Thoughts of Ellie seemed to occupy a great deal of his mind these days. It was getting embarrassing how often people snapped their fingers in front of his face because he was staring off into space. He couldn't help it. All he had to do was think of her and he found himself wearing a silly smile and sighing like an idiot.

He wondered if the bliss of true love ever wore off. He hoped not.

By the time Charles reached the end of the drive, he'd remembered three funny comments Ellie had said the night before, pictured the way she looked when she was giving Judith a hug, and fantasized about what he was going to do with her that night in bed.

That particular daydream made him feel quite warm and left his reflexes a bit dulled, which was probably why he didn't immediately notice when his horse started to grow agitated.

“Whoa there, Whistler. Easy now, boy,” he said, pulling back on the reins. But the gelding paid him no attention, snorting in obvious fear and pain.

“What the hell?” Charles leaned down and tried to calm Whistler by patting his long neck. This didn't seem to help, and soon Charles was fighting just to keep his seat.

“Whistler! Whistler! Calm down, boy.”

No effect. One minute Charles had the reins in his hands and the next he was flying through the air, with barely time to say, “Damn,” before he landed, solid on his right ankle—the same one he'd injured the day he met Ellie.

And then he said, “Damn!” many many more times. The expletive didn't do much to ease the pain shooting up his leg, and it didn't do much to ease his temper, but he yelled it all the same.

Whistler let out one last whinny and took off toward Wycombe Abbey at a full gallop, leaving Charles stranded with an ankle he feared would not be able to bear any weight.

Muttering an astonishing variety of curses, he rose to his hands and knees and crawled to a nearby tree stump, where he sat and swore some more. He touched his ankle through his boot and wasn't surprised to find it swelling at a rapid rate. He tried to pull the boot off, but the pain was too much. Damn. They were going to have to cut through the leather. Another perfectly good pair of boots ruined.

Charles groaned, grabbed a nearby stick that could double as a cane, and started to hobble home. His ankle was killing him, but he didn't see what else he could do. He'd told Ellie that he would be gone for several hours, so no one would notice his absence for some time.

His progress was slow and not particularly steady, but eventually he made his way back to the end of the drive, and Wycombe Abbey came into view.

Thankfully, so did Ellie, who was running toward him at breakneck speed as she shouted his name.