Free Brighter Than The Sun by Julia Quinn

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