of gossip. You will hold your curled head high and continue your relentless pursuit of lost youth. But you will distribute your attentions more evenly among the beguiled male population. I will be happy to advise you which gentlemen to favor. In fact I will insist on giving you advice.” His hands released her wrists and closed over her shoulders, thrusting her away.

“Lesson five: you will do exactly what I tell you to do.” Away from the heat of Rhett’s body, the wet silk nightdress felt like ice on Scarlett’s breasts and stomach. She crossed her arms over herself for warmth, but it was useless. Her mind was as icy as her body, and the things he had said rang clearly through it. He didn’t care . . . he had been laughing at her . . . he was concerned only with his “convenience.”

How dare he? How dare he laugh at her in public and revile her to his skin and throw her around in her own room like a sack of meal? A “Charleston gentleman” was as much a lie as a “Charleston lady.” Two-faced, lying, double-dealing—

Scarlett lifted her fists to hit him, but he was still gripping her shoulders, and her balled hands fell ineffectually on his chest.

She twisted and broke free. Rhett raised his palms to ward off her blows, and laughter rumbled low in his brown throat.

Scarlett lifted her hands—only to push her wild hair back from her face. “You can save your breath, Rhett Butler. I’ll need no advice from you because I won’t be here to ignore it. I hate your precious Charleston, and I despise everybody in it, especially you. I’m leaving tomorrow.” She faced him head-on, her hands on her hips, her head high, her chin out. Her body was visibly trembling in the clinging silk.

Rhett looked away. “No, Scarlett,” he said. His tone was leaden. “You will not leave. Flight would only serve to confirm guilt, and I’d still have to kill Courtney. You blackmailed me into allowing you to stay for the Season, Scarlett, and stay you will.

“And you will do what I tell you to do, and you will appear to like it. Or I swear before God that I will break every bone in your body, one after another.”

He walked to the door. With his hand on the latch, he looked back at her and smiled mockingly. “And don’t try to do anything clever, my pet. I will be watching every move you make.”

“I hate you!” Scarlett shouted at the closing door. When she heard a key turning in the lock, she threw the mantel clock, then the fireplace poker, at it.

Too late she thought of the piazza and the other bedrooms. When she ran to their doors they, too, were locked on the outside. She returned to her own room and paced its length and width until she was exhausted.

At last she slumped into a chair and pounded weakly on its armrests until her hands were sore. “I am going to leave,” she announced aloud, “and there’s no way he can stop me.” The tall, thick, locked door silently gave her the lie.

There was no point in fighting Rhett, she’d have to outwit him somehow. There had to be a way, and she’d find it. No need to burden herself with luggage, she could go with only the clothes on her back. That’s what she’d do. She’d go to a tea or a whist party or something and just walk away in the middle, straight to the horsecar and on to the depot. She had plenty of money for a ticket to—where?

As always when Scarlett was heartsore, she thought of Tara. There was peace there, and new strength . . .

. . . and Suellen. If only Tara was hers, all hers. She saw again the daydreams she’d invented when she visited Julia Ashley’s plantation. How could Carreen have thrown away her share the way she had?

Scarlett’s head snapped up like a woods animal scenting water. What good was a share in Tara to the convent in Charleston? They couldn’t sell it, even if there was a buyer, because Will would never agree, nor would she. Maybe they got a third share of any profit from the cotton crop, but how much could that possibly be? At best thirty or forty dollars a year. Why, they would jump at a chance to sell to her.

Rhett wanted her to stay, did he? Fine! She’d stay, but only if he helped her get Carreen’s third of Tara. Then, with two-thirds in her hand, she’d offer to buy out Will and Suellen. If Will refused to sell, she’d throw them out.

A stab of conscience halted her thoughts, but Scarlett pushed it away. What did it matter how much Will loved Tara? She loved it more. And she needed it. It was the only place she cared about, the only place where anyone had ever cared about her. Will would understand; he’d see that Tara was her only hope.