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—"

"Flambe 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 abstain 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?"