Brighter Than the Sun Page 7

  Charles jammed his fingers more tightly against his temple, hoping the pressure would somehow dull the pain. “I'd wager you have a vengeful streak a mile wide,” he muttered.

  “I am the least vengeful person I know,” she said with a sniff. “And if you think otherwise, then perhaps you ought not to marry me.”

  “You're marrying me,” he ground out, “if I have to drag you to the altar bound and gagged.”

  Ellie smiled waspishly. “You could try,” she taunted, “but in your condition you couldn't drag a flea.”

  “And you say you're not vengeful.”

  “I seem to be developing a taste for it.”

  Charles grabbed at the back of his skull, which felt as if someone were stabbing long, rusty needles into it. He winced and said, “Just don't say anything. Not a word. Not a”—he gasped as he felt another rush of pain—“single damned word.”

  Ellie, who had no idea that he even had a headache, interpreted that to mean he thought she was inconsequential, stupid, and a general nuisance. Her spine stiffened, her teeth clenched, and her hands curved into involuntary little claws. “I have done nothing to deserve this kind of treatment,” she said in a haughty voice. And then, with a loud, “Hmmmph,” she turned on her heel and marched toward home.

  Charles lifted his head long enough to see her stride off, sighed, and promptly passed out.

  “Why that little snake,” Ellie muttered to herself. “If he thinks I'm going to marry him now…He's worse than Mrs. Foxglove!” She scrunched up her brow, decided that it wouldn't do to start lying to herself at the ripe old age of three and twenty, and then added, “Well, almost.”

  She tramped along the lane a few more steps, then leaned down when something shiny caught her eye. It looked like a metal bolt of some sort. She picked it up, rolled it around in her hand for a moment, then slipped it into her pocket. There was a little boy in her father's parish who loved trinkets like this. Perhaps she could give it to him next time she went to church.

  Ellie sighed. She'd have plenty of time to give the bolt to Tommy Beechcombe. It certainly didn't look as if she'd be moving out of her father's house any time soon. She might as well start practicing her chimney sweeping techniques that afternoon.

  The Earl of Billington had brought a brief measure of excitement into her life, but it was now clear they wouldn't suit. She did, however, feel a touch guilty about leaving him lying by the side of the road. Not that he didn't deserve it, of course, but Ellie always tried to be charitable, and…

  She shook her head and rolled her eyes. One look back wouldn't kill her. Just to see if he was all right.

  She twisted around but realized that she'd gone over a little hill and couldn't see him any longer. She let out a deep breath and trudged back toward the scene of the accident. “This doesn't mean you care about him,” she told herself. “It just means that you are a fine and upstanding woman, one who doesn't abandon people, however rude and vile”—she allowed herself a tiny smile here—“when they are incapable of looking after—Good God!”

  Charles was lying where she'd left him, and he looked quite dead.

  “Charles!” she screamed, picking up her skirts and sprinting toward him. She stumbled over a rock and landed next to him, her knee jabbing into his side.

  He groaned. Ellie let out her breath, which she hadn't realized she'd been holding. She hadn't really thought he was dead, but he'd been so terribly still. “Where are smelling salts when one actually needs them?” she muttered. Mrs. Foxglove was always waving around vile-smelling potions at the least provocation.

  “No, I don't have a vinaigrette,” she said to the unconscious earl. “No one has ever fainted in my vicinity before.” She looked around for something to use to revive him when her eyes fell on a small flask that must have fallen from the upturned curricle. She picked it up, unscrewed the cap, and sniffed the contents.

  “Oh, my,” she said, holding it back and waving the air in front of her face. Pungent whiskey fumes filled the air. Ellie wondered if the alcohol was left over from the day Charles had fallen out of the tree. He certainly hadn't been drinking today—of that, Ellie was certain. She would have smelled it on him—and besides, she didn't think he was the sort to abuse spirits on a regular basis.

  She looked down at this man she was actually considering marrying. Even unconscious, there was a certain air of resolute power about him. No, he wouldn't need alcohol to bolster his self-esteem.

  “Well,” she said out loud, “I suppose we can at least use it to wake you up.” She held the flask in front of her and placed it under his nose.

  No response.

  Ellie frowned and placed her hand over his heart. “My lord, you haven't gone and died since the last time you groaned, have you?”

  Not surprisingly, he didn't reply, but Ellie did feel his heart beating steadily beneath her palm, which reassured her greatly. “Charles,” she said, trying to sound stern, “I would really appreciate it if you would wake up immediately.”

  When he again didn't so much as twitch, she placed her fore and middle fingers against the opening of the flask and tipped it over, dousing her skin with the cool whiskey. It evaporated quickly against her flesh, so she repeated the motion, this time keeping the flask overturned a bit longer. When she was satisfied that her fingers were sufficiently wet, she dabbed them under his nose.

  “Whaa…Aya…Heebelah!”

  Charles didn't make much sense as he came to. He shot up like a bullet, blinking and startled, looking very much like a man waking up too quickly from a nightmare.

  Ellie lurched back to avoid his flailing arms, but she wasn't quick enough, and he knocked the flask from her hands. It sailed through the air, spewing whiskey all the while. She jumped backward, and this time she was quick enough. All of the whiskey landed on Charles, who was still spluttering incoherently.

  “What the hell did you do to me?” he demanded once he regained his power of speech.

  “What did I do to you?”

  He coughed and wrinkled his nose. “I smell like a drunk.”

  “You smell very much like you did two days ago.”

  “Two days ago I was—”

  “A drunk,” Ellie retorted.

  His eyes darkened. “I was drunk, not a drunk. There is a difference. And you—” He jabbed his finger in her direction, then winced at the sudden movement and grabbed his head.

  “Charles?” Ellie asked cautiously, forgetting that she was rather angry with him for somehow placing the blame for this entire farce on her shoulders. All she could see was that he was in pain. A lot of pain, if his facial expression was any indication.

  “Lord almighty,” he cursed. “Did someone hit me on the head with a log?”

  “I was tempted to,” Ellie tried to joke, hoping that levity might take his mind off the pain.

  “That I do not doubt. You would have made a superb army commander had you been born a man.”

  “There are a lot of things I could have done had I been born a man,” Ellie muttered, “and marrying you is not one of them.”

  “Lucky me,” Charles replied, still wincing. “Lucky you.”

  “That remains to be seen.”

  There was an awkward silence, and then Ellie, feeling that she ought to explain to him what had happened while he was unconscious, said, “About the whiskey…I suppose I must apologize, but I was just trying to—”

  “Flambé me?”

  “No, although the suggestion does have merit. I was trying to revive you. An alcoholic vinaigrette, if you will. You knocked the flask over when you sat up.”

  “How is it that I feel as if I have been strung out on the rack, and you look completely unhurt?”

  Ellie's mouth curved into a wry half-smile. “One would think that a chivalrous gentleman such as yourself would be pleased that his lady was uninjured.”

  “I am ever chivalrous, my lady. I am also damned confused.”

  “Evidently you're not chivalrous enough to ab
stain from cursing in my presence. However”—she waved her hand nonchalantly in the air—“it is lucky for you that I have never been overly fussy about such matters.”

  He closed his eyes, wondering why it took her so many words to get to the point.

  “I fell on you when I was thrown from the curricle,” she finally explained. “You must have sustained some injuries to your back when you fell, but any pain you are feeling in your…ah…front is probably due to…ah…me.” She blinked a few times, and then fell silent, her cheeks staining a rather fetching pink.

  “I see.”

  Ellie swallowed uncomfortably. “Would you like a hand up?”

  “Yes, thank you.” He took her hand and hauled himself to a standing position, trying to ignore the myriad aches and pains that flared with every movement. When he reached his feet, he planted his hands on his hips and stretched his neck to the left. The joint made several cracking sounds, and Charles fought the urge to smile when Ellie winced.

  “That doesn't sound very promising,” she offered.

  He didn't reply, just stretched his neck in the opposite direction, finding some sort of perverse satisfaction in the second round of cracking noises. After a moment, his eyes fell upon the overturned curricle, and he swore under his breath. The wheel had come off and was now crushed beneath the body of the vehicle.

  Ellie followed his line of vision and said, “Yes, I tried to tell you that the wheel was quite ruined, but I now realize that you were in far too much pain to listen.”

  As Charles kneeled down to inspect the damage, she surprised him by adding, “I'm terribly sorry for walking away a few minutes ago. I didn't realize how hurt you were. If I had, I should never have left. I—I shouldn't have left regardless. It was very bad of me.”

  Charles was touched by her heartfelt speech, and impressed with her sense of honor. “Your apology is unnecessary,” he said gruffly, “but appreciated and accepted nonetheless.”

  Ellie inclined her head. “We did not travel very far from my home. It shouldn't be difficult to walk back and lead the horses. I am certain my father will be able to arrange transportation home for you. Or we can find a messenger to fetch a fresh carriage from Wycombe Abbey.”

  “That will be fine,” he murmured, giving the damaged curricle a closer look.

  “Is something amiss, my lord? Other than the fact that we drove through a rut and overturned?”

  “Look at this, Eleanor.” He reached out and touched the damaged wheel. “It's no longer attached to the carriage.”

  “I imagine that is from the accident.”

  Charles tapped his fingers against the side of the curricle as he thought. “No, it should still be attached. Broken, from when we overturned, but attached right here at the centerpoint.”

  “Do you think that wheel came off of its own volition?”

  “Yes,” he said thoughtfully. “Yes, I do.”

  “But I know we hit that deep rut. I saw it. I felt it.”

  “The rut was most likely the catalyst for the removal of an already loose wheel.”

  Ellie leaned down and inspected the damage. “I think you're right, my lord. Look at the manner in which it is damaged. The spokes have been crushed by the weight of the curricle, but the body of the wheel is in one piece. I have studied very little physics, but I should think it would have snapped in two when we overturned. And—Oh! Look!” She reached into her pocket and pulled out the metal bolt.

  “Where did you find this?”

  “On the road. Just over the hill. It must have come loose and fallen off the wheel.”

  Charles turned to face her, his sudden movement bringing them nose to nose. “I think,” he said softly, “you are correct.”

  Ellie's lips parted in surprise. He was so close that his breath touched her face, so close that she could feel his words as well as hear them.

  “I might have to kiss you again.”

  She tried to make a sound that would convey—well, she didn't know what exactly she wanted to convey, but it made no difference anyway, as her vocal cords refused to make a single noise. She just sat there, utterly still, as he slowly tilted his head to the side and rested his lips upon hers.

  “Very nice,” he murmured, his words entering her mouth.

  “My lord…”

  “Charles,” he corrected.

  “We really…that is to say…” She completely lost track of her thoughts at that point. Having the inside of her lower lip caressed by a man's tongue did that to her.

  Charles chuckled and lifted his head a mere inch. “You were saying?”

  Ellie did nothing but blink.

  “Then I may assume you merely wanted to ask me to continue.” His smile turned wolfish before he tipped up her chin and traced the line of her jaw with his lips.

  “No!” Ellie burst out, suddenly jolted by a mortified sense of urgency. “That isn't what I meant at all.”

  “It isn't?” he teased.

  “I meant to say that we are in the middle of a public road, and—”

  “And you fear for your reputation,” he finished for her.

  “And yours as well, so you needn't make me out to be a prude.”

  “Oh, I have no intention of doing that, sweetheart.”

  Ellie lurched backward at his suggestive remark, promptly lost her balance, and ended up sprawled in the dirt. She bit her lip to keep herself from saying something she might regret. “Why don't we head home now?” she said evenly.

  “An excellent idea,” Charles replied, rising to his feet and offering her his hand. She took it and allowed him to help her up, even though she suspected that the effort hurt him. A man had his pride, after all, and Ellie rather suspected that the Wycombes had more than their fair share.

  The walk back to the vicar's cottage took about ten minutes. Ellie kept the conversation strictly on neutral topics, such as literature, French cuisine, and—even though she winced at the banality of it when she brought it up—the weather. Charles looked rather amused throughout the conversation, as if he knew exactly what she was doing. Worse, his ironic smile was just a touch benevolent, as if he were somehow permitting her to talk about thunderstorms and the like.

  Ellie wasn't much enamored with the smug look on his face, but she had to be impressed that he could maintain the expression while he was limping, rubbing his head, and occasionally clutching his ribs.

  When the cottage came into view, Ellie turned to Charles and said, “My father has returned.”

  He raised his brows. “How can you tell?”

  “He's lit a candle in his office. He will be working on his sermon.”

  “Already? Sunday is days away. I remember my vicar frantically scribbling away every Saturday eve. He would frequently come up to Wycombe Abbey for inspiration.”

  “Really?” Ellie asked with an amused smile. “He found you that inspiring? I had no idea you were such an angelic child.”

  “Quite the opposite, I'm afraid. He liked to study me and then choose which of my sins would serve as his next sermon's theme.”

  “Oh, dear,” Ellie replied, smothering a laugh. “How did you bear him?”

  “It was worse than you think. He doubled as my Latin tutor and gave me lessons three times per week. He claimed I had been put on this earth to torture him.”

  “That seems rather irreverent for a vicar.”

  Charles shrugged. “He was also overfond of drink.”

  Ellie reached to pull open the front door, but before her hand connected with the knob, Charles laid a restraining hand on her arm. When she looked up at him in question, he said in a quiet voice, “A word with you before I meet your father?”

  “Of course,” she replied, moving away from the door.

  His mouth was tight when he said, “You are still committed to marrying me the day after tomorrow, are you not?”

  Ellie suddenly felt dizzy. Charles, who had been so adamant about holding her to her promise, seemed to be offering her an escape clause.
She could cry off, say she had cold feet…

  “Eleanor,” he prodded.

  She swallowed, thinking of how tedious her life had become. The prospect of marrying a stranger terrified her, but not nearly as much as a lifetime of boredom. No, it would be worse than that. A lifetime of boredom punctuated by bouts with Mrs. Foxglove. Whatever the earl's faults—and Ellie had a feeling they might be many—she knew in her heart that he was not an evil or weak man. Surely she could find happiness with him.

  Charles touched her shoulder, and she nodded. Ellie thought she saw his shoulders sag slightly with relief, but within moments the mask of the dashing young earl was back in place on his face. “Are you ready to go in?” she asked.

  He nodded, and Ellie pushed open the door and called out, “Papa?” After a moment of silence she said, “I'll just go to his study and fetch him.”

  Charles waited and in a moment Ellie reentered the room, followed by a rather stern-looking man with thinning gray hair.

  “Mrs. Foxglove had to return home,” Ellie said, flashing Charles a secret smile. “But may I present my father, the Reverend Mr. Lyndon. Papa, this is Charles Wycombe, Earl of Billington.”

  The two men shook hands, silently assessing one another. Charles thought the reverend seemed too rigid and forbidding to have fathered such a bright flame as Eleanor. He could tell by the way Mr. Lyndon looked at him that he fell short of the son-in-law ideal, as well.

  They exchanged introductory pleasantries, sat down, and then once Ellie had left the room to prepare some tea, the reverend turned to Charles and said, “Most men would approve of a future son-in-law solely because he is an earl. I am not such a man.”

  “I didn't think so, Mr. Lyndon. Clearly Eleanor has been raised by a man of stern moral character.” Charles had intended the words merely to placate the reverend, but as he spoke, he realized he meant them. Eleanor Lyndon had never even once shown symptoms of being dazzled by his title or his wealth. In fact, she seemed far more interested in her three hundred pounds than his vast fortune.

  The reverend leaned forward, his eyes narrowing as if he were trying to discern the sincerity behind the earl's words. “I won't try to prevent the marriage,” he said quietly. “I did that once, with my older daughter, and the consequences were disastrous. But I will tell you this: If you mistreat Eleanor in any way, I shall descend upon you with all of the hellfire and torment I can muster.”