Brighter Than the Sun

  Ellie found out later that the painting was in fact meant to be a tree, but Judith's feelings didn't seem to be hurt.

  In fact, the only thing that could have possibly made Ellie's life any more perfect would be if Charles were to fall prostrate at her feet, kiss each and every one of her toes, and declare his undying love for her. But Ellie was trying not to dwell on the fact that he hadn't told her he loved her.

  Fair was fair, after all, and she hadn't summoned up the courage to tell him, either.

  She was optimistic, though. She could tell that Charles enjoyed her company immensely, and there was no denying that they were extremely compatible in bed. She had only to win his heart, and she spent a lot of time reminding herself that she'd never failed at anything she really put her mind to.

  And she was really putting her mind to this. She'd even started composing lists of her own, the most active of which was called “How to Make Charles Realize He Loves Me.”

  When Ellie wasn't dwelling on the fact that her husband hadn't yet told her that he loved her or working hard to ensure that he would, she spent her time poring over the financial pages of the newspaper. For the first time in her life, she had real control over her savings, and she didn't want to make a muck of things.

  Charles seemed to be spending most of his time plotting ways to drag Ellie back into bed. She never put up more than token resistance, and she only did that because he kept writing up lists to coerce her, and they were always terribly amusing.

  He presented her with what she would later declare her favorite one night as she mulled over investments in the study.

  FIVE WAYS ELLIE CAN MOVE HERSELF

  FROM THE STUDY TO THE BEDROOM

  Walk quickly

  Walk very quickly

  Run

  Smile sweetly and ask Charles to carry her

  Hop on one foot

  Ellie raised her brows over the last one.

  Charles shrugged. “I ran out of ideas.”

  “You realize, of course, that now I will have to hop all the way upstairs.”

  “I would be happy to carry you.”

  “No, no, you have clearly thrown down the gauntlet. I have no choice. I must hop or forever lose my honor.”

  “Mmmm, yes,” he said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “I can see how you might feel that way.”

  “Of course if you see me wobble, you may feel free to steady me on my feet.”

  “Or on your foot, as the case may be.”

  Ellie tried to nod regally, but the impish smile on her face quite ruined the effect. She stood, hopped to the door, then turned back to her husband and asked, “Is switching feet allowed?”

  He shook his head. “It wouldn't be a proper hop.”

  “Of course,” she murmured. “Hmmm. I may need to lean on you from time to time.”

  He crossed the room and opened the door for her. “I would be delighted to assist you in any way.”

  “I may need to lean heavily from time to time.”

  His smile hovered halfway between a grin and a leer. “That would be even more delightful.”

  Ellie hopped down the hall, switched feet when she thought he wasn't looking, then lost her balance when she moved from the runner carpet to the bare floor. She waved her arms wildly in the air, shrieking with laughter as she tried to stay upright. Charles immediately moved to her side and draped her arm over his shoulder. “Is this better?” he asked, his face remarkably straight.

  “Oh, much.” She hopped forward.

  “That's what you get for switching feet.”

  “I would never do that,” she lied.

  “Hmph.” He shot her a you-can't-fool-me expression. “Now be careful turning the corner.”

  “I would never dream of—Oh!” she yelped as she stumbled into the wall.

  “Tsk tsk, that's going to cost you.”

  “Really?” she asked interestedly. “How much?”

  “A kiss. Perhaps two.”

  “I will only agree if I may give you three.”

  He sighed. “You drive a hard bargain, my lady.”

  She stood on one tiptoe and kissed his nose. “There is one.”

  “I think that only counts for one half.”

  She kissed his lips, her tongue darting out mischievously to tease the corner of his mouth. “There is two.”

  “And the third?”

  “You wouldn't get a third if I hadn't bargained you up so skillfully,” she pointed out.

  “Yes, but now I've come to expect it, so it had better be good.”

  Ellie's mouth spread into a slow smile at that challenge. “Lucky for me,” she murmured, “that I've learned so much about kissing in the past week.”

  “Lucky for me,” he returned, grinning as she dragged his mouth down to hers. Her kiss was hot and passionate, and he felt it in every nerve of his body. Mostly he felt it in his midsection, which was tightening into such a knot of desire that he had to tear himself away and gasp, “You had better hop fast.”

  Ellie laughed, and they one quarter-hopped, one quarter-skipped, one quarter-stumbled, and one quarter-ran down the hall. By the time they reached the staircase, they were laughing so hard that Ellie tripped and landed on the bottom step smack on her backside. “Ouch!” she yelped.

  “Is everything all right?”

  They both turned sheepish faces to Helen, who was standing with Aunt Cordelia in the great hall, looking at them questioningly. “It looked as if you were limping, Ellie,” she said. “Then it looked like…Well, frankly, I don't know what it looked like.”

  Ellie turned beet red. “He…ah…I…ah…”

  Charles didn't even bother trying to explain.

  Helen smiled. “I see your point exactly. Come along, Cordelia. I believe our newlyweds desire some privacy.”

  “Newlyweds, hmph!” Cordelia barked. “They're acting like a couple of deranged birds, if you ask me.”

  Ellie watched as the old lady marched out of the hall, Helen right on her heels. “Well, at least she isn't yelling ‘fire’ at every opportunity anymore.”

  Charles blinked. “You're right. I think our myriad accidents in the kitchen may have scared the fire right out of her.”

  “Thank goodness.”

  “Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, depending on your viewpoint, it has not done the same for me.”

  “I'm afraid I don't see your point.”

  “What I mean,” he fairly growled, “is that I am on fire.”

  Ellie's eyes and her mouth made three perfect O's.

  “So get that little body of yours upstairs and into the bedroom before I ravish you here on the stairs.”

  She smiled slyly. “You'd do that?”

  He leaned forward, suddenly looking every inch the rake he was reputed to be. “I wouldn't issue any dares, my lady, unless you're prepared to face the consequences.”

  Ellie scrambled to her feet and started to run. Charles followed, grateful that she'd decided to travel on both of her feet.

  Several hours later, Ellie and Charles lounged in bed, propped up against their pillows as they ate the gourmet dinner they'd had delivered to their room. Neither had been in any state to make an appearance downstairs.

  “Quail?” Charles asked, holding up a piece.

  Ellie ate it right from his fingers. “Mmmm. Delicious.”

  “Asparagus?”

  “I'm going to get dreadfully fat.”

  “You'd still be delightful.” He popped the asparagus tip between her lips.

  Ellie chewed and sighed with contentment. “Monsieur Belmont is a genius.”

  “That's why I hired him. Here, try a bit of this roast duck. I promise you'll adore it.”

  “No, no, stop. I couldn't possibly eat another bite.”

  “Ah, ye weak of heart,” Charles teased, holding up a dish and a spoon. “You can't possibly stop now. I'm trying to make a complete wanton of you. Besides, Monsieur Belmont will throw a tantrum if you do not eat the custard. It
's his masterwork.”

  “I didn't realize chefs had masterworks.”

  He smiled seductively. “Trust me on this.”

  “Very well, I concede. I'll try a small bite.” Ellie opened her mouth and let Charles spoon in some custard. “Good heaven!” she cried. “That is divine.”

  “I gather you would like some more.”

  “If you don't give me another bite of that custard I shall have to kill you.”

  “Said with a straight face,” he said with admiration.

  She shot him a sideways glance. “I'm not joking.”

  “Here, have the entire pot. I hate to come between a woman and her food.”

  Ellie paused in her quest to devour every last speck of custard to say, “Normally I would take offense at that remark, but I'm in far too sublime a state to do so at this moment.”

  “I'm loathe to speculate whether this sublime state is due to my masculine prowess and stamina or merely to a pot of custard.”

  “I won't answer that. I would hate to hurt your feelings.”

  He rolled his eyes. “You're very kind.”

  “Please say Monsieur Belmont makes this on a regular basis.”

  “All the time. It's my favorite.”

  Ellie paused, spoon frozen in her mouth. “Oh,” she said, looking rather guilty. “I suppose I ought to share.”

  “Pay it no mind. I can eat this strawberry tart.” He took a bite. “I say, Monsieur Belmont must be angling for a raise in pay.”

  “Why do you think?”

  “Aren't strawberry tarts your favorite? It's uncharacteristically thoughtful of him to prepare both our favorites.”

  Ellie's face sank into a serious expression.

  “Why suddenly so somber?” Charles asked, licking a bit of strawberry off of his lips.

  “I am facing a very serious moral dilemma.”

  Charles glanced around the room. “I don't see one.”

  “You had better eat the rest of this custard,” Ellie said, handing him the pot, which was about two-thirds empty. “I shall feel guilty for weeks if I don't share.”

  He grinned. “I knew that marrying the daughter of a vicar would have its benefits.”

  “I know,” she sighed. “I have never been able to ignore anyone in need.”

  Charles spooned a bite of the custard into his mouth with considerable enthusiasm. “I don't know if this counts as ‘need,’ but I'm willing to pretend it does for your sake.”

  “The sacrifices one makes for one's wife,” she muttered.

  “Here, have the rest of the strawberry tart.”

  “No, I couldn't,” she said, holding up a hand. “It seems somehow sacrilegious after the custard.”

  He shrugged. “Have it your own way.”

  “Besides, I feel suddenly rather strange.”

  Charles put the custard down and assessed her. She was blinking quite rapidly, and her skin held a strange pasty quality. “You do look rather odd.”

  “Oh, dear Lord,” Ellie moaned, clutching at her stomach as she curled into a fetal position.

  He quickly removed the rest of the dinner plates from the bed. “Ellie? Darling?”

  She didn't answer, just whimpered as she tried to pull herself into a tight little ball. Sweat was breaking out on her brow, and her breath was coming in shallow pants.

  Charles felt prickly with panic. Ellie, who had been laughing and teasing just moments earlier, now looked as if she were… as if… Dear God, she looked like she were dying.

  His heart slammed into his throat, and he raced across the room and yanked hard on the bellpull. Then he ran to the door, threw it open, and bellowed, “Cordelia!” His aunt was more than a trifle batty, but she did know a thing or two about sickness and healing, and Charles didn't know what else to do.

  “Ellie,” he said urgently, running back to her side. “What is wrong? Please talk to me.”

  “It's like burning swords,” she gasped, her eyes shut tight against the pain. “Burning swords in my belly. Oh, God, Oh God. Make it go away. Please.”

  Charles swallowed in fear, then put a hand on his own stomach, which was also throbbing. He ascribed it to terror; clearly he was not feeling the same agony his wife was experiencing.

  “Ooooooohhhhhh!” she yelled, starting to convulse.

  Charles sprang to his feet and ran back to the open door. “Someone get here now!” he shouted, just as Helen and Cordelia came running around the corner.

  “What happened?” Helen asked breathlessly.

  “It's Ellie. She's sick. I don't know what happened. One minute she was fine, and the next…”

  They raced to her bedside. Cordelia took one look at Ellie's pathetic form and announced, “She's been poisoned.”

  “What?” Helen asked in horror.

  “That's ludicrous,” Charles said at the same time.

  “I've seen this before,” Cordelia said. “She's been poisoned. I'm sure of it.”

  “What can we do?” Helen asked.

  “She'll have to be purged. Charles, bring her to the washbasin.”

  Charles regarded his aunt dubiously. Was he right to trust his wife's welfare to an old woman who was admittedly a touch senile? But then again, he didn't know what else to do, and even if Ellie hadn't been poisoned, Cordelia's suggestion made sense. Clearly they needed to remove whatever was in her stomach.

  He picked her up, trying not to let her agonized groans affect him. She twitched violently in his arms, her spasms shaking him to the core.

  He looked to Cordelia. “I think she's getting worse.”

  “Hurry up!”

  He hurried to the washbasin and pulled Ellie's hair from her face. “Shhh, darling, it will be all right,” he whispered.

  Cordelia held up a quill. “Open her mouth.”

  “What the hell are you going to do with that?”

  “Just do what I say.”

  Charles held Ellie's mouth open and watched in horror as Cordelia thrust the feathered end of the quill down her throat. Ellie gagged several times before she finally vomited.

  Charles looked away for a moment. He couldn't help it. “Are we done?”

  Cordelia ignored him. “One more time, Eleanor,” she said. “You're a strong girl. You can do it. Helen, get something to rinse out her mouth when she's done.”

  She jammed the feather down her throat again, and Ellie released the rest of the contents of her stomach.

  “That's it,” Cordelia said. She took a glass of water from Helen and poured some into Ellie's mouth. “Spit that out, girl.”

  Ellie half spit and half let gravity pull the water from her mouth. “Don't make me do that again,” she pleaded.

  “At least she's talking,” Cordelia said. “That's a good sign.”

  Charles hoped she was right, because he'd never seen a person look as green as Ellie did right then. He let Helen wipe her mouth with a damp cloth and then carried her back to the bed.

  Helen picked up the dirty washbasin with shaking hands, and said, “I'll have someone take care of this,” and ran from the room.

  Charles picked up Ellie's hand, then turned to Cordelia and asked, “You don't really think she was poisoned?”

  His aunt nodded emphatically. “What did she eat? Anything that you didn't?”

  “No, except for…”

  “Except for what?”

  “The custard, but I had a bite, too.”

  “Hmph. And how do you feel?”

  Charles stared at her for a long moment, his hand moving to his stomach. “Not very well, actually.”

  “You see?”

  “But it's nothing like what Ellie's been through. Just a little stabbing pain, as if I'd eaten something that had gone off. That's all.”

  “And you ate only one bite?”

  Charles nodded, and then the blood drained from his face. “She ate nearly the entire pot,” he whispered. “At least two-thirds.”

  “She'd probably be dead if she'd finished it,” Cordelia
stated. “Good thing she shared it with you.”

  Charles could scarcely believe the lack of emotion in her voice. “It must be food poisoning. That's the only explanation.”

  Cordelia shrugged. “My money is on the real thing.”

  He stared at her in disbelief. “That's impossible. Who would want to do something like this to her?”

  “It's that young girl Claire, if you ask me,” Cordelia replied. “Everyone knows what she did to the countess's hands.”

  “But that was an accident,” Charles said, not wanting to believe his aunt's words. Claire could be mischievous, but she would never do something like this. “And Claire has made her peace with Ellie.”

  Cordelia shrugged. “Has she?”

  As if on cue, Helen reappeared, dragging Claire, who was crying.

  Charles turned his eyes to his cousin, trying very hard to keep any sense of accusation from his gaze.

  “I didn't do this,” Claire wailed. “I would never, ever. You know I wouldn't. I love Ellie now. I would never hurt her.”

  Charles wanted to believe her. He truly did, but Claire had been the cause of so much mischief. “Perhaps this is something you set in motion last week, before you and Ellie worked out your differences,” he said gently. “Perhaps you forgot—”

  “No!” Claire cried. “No, I didn't do this. I swear.”

  Helen put her arm around her daughter's shoulder. “I believe her, Charles.”

  Charles looked into Claire's red-rimmed eyes and realized that Helen was right. She was telling the truth and he felt like a heel for ever, even for a moment, considering otherwise. Claire might not be perfect, but she wouldn't poison anyone. He sighed. “It was probably just an accident. Perhaps Monsieur Belmont used bad milk in the custard.”

  “Bad milk?” Cordelia echoed. “It would have had to be well past rancid to do what it did to her.”

  Charles knew she had a valid point. Ellie had been violently, deathly ill. Could the convulsions that had shaken her small frame been caused by something as benign as bad milk? But what else could it be? Who would want to poison Ellie?