We lost my grandmother this weekend. It is her that those of you who enjoy my fanfiction have to thank for it. Without her, there would be no Facing the Enemy, or This Year's Love, or The Lady.

She was the one who introduced me to Gone with the Wind in 1989 when I was 10 years old.

I remember reading the book and telling her that I found a book that would make the greatest movie ever. She then took out the video (lol, yup a video for those readers who are unfamiliar, try looking it up on Encarta haha) and by the end, a love affair that would last the rest of my life began.

She bought me "A pictorial history of Gone with the Wind" that year. In the back, there were pictures of various magazine that came out when the movie was released. At the age of 11, I vowed I would own them one day. She effectively started my memorabilia collection. In truth, she was my first windie friend.

I could never really thank her enough for encouraging a hobby that has been a source of joy, a source of good friends, a source of pride. It has sustained me in my darkest hours.

Every time I watch the movie, every time I read the book, every time I buy something new; I will think of her.

God rest you.

Unable to hear the conversation from afar, Ashley could only wonder what Henry had said. It must have been something quite upsettingly to make Scarlett so irate. It was clear, even from afar, that she was fuming. Watching Rhett help Scarlett make their way toward their own carriage, he carefully considered what they had just discussed.

She'd made it clear to him, as only she knew how; that she would not soon forget Wade's treatment at India's hands. Looking at his nephew and son, Ashley summoned a slight smile. "Well gentlemen, let's do our best to make it through the rest of the day in one piece, shall we?"

"Yes sir," chorused Wade and Beau. Settling back into the plush squabs, Wade spoke softly. "I sure wouldn't want mother mad at me."

"Do you think Auntie will thrash Aunt India," asked Beau excitedly, his soft brown eyes sparkling. By his approximation, Auntie Scarlett was the most exciting woman in all the world. She was the only woman of his acquaintance who might finally give his awful Aunt India what she deserved. India treated him badly, yelling constantly at him about trivial matters. Her anger affected him so badly that it made him miss his gentle, loving mother even more.

Ashley looked at Beau, his grey eyes serious. "I am sure that your Aunts will behave themselves, but, for the moment, let's look to your behavior. It isn't gentlemanly of you to wonder such a thing Beauregard Wilkes," Ashley chided gently.

Beau's small golden head dropped forward, as his eyes welled at being reprimanded. "I'm sorry sir," he said in a small voice. "I didn't mean any disrespect." Feeling brave, he raised his head, "But sir, it's just that Auntie is awful mad and mama said that Auntie could lick a passel of Yankees when she was angry."

Channeling Scarlett, Wade snorted genteelly, drawing Ashley's disapproving gaze. Like his mother, he was not in the least bothered by his Uncle's apparent disapproval. "Your Aunt India should probably avoid my mother, just in case."

"Your mother can be trusted to behave properly and Beau, she may be angry with Aunt India but I am sure she will keep that anger firmly in check."

Wade and Beau exchanged a knowing look. "Shows what you know," muttered Wade under his breath.

"What was that Wade," asked Ashley.

"Nothing Uncle Ashley," replied Wade, "nothing at all,"

Closing the hotel door behind them, he was grateful that someone had thought to warm the room for them. A fire blazed merrily in the Italian marble fireplace, casting flickering shadows across their large suite while failing to illuminate the furthest corners.

Tossing his hat and gloves carelessly on the nearest chair, he turned his attention to Scarlett. She was still and uncharacteristically silent under his quizzical gaze.

"May I?" She nodded, once up and once down, as if every movement cost her dearly.

She seemed to need silence and for the time being, he was willing to give it to her. It occurred to him, not for the first time, the trappings of mourning were meant to further isolate the mourner while plunging them into deep grieving. His darling wife, through bad luck and circumstance, was in many ways a professional mourner.

While most woman of Scarlett's class owned at least one black mourning gown, she owned over three dozen dresses that had been used in some stage of mourning. Possessing a tidy and highly fastidious mind, her closet in their Atlanta home were organized into two sides. The left side contained her mourning dresses and the accessories that went with them. When she was out of mourning, those dresses and boxes remained untouched and almost completely ignored by their owner.

As a new bride, she brought several black mourning gowns with her when they moved into their home. He'd wanted to poke fun at her clinging to them, but at the time, it seemed too taboo a subject. While she would often do as she pleased, marrying him so soon after leaving off full mourning for Frank Kennedy left her in a state of confusion when it came to her wardrobe.

At the time of their marriage, Scarlett should have been just entering half mourning. Instead, she was a bride. Wanting to at least try and honor convention for convention's sake, she would wear dove grey, mauve, and purple gowns at least once a week. Burgundy, a color he'd always loved on her, was also a color she favored in those days as well as dark blue. On their honeymoon, she wore what she liked but when they returned to Atlanta, she tried to honor at least the letter of the law. It had amused him them, how she tried to honor some conventions while casting others off wholeheartedly.

Of course, being Scarlett, the dresses she wore were beautifully constructed and suited her perfectly.

The plethora of black mourning dresses only came after they lost Bonnie. Then, the colored dresses suitable for half mourning were pushed to the far back of her closet replaced with only black. Black dresses made from henrietta and melrose trimmed with crepe. Bombazine dresses for days when Scarlett had supervised the household and gone over the accounts. Black dresses with white lawn cuffs and collars, the white symbolizing that Scarlett was in mourning for a young child. Then, just when it would have been socially acceptable to leave off full mourning for Bonnie, Melly died.

He wondered how many days Scarlett had spent in black? So much of her adult life had been spent in some stage of mourning. She'd only packed a few black dresses to bring to Charleston, but still, she packed them because it was second nature to her.

Only when it came to mourning jewelry did Scarlett rigidly adhere to society's conventions. At her throat was a cameo he remembered from the war years, an expertly rendered shell cameo depicting the three graces. In a small compartment below the cameo was a lock of Charles Hamilton's hair. He remembered asking her if she missed Charles Hamilton so much that she needed such a personal reminder. Her reply came in a soft voice. It wasn't what the cameo represented, it was where it had come from that mattered. Her mother had it made for her from a piece she'd owned and it meant a great deal to Scarlett.

Not waiting for her reply or refusal, he began helping a still silent Scarlett out of her black velvet and silk moiré cape. It hung damply in his hands. Most likely, it was ruined but still, he would make the effort. His movements were smooth, as he deliberately moved away from her. The expensive wrap might well be ruined but regardless, he carefully hung it over a chair near the fireplace.

"God rest that good woman. It's been a long day love, but at least it's over now."

There was only silence.

Turning toward her, Rhett spoke kindly. "It is over. Another few days and we can leave this damned town. I miss Ella, don't you?"

Lifting her head, he watched as her face contorted painfully. Her swollen, red rimmed eyes looked up at him. There were no tears in her jade green eyes. He thought that tears would have served her better than the deep-seated grief she seemed to carry. "It isn't over though, not really. It's not over. This," she gestured to her heavy black skirts streaked with splashes of drying mud, "it never seems to end."

"I know it must seem that way."

She looked away, a soft sound escaping her lips. "Seem? It must seem that way? It's always this. It's always, here, like this."

"I know."

"Do you, do you really know? You've said that you do but sometimes I wonder how you could? How could any man? How could any of you really know how it is to have to do this, to dress like this? No, you can't know how I feel about being here, being back in yards and yards of black again. I feel like I am suffocating in these clothes. I look down and all this black, it drives me mad until I just want to throw back my head and scream until everyone knows. Until they all know that I can't stand it any more."

His jaw clenched faintly, but he kept the hurt from his voice. "I've lost people as well Scarlett," he reminded her softly, "maybe I don't have to drape myself in twenty yards of black, but I know what it is to feel as if I am drowning in grief, don't forget that."

Suddenly chastised, she looked up at him, her lips parted slightly but there were no words. The silence fell between them, thick and seemingly impenetrable. "Yes. You have," she offered softly. "I don't know why I do that. I wish I knew."

"Do what honey?"

"Strike at you. I just can't seem to help myself. My heart hurts and I would do anything to stop it and I feel like if I just let it out, it will stop it. But it never does, it just makes it worse. I'm sorry that…"

"Don't."

"No, I have to say this. If it sounded as if I were implying you didn't know what it was to mourn, I misspoke. I haven't forgotten what you've lost, not ever." She clasped his hand tightly, clinging to it as a drowning woman might cling to a rope. "I need you to do something for me now."

Seeing the contrition in her eyes, he came to her. Brushing the back of his knuckles across her soft cheek, he rested his other hand on her hip. Through the damp layers of fabric, she could feel the heat that radiated from his touch. Her eyes closed for a minute and some of the tension drained from her body. "What is it Scarlett," he asked.

"This," she replied softly, reaching up to cup the back of his head. "Just this." She kissed him, delicately at first but soon it grew in passion.

"Scarlett—"

She shook her head, her cheeks coloring under the intensity in his dark eyes. "Love me."

"I do," he said vehemently.

A warm flush rose in her cheeks. "I meant now. Be with me now, make me forget this day, make me forget every other one like it."

"It's not-," he paused. God help him, he wanted her. Even standing there, dressed in mourning, he wanted her. He was no gentleman, despite Miss Melly's claims to the contrary. The blood of saint's did not flow in his veins. He was just a man who loved the woman in front of him. He was not a man who loved easily but he loved her. From the first, to the last, there could never be anyone for him except her. He wanted her but still, she was grieving. It was possible she didn't really know what she wanted. He wanted to give her what she needed but, what did she really need?

She could read the hesitation in his eyes. "Please, I know you must think I've gone crazy and it's entirely possible that I have but I feel like I may never feel anything ever again. I need you. I need you to make me feel alive."

"Sweetheart," he reached out for her but she moved away, taking a shaky step back.

"While you're busy trying to figure out what to do, could help me out of these clothes?" She tried to smile but it faltered quickly. "You'll just have to do most of the work because I think I may just close my eyes because I don't even want to catch even one more glimpse of myself in this dress." Her voice shook. "Please." She didn't give him a chance to speak before plunging forward. "It's just that I can't stand it anymore, I never want to be here, in Atlanta, in black, again. Never again, do you hear me?"

"Scarlett, sit down."

Her voice rose shrilly. "No more death, no more black dresses, no more of any of it. I only want to think of us, just us. I only want to think of our new life together. That life, it is everything. I don't want to let anything bad touch it."

"That's what I want, it's what I've always wanted, to keep anything bad from touching you." He moved toward her, but she drew back, shaking her head.

"If you mean that, then you'll take me to bed and make me forget all the days that I felt like this. It's what I need even if I can't tell you properly. I can't make you understand the way I want you to. I just can't. I'm not like you, I can't always find the right words to tell you, to make it clear to you how I feel about you."

Silently, he swept her up into his arms, drawing a sharp, protesting noise from her before she quieted. Placing her on the bed, he began the arduous process of undressing her. "Poor Scarlett," he said softly, "my poor baby."

He felt her stiffen in his arms. "No," she suddenly protested sharply, swatting at his hands. Her back straightened and her head came up. There she was, Scarlett O'Hara, once more. Her moment of weakness had passed; the brittle way her eyes glittered told him so. His words incited shame in her breast; she was not and had never been "not poor Scarlett."

"I was wrong for asking you. It was a long day and I am sorry for how I acted just now. I was being selfish, weak. I was being weak. I can't take off these clothes." She reached out, resting her palm against his cheek. "I can't be with you now. I want to be, I think I need to be, but we have to go back over to Pitty's house. They're all expecting us."

"There's no shame in grieving."

She began to button her bodice. "Your right, there isn't. There is shame in throwing myself at you because I didn't want to go and finish this day. For that, I'm sorry."

Catching her hand in his, he stopped her. Gently tracing his fingers up, he stopped when his fingertips grazed her chin. Raising her chin so he could look into her green eyes, green eyes now at last clouded by unshed tears, he shook his head. "No."

"Yes."

"We aren't going anywhere."

"We most certainly are."

"If we aren't there, people will talk."

"People always talk, and in Atlanta, it's generally about us. The honest and god fearing talking about us, that isn't anything new," he teased.

Pushing him away, she began to rebutton her basque. "I have an obligation to be there. I don't want to be there, but I have to be. I don't think I could make myself go out of social obligation, but this is an obligation toward being respectable for Wade's sake, for both the children's sakes."

"Stop it." His hand covered hers, forcing them away from her gaping basque. "Let's pretend something, shall we? Let's pretend we have the sort of marriage where I, the husband, tells you, my wife, what to do." He smiled slightly, "And in case you are completely unfamiliar with what, I admit, may be a new concept for you, after I tell you what to do, then," he added helpfully, "you do it."

"Fiddle-dee-dee," she said, her lips thinning while her eyes glowed luminously with the fires of righteous indignation. "You want me to take orders from you? I've never taken orders from any of the men I've married and I have no intention of starting now. That I love you more than your predecessors, I won't deny, but it doesn't make me your slave."

Suddenly, giving her no time to protest or draw away, his arms were around her. She felt again the rush of helplessness, the immense desire to give over to something more than herself. These desires were uncontrollable; they were what had lead to her accepting his absurd proposal of matrimony so many years ago.

He kissed her deeply. The feel of his lips on hers, the rush of heat that began to consume her as she felt him deftly unbuttoning the remaining buttons on her basque with one hand; she wanted him. Honor and duty did not come naturally to her but practicality did. 'Stop him,' her sharp, practical mind cried out. 'Tell him to stop, demand it before it's too late."

She could not. She could not tell him to stop. She could no sooner ask him to stop kissing her then she could force her frantic heart to stop beating.

He sensed her capitulation. Something bluntly male responded to that surrender in a way that was so deeply tainted by primitive urges that later he felt a small stirring of fear at how great his feelings for her truly were.

Reaching up, he was not gentle when he jerked her basque from her body. He continued to kiss her even as he stripped her. Every inch of skin that he exposed, he caressed with his mouth and tongue. Pressing her back onto the bed, he kissed her, softly at first, whispering her name briefly before he parted her lips with his.

His own clothes he made short work of, coming back to her swiftly as if he feared that even a short separation would allow her to regroup.

"Rhett, please…" she mumbled even as her arms wrapped around his neck.

He laughed deeply, his chest warm and bare against her. "Please what, stop? Do you really want that? Are you really so eager to hurry over to sit with the Wilkes siblings?"

"Well, no," she offered hesitantly.

Propping himself up on one elbow, Rhett studied her candidly. It was her eyes, he knew, that always entrapped him. For most women eyes were just eyes, they held no particular mystery. Her's were different, those deep green eyes were different from every other pair he'd ever looked into. "I've loved you since that vase was sent hurling across a room in Clayton County all those years ago."

"Not that many years."

He pressed his finger to her lips, silencing her. "When you feel like you're alone, you aren't. No matter what, you will always have my love. It will be with you, even if I'm not. I will always be with you." He touched his fingers to his lips before placing them on her breast, just over her heart. Lightly he pressed his fingertips into her soft flesh until he could feel her racing pulse. "I swear to you, I am yours, for as long as you'll have me."

She sighed softly."Rhett, I do love you. I wonder that it didn't ever occur to me that I must have for years."

"You took your own damned sweet time to realize that you loved me."

She lifted her head haughtily. In that moment, she was a goddess, a bed tumbled empresses. There was a flicker in her eyes, something daring, her turbulent green eyes issuing a bold challenge. "And you took your own damned sweet time to tell me in the first place," she countered, "really Rhett, we could have saved a lot of heartache and had a lot more fun if you'd just plain said what it was you felt for me."

Her stormy eyes could not lie to him. Scarlett completely captivated him. She so wanted to do what was right, despite a natural inclination to the contrary. So many times, she did what was right for everyone she cared about even if it meant suppressing her own desires. She was an incongruity; the most selfish selfless person he would ever know.

Her desire for him, expressed by her rich green eyes was clear, so clear that he had no more doubts. She needed him to be selfish for the both of them. Lifting his hand, he brushed back her hair and lowered his lips to hers.

There was something dangerously sensual about the look on her face when he drew back. Looking back at him with a self-satisfied smirk shaping her lips, she appeared to be waiting for a comment. He wanted to tease her, verbally jab at her a little; but he resisted. Instead, he spoke the truth.

"You are so very beautiful."

Her face and the translucent white of her breasts flushed softly as she smiled back at the man who had captured her, heart and soul. "You once told me you've known women more beautiful than me."

He smiled that twisty half smile that was so unique to him. "I lied."

She put her arms around his neck and pulled him down, lightly pressing herself against him. "I knew it all along," she said, before allowing herself to sink into sweet abandonment.