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.
"Charles!" she yelled. "Thank goodness! What happened? Whistler came back, and he's bleeding, and..." As soon as she reached him, she stopped talking to catch her breath.
"Whistler's bleeding?" he asked.
"Yes. The groom isn't sure why, and I didn't know what happened to you, and—What did happen to you?"
"Whistler threw me. I sprained my ankle."
"Again?"
He looked down ruefully at his right foot. "Same one. I imagine it was still weak from the previous injury."
"Does it hurt?"
He looked at her as if she were a halfwit. "Like the devil."
"Oh, yes, I suppose it must. Here, lean on me, and we'll walk back to the Abbey together."
Charles draped his arm over her shoulder and used her weight to support him as they limped home. "Why do I feel like I'm reliving a bad dream?" he wondered aloud.
Ellie chuckled. "We have done this before, haven't we? But if you recall, we wouldn't have met if you hadn't sprained your ankle last time. At the very least, you wouldn't have asked me to marry you if I hadn't tended to your injury with such tender and loving care."
"Tender and loving care!" he said with a snort. "You were practically breathing fire."
"Yes, well, we couldn't have the patient feeling sorry for himself, could we?"
As they neared the house, Charles said, "I want to go to the stables and see why Whistler was bleeding."
"You can go after I tend to your foot."
"Tend to it in the stables. I'm sure someone there has a knife you can use to cut the boot off."
Ellie ground to a halt. "I insist that you go back to the house where I can do a proper check for broken bones."
"I haven't broken any bones."
"How do you know?"
"I've broken them before. I know what it feels like."
He tugged at her, trying to shift their direction toward the stables, but the woman had positively grown roots. "Ellie," he ground out. "Let's go."
"You'll find I am more stubborn than you think."
"If that is true, I'm in big trouble," he muttered.
"What does that mean?"
"It means I'd say you're as stubborn as a damned mule, woman, except that might insult the mule."
Ellie lurched back, dropping him. "Well, I never!"
"Oh, for the love of God," he grumbled, rubbing his elbow where he banged it when he fell. "Will you help me get to the bloody stables or do I have to limp there myself?"
She answered by turning on her heel and marching back to Wycombe Abbey.
"Damned stubborn mule of a woman," he muttered. Thankfully, he still had his walking stick, and a few minutes later he collapsed onto a bench in the stables.
"Someone get me a knife!" he shouted. If he didn't get this damned boot off, his foot was going to explode.
A groom named James rushed to his side and handed him a knife. "Whistler's bleeding, my lord," James said.
"I heard." Charles winced as he started sawing at the leather of his second-best pair of boots. His best had already been demolished by Ellie. "What happened?'
Thomas Leavey, who ran the stables and was, in Charles's opinion, one of the finest judges of horseflesh in the country, stepped forward and said, "We found this under the saddle."
Charles sucked in his breath. Leavey held in his hand a bent, rusty nail. It wasn't very long, but Charles's weight on the saddle would have been enough to drive it into Whistler's back, causing the horse unspeakable agony.
"Who saddled my horse?" Charles demanded.
"I did," Leavey said.
Charles stared at his trusted stablemaster. He knew that Leavey would never do anything to hurt a horse, much less a human. "Have you any idea how this might have happened?"
"I left Whistler alone in his stall for a minute or two before you came for him. My only guess is that someone sneaked in and put the nail under the saddle."
"Who the hell would do something like this?" Charles demanded.
No one offered an answer.
"It wasn't an accident," Leavey finally said. "That much I know. Something like this doesn't happen by accident."
Charles knew he spoke the truth. Someone had deliberately tried to injure him. His blood ran cold. Someone had probably wanted him dead.
As he was digesting that chilling fact, Ellie stomped into the stables. "I am far too nice a person," she announced to the room at large.