The Marriage Spell (3 page)

Ransom said in that flat voice, “We should notify his mother and sister.”

“Not until the…the outcome is certain.” Ashby's voice was so distant it was almost inaudible. “The wizard's house is the closest. I've heard Barton is a good healer. If we take Jack there, maybe something can be done.”

Ransom laughed bitterly. “You've lived a sheltered life if you think that any damned wyrdling can make a difference with this kind of injury.”

“Nonetheless, we will take him to Barton Grange. The grooms have brought a hurdle, so help me lift Jack onto it so we can carry him to the house.”

Jack felt barely attached to his lifeless body as half a dozen pairs of hands moved him onto the hurdle. Bleakly he accepted that he was already dead—it was just a matter of time until breath and heart stopped. He'd spent his life heedlessly, like a gambler wasting his fortune, and now he must face the consequences.

At least he wouldn't have to return to Yorkshire except to be buried.

As he slid into blackness, his last conscious thought was irritation that he was going to die in a damned wizard's house.

Chapter
II

A
bby stared at her mortar and pestle, trying to remember why she was grinding cardamom pods. It wasn't like her to be forgetful, but she'd been having trouble concentrating all morning. She had the itchy feeling that something was wrong.

Unfortunately she had no talent for precognition, so she had no idea what had happened or was about to happen. She didn't even know who was affected. Not her brother, she was sure, despite the dangerous work he was doing in Spain. Perhaps her father, who was in London now? She didn't think so, but it was hard to be sure. She shook her head in frustration. There were too many possibilities.

She heard hounds baying not far from the house. Maybe her unease signaled a hunting accident, though usually she didn't notice those because they didn't affect her. Once her father had called on the master of the hunt and offered their services as healers in the event of injuries in the field. The master, a duke, had rebuffed the offer curtly. Sir Andrew had told his daughter dryly that it was clear the duke would rather see members of his hunt die than entrust their treatment to wizards.

Abby shrugged and returned to grinding the cardamom. Wizards became accustomed to the contempt of the upper classes, particularly upper-class males. Her private thought was that if they were too snobbish to avail themselves of the benefits of magic, they deserved to die off quickly and leave the world to people with fewer prejudices. Not that she would dare say such a thing aloud. She'd learned early from her parents that practicing wizards needed to be discreet.

There had always been magic, of course, but in Western Europe, the influence of the Church had suppressed it for hundreds of years. Apart from village wisewomen who delivered babies and made herbal potions, magic had disappeared from public view. Then came the fourteenth century and the black death.

As the disease devastated whole nations, wizards had broken their long silence to minister to their neighbors. Often they worked side by side with priests and nuns, struggling to save lives as the religious folk struggled to save souls. Clerics came to accept that magical gifts came from God, not the devil. A bond of trust and tolerance was forged between wizards and clerics—especially since so many priests and nuns turned out to be wizards themselves.

Though the black death killed a third of Europe, it was widely recognized that without wizardly healers, the toll would have been far higher. In England, Edward III had issued an official proclamation thanking the wizards for their work, which had saved the lives of himself, his queen, and most of his children.

Other European sovereigns had followed suit. Magic became generally accepted at all levels of society, except among aristocrats, who hated anything they couldn't control. Occasionally wizards became the targets of riots and persecutions, but on the whole, they were respected citizens. Abby's father was even a baronet, an honor granted an ancestor who had served a king. Though being known as a wizard wasn't always safe, most of the magically gifted preferred to live openly, honestly—and discreetly.

Having remembered that she was making a potion to improve physical energy, she reached next for a cinnamon stick. There were many such potions, so she figured that she might as well make one that tasted good.

She was about to add ginger when she heard pounding at the front door.
It's happened!
Her unease crystallized into certainty. Not bothering to remove her apron, she raced from her workroom and down the stairs. A footman opened the door, revealing several red-coated hunters carrying an unconscious body on a woven wood hurdle ripped from a field.

Brushing past the footman, Abby said, “Someone has had a bad fall?”

The man in front, a lean, dark fellow with compelling green eyes, said, “Very bad. I've heard that Sir Andrew is a healer. Will he help?”

“My father is in London, but I am also a healer. Bring him in.”

Someone muttered, “Not only a wyrdling, but a woman. The poor devil's luck has finally failed him.”

A blond man with a military air gave the other fellow a quelling glance before turning back to Abby. “Where shall we take him?”

“This way.” To the footman, she said, “Bring a medical kit immediately.” Then she led the men into the dining room. The parlor maid yanked the decorative epergne from the center of the table.

“Move him carefully,” Abby said. As the limp, heavy body was shifted sideways onto the tabletop, she clasped the bloodied head firmly to keep it steady during the transfer. When he was settled, she used her fingertips to explore the gash in his skull. Long and gory, but not too serious, she thought.

She was wiping her hands on her apron when she got a clear look at the victim's battered face.
Jack Langdon.
Or more accurately, Lord Frayne. She must remember to think of him as Lord Frayne.

The smile was gone, the strong body broken, the pulse of his life force barely a flicker. If he wasn't such a strong man, he would be dead already. She felt a wrench of deep sorrow that his warmth and laughter had been snuffed out so senselessly.

She glanced around the room. Most of the men who had carried the victim shifted uneasily, not certain what to do. Their restlessness was distracting. “There's no need for you gentlemen to stay, and your horses shouldn't be left standing around in a cold wind. I'll know more later, after I've examined him.”

Looking relieved at having permission to escape, five of the seven left. The green-eyed fellow and the blond military man stayed. The former said, “I'm Ashby and this is Ransom. We've known Lord Frayne for a long time. Perhaps we can help.”

Her brows arched as she realized this must be the Duke of Ashby. She knew that the duke hunted around Melton, but she'd never seen him. He wasn't what she would have expected of a duke. “Thank you, your grace.”

He gave her a twisted smile. “Ashby will do.”

The footman arrived with the medical kit. As she laid several pieces of cotton gauze over the bleeding scalp wound to make a temporary bandage, Ransom asked, “Shall we cut the boot off his right leg?”

She glanced up, wondering where on earth he'd been concealing that very lethal-looking dagger. “Not yet. He's lost a lot of blood, but I'm afraid that in his present condition, any jostling might drain what little strength he has left. Wait until I've examined him so that we know what we're dealing with.”

The knife disappeared. Abby hoped that Ransom wouldn't feel inclined to use it if she was unable to save his friend. She started her examination by pricking Frayne's hands and legs with a needle. There wasn't even a twinge of response. Not good. “Please be very quiet while I do the scanning.”

Both men nodded. She was glad they knew enough not to waste her time with questions. She closed her eyes and drew a deep breath as she meditated. Accurate scanning required total concentration, yet also deep relaxation. Nothing less would allow her to grasp the full extent of Lord Frayne's injuries.

When she was centered, she opened her eyes and attempted to scan—and sensed nothing. All she could see was his battered physical body, the same as any nonwizard would see. A second attempt at scanning was equally unsuccessful.

“Lord Frayne must be carrying a charm to shield himself from magic, because I can't scan him.” Which meant the charm was exceptionally powerful. Her magic was strong enough that most such spells didn't affect her, but this one stopped her cold. She could probably penetrate it given time, but she had neither time nor power to spare.

“Do you know where he carries it? If so, could you remove it?”

The men exchanged a glance. Charms carrying protective spells were common since many people were wary of wizards, though Abby considered them fairly useless. A wizard had to have a good reason to cast spells because so much power was required—and if a strong wizard seriously wanted to bespell a person, the average protective charm wouldn't be much help. But if the charms made people feel safer around wizards, they had some value.

As a rich man, Frayne could afford the best spells and so could his friends. She was tempted to see if they were also using shielding charms, but checking would be discourteous, not to mention distracting when a man's life weighed in the balance.

Ashby said, “I'll see if I can get him to agree to your using magic.”

Interesting. Either Frayne had a charm that was not easily removed or his friends didn't know where he carried the charm and were reluctant to waste time looking for it. Ashby bent over his friend. “Jack, will you grant permission for Miss Barton to examine your injuries?”

Frayne blinked his eyes open. “Wyrdling,” he breathed, as if that was answer enough.

“
Please,
Jack! Try for courtesy. Miss Barton is a wizard of good reputation and gentle birth. Ransom and I will stay with you, so you'll be safe. But for God's sake, grant her permission!”

After another long, rattling breath, Frayne mouthed, “Very well.”

Permission had to be freely granted to neutralize a charm, and Abby wondered if Frayne's obvious reluctance would block true consent. But when she tried scanning again, she was able to sink her awareness into his body, sensing what was whole and what was damaged. By the time she reached Frayne's neck and head, she should be well attuned to his energy.

As she slowly skimmed her palms above his legs, she murmured, “The bones in his lower right leg are broken in four places. The worst is a fracture in the large bone, and the broken bits have pierced the skin. That's what's causing the bleeding. But his knees and thighbones are undamaged, which is good.”

“You can really sense that?” Ashby asked with wonder.

“Yes. Bones are easy. Internal organs can be more difficult.” She continued her scan, moving slowly up Frayne's body without ever touching him directly. As a woman healer working on a man, and an aristocrat at that, she needed to be circumspect.

There were bruises in profusion and several cracked ribs, but nothing lethal until she shifted her hands to the area above his throat. Immediately she felt violent energy stabbing her palms. She probed more deeply, needing to understand in detail. When she was sure, she said grimly, “Two bones at the base of the neck are broken.”

One of the men sucked in his breath, but didn't speak. She guessed that both understood that their friend was mortally injured. For the sake of thoroughness, she completed her scan, moving her hands above Frayne's skull. “He has a bad concussion,” she said, “but I don't think there's serious brain damage.”

“The broken neck is surely enough,” Ransom said heavily.

Unfortunately he was right. Yet still Frayne breathed. She frowned as she considered the extent of his injuries, trying to remember if she'd read anything in her father's books that offered hope.

“Can you do anything for him?” Ashby asked.

Before Abby could reply, Frayne drew a harsh, painful breath—then choked and stopped breathing. For a moment, Abby felt her own heart stop at the fear he would die right now. She splayed her hand over the center of Frayne's chest. His heart still beat, though faintly. What he needed was air in his lungs.

She placed her hands on both sides of Frayne's throat, pouring in energy and praying that she might temporarily stabilize the damaged neck and throat. It took all the strength she had, but she could feel a slight strengthening of the nerves. How to get him breathing on his own?

She must prime the pump. After inhaling deeply, she bent over and covered his mouth with hers, blowing air into the injured man's lungs. His lips were cool and firm, but more like a wax dummy than a living man. She inhaled again, then bent once more to share her breath. After half a dozen times, he inhaled raggedly on his own, then fell into a labored but regular breathing pattern. She had bought a little more time, she thought dizzily as she straightened.

The two men were regarding here with fascination. “Are all wizard healers like you?” Ransom asked.

“The good ones are.” She brushed at her hair, which had fallen over her face, remembering too late that she was streaking blood across herself.

“Is there any kind of treatment?” Ashby asked. “Cost is not an issue.”

She beckoned the men away from Frayne so she could talk to them privately. She had long suspected that injured people could hear things even when they seemed unconscious, and bad news could become a self-fulfilling prophecy. Keeping her voice low, she said, “I've never heard of a healer saving someone so badly injured. You saw that it took most of my power just to stabilize him temporarily, and that had no effect on the underlying injuries.”

“What about a healing circle?” Ashby asked. “I've heard that such a circle can sometimes produce extraordinary results.”

“You're familiar with healing circles?” she said with surprise.