Charles managed to stretch his lips out far enough to show his teeth, but only the most optimistic sort could have called it a smile. “Never felt better,” he croaked.

“You are hurt,” Ellie exclaimed, her tone rather accusatory.

“Not too much,” he managed to get out. “Just my ribs, and my back, and my—” He broke off into a fit of coughing.

“Oh, dear,” she said. “I'm terribly sorry. Did I knock the breath out of you when I fell?”

“You knocked it clear to Sussex.”

Ellie frowned as she touched her hand to his brow. “You don't sound well. Do you feel hot?”

“Christ, Eleanor, I don't have a bloody fever.”

She brought her hand back to her side and muttered, “At least you haven't lost your wide and varied vocabulary.”

“Why is it,” he said, his breath coming out in a long-suffering sigh, “that whenever you are near, I emerge injured?”

“Now see here!” Ellie exclaimed. “This was not my fault. I wasn't driving. And I certainly didn't have anything to do with your falling out of a tree.”

Charles didn't bother to reply. His only sound was a groan as he tried to sit up.

“At least let me tend to your injuries,” Ellie said.

He shot her a sideways look that reeked of sarcasm.

“Fine!” she burst out, standing up and throwing her arms in the air. “Tend to yourself, then. I hope you have a splendid time walking home. What is it—ten, fifteen miles?”

He touched his head, which was beginning to throb.

“It should be a lovely stroll,” she continued, “especially on that ankle.”

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.