This time the patient didn’t have a store of magic to draw on, but she managed to lay down a template and start the healing process. Though less than completely mended, Dancer’s leg was perhaps halfway there. It would have to be good enough.
She used the last shreds of channeled power to purge Dancer’s system of inflammation. As Hertford had said, infection was taking hold and would kill the horse if left unchecked.
Wearily she closed the circle. She was swaying on her feet and felt as if her body and spirit were not quite connected. Speaking was an effort. “With the splint and Hertford’s good care, Dancer should be ready to hunt before his master is.”
“Oh, thank you,” Ella said, her eyes as bright as if she were Dancer’s owner. She stroked the dark coat. “I’ll come back later and groom him, if that’s all right with Mr. Hertford. But you need to get back to the house and have a proper meal, Miss Abby.”
The girl took Abby’s arm and helped her from the stable. Things had come to a pretty pass, she thought ruefully, when she needed help from a fifteen-year-old. Consciousness wavering, she decided to skip the food and go straight to bed.
When Abby returned to awareness, she was in her own bed. No Judith slept beside her, but when she rolled to her side, she saw her friend reading in a chair by the bed. “I don’t have much of a life at the moment,” Abby said, her mouth dry and dusty. “All I’ve done for the last day or two is heal and sleep.”
Judith set her book aside and poured water from a glass. “Drink this, you’ll feel better. You need food and plenty to drink and no more healing for at least a fortnight. You’re not made of iron, Abigail Barton.”
Abby pushed herself up against the headboard and drank the water thirstily. “Believe me, I know. I feel ancient and feeble.” She glanced at the window to judge the angle of the sun. “Has another day gone by?”
“Yes. You slept for about twenty hours. The other wizards have gone home. I thought I should stay until you were awake and functioning.” She poured more water for Abby, then handed her a piece of bread with a slab of cheese and chutney on top.
Abby took a giant bite of the bread and cheese, washing it down with water. After another bite, she asked, “How is Lord Frayne?”
“Rather better than you at the moment,” Judith said dryly. “Ashby is still here and spends most of his time with Frayne. I like Ashby—he’s a remarkably sensible fellow for a duke. That starchy new visitor, Winslow, is staying at the Old Club in town, but he’s here half the time, too. Frayne’s valet has also moved in and taken over most of the basic nursing work.”
Abby finished her bread and looked around hopefully, but there was no more food in sight. “There haven’t been so many dashing young males in the house since Richard left to join the army. Did you stay partly to chaperone me?”
“The thought crossed my mind,” Judith admitted. “With your father away and you an unmarried girl, I thought you needed an aging widow to lend you respectability.”
Abby snorted. “I’m no girl, and you are no one’s idea of an aging widow, but I appreciate your staying. With me dead to the world, someone needed to defend Barton Grange against the aristocratic hordes.”
“Apart from the risk of eating you out of house and home, Frayne’s friends are harmless enough. I’ll stay until your father returns from London. I know you haven’t much use for propriety, but on the whole, it’s better to pay lip service to society’s rules.” Judith’s mouth twisted ruefully. “You don’t want to end up like me, after all.”
The topic was a painful one, and there was no point in discussing it. As Abby swung out of bed to prepare for the day, she considered telling Judith about the possibility that she might marry Frayne. No, better not to speak of something that seemed so unreal.
At heart, she realized, she had never expected that a marriage might really happen.
Chapter VI
Abby dressed, not surprised to find that her gown was loose. Heavy use of magic used vast physical reserves. The house was quiet now that most of her friends had returned home, and for that she was grateful. Being sociable required energy, and she had none to spare.
A visit to the kitchen gave her the chance to finally eat her fill. “I feel like a swarm of locusts,” she remarked to the cook as she swallowed a last apple tart. “I have descended on your field and gobbled everything in sight.”
Cook grinned. “This is why I like working for wizards. You know how to appreciate food.”
“You have a cooking gift,” Abby said fervently. “And we are all grateful for it!”
She took another tart to eat on her way to Frayne’s room, licking her fingers clean before opening the door. Ashby was sitting with his friend, who looked awake and alert.
The men broke off their conversation when Abby entered. The duke rose. “I’m glad to see you up and about again. You’ve had a demanding time these last days.”
She made a face. “I’m hoping I’ll never have to do such intense work again. Could I ask you to leave, Ashby? I’d like to examine my patient.”
“Of course.” The duke turned to his friend. “If you continue to recover at this rate, I may return to the hunt and leave your increasing restlessness to your valet and the patient Miss Barton.”
“By all means, hunt,” Jack said. “It’s the purpose of coming to the Shires, after all. Though I’m laid up, there’s no reason you shouldn’t be enjoying your time here.”
“Perhaps I shall cease my hovering now that you’re recovering. Calling once or twice a day should be enough.” Inclining his head toward Abby, the duke departed.
Abby scanned her patient, her hand about a foot above his body. The healing was progressing well. “If you don’t mind the loss of company, it will probably be best if your friends do return to the hunting field. Athletic young men fidget madly in sickrooms. That includes you. You are going to be difficult, aren’t you?”
“I’m afraid so,” he said with no sign of repentance. “But I shan’t vex you any longer. I’m ready to return to my hunting box. You’ve already done too much. My valet and friends can look after me until I’m fit again.” He swung his legs from the bed, the splinted one straight out, and tried to stand. “You see? With a pair of crutches I could manage very well.” He straightened to his full height—and promptly pitched over.
Abby leaped forward and grabbed his torso to keep him upright. “You’re mad!” she exclaimed as she wrestled with his weight. Once he was steadied, she sat on the edge of the bed, bringing him down next to her. His left arm wrapped around her shoulders as he clung to her for support.
Holding him was…disturbing. His body was warm, and he had a fine set of muscles beneath that thin linen nightshirt. He had transformed from a helpless patient into a virile, attractive man, and that fact reminded her that she was a woman as well as a healer.
She drew a deep, uneven breath. “You are not yet ready for crutches, my lord. If you try to walk and fall, you could make a shambles of your broken leg. At the moment it’s healing straight, but if you fall again, I can’t guarantee how well you’ll walk in the future. Or even if you will walk.”
“Perhaps…you’re right,” he panted, sweat on his face. “I feel weak as a kitten.”
He didn’t protest when she stood and tucked him back into the bed, though he gasped when she carefully swung his legs up onto the mattress. His face became even paler. After pulling the covers over him, she rested her hand on his forehead. Though her energy was depleted, she was able to mitigate some of the pain.
His face eased. “Thank you. I probably deserve to fall on my face, but I can’t say that I would enjoy that.”
“You lost a great deal of blood, and that creates weakness. It will take a month or more before you recover your strength.” She smiled as she perched on the bedside chair. “Actually, kittens aren’t weak. Have you ever seen the way they race about? No human could keep up with the average kitten.”
He had to smile at that. “Point taken. But I was fee
ling well enough that it was hard to believe that my injuries were as bad as Ashby described.”
“They really were that bad,” she said grimly. “Worse.”
His brow furrowed. “I’m surprised you made the attempt to save me. How did you manage to mend a broken neck?”
“Essentially, it’s a matter of visualizing the bones strong and whole, then adding healing energy.”
“Surely there is more to it than that?”
“A lot of energy is required,” she agreed. “It isn’t only bones that need repairing, but blood vessels and organs and bits of anatomy for which I have no name. The work requires patience, some knowledge of how bodies work, and a clutch of strong, steady wizards to supply power, since I’ve never heard of an individual wizard strong enough to fuse a broken bone. Even with a dozen people in the circle, repairing your broken neck was a near run thing.”
“Is that why such miracles are rare?”
She nodded. “It’s unusual to have enough wizards ready, willing, and possessing the right kind of gift. The only reason we had enough here was because my father organized the wizards in this area years ago.”
“I should like to meet your father.”
“You will. He should be back from London within the next week.” She sighed. “I wish he had been here to help. He would have done a better and more efficient job of leading the circle. I’ve never channeled so much power, and even so, I wasn’t able to do a complete job. Only those injuries that were life threatening were fully healed, and everyone involved was magically depleted. It will probably be a fortnight before we are all at full strength again.”
“I suspect that you did as well as your father could have.” His fingers plucked at the coverlet. “How can I repay those who gave me so much?”
She hesitated, wondering if she could make him understand. “Magic is a gift and not for sale. A healer or wisewoman will charge for his or her time, but not for the magic itself. What was done for you was—extraordinary. Not the sort of thing that is done for money, but because of a desire to serve.”
He gave a faint smile. “I believe you are saying not to insult your friends by offering crass payment?”
After she nodded, he said, “Very well. Rather than money, I would like to give each a token of my gratitude. A substantial gift chosen for their particular wants and desires rather than a fee for what is beyond price. Would that be acceptable?”
So he did understand. “It should be.”
A few sheets of paper and a pencil rested on the bedside table. He lifted both and prepared to take notes. “What would your friends like? I assume you know them well enough to have a good idea.”
Abby thought. “Ella is fifteen and loves all animals, especially horses, but her widowed mother can’t afford to buy her one. Nothing would make Ella happier than to have a horse of her own.”
He made a note, writing slowly but clearly. “I have a sweet-natured mare, beautifully mannered but with spirit, that would be just right for a young lady,” he said. “Will that do, along with a bit of money for maintaining the beast?”
“Ella will be in alt.” Knowing the value of a well-bred horse, Abby realized he was serious about the gifts being substantial. What would best please her generous friends, none of whom were wealthy? “Mr. Hambly’s eldest daughter followed her husband to America,” Abby said, thinking aloud. “Mr. and Mrs. Hambly would love to visit and see their grandchildren, but trips to America are costly.”
He made another note. “Two tickets on a good ship to America. I presume they would also appreciate a carriage to take them from their home to a port of embarkation?”
“That would be very thoughtful.” What next? “The Reverend Wilson has a lovely eighteen-year-old daughter. Her parents would like her to have a Season in London, but they can’t afford that.”
He made another note. “My sister is a grand society hostess and fond of company. I’m sure she would be willing to sponsor the young lady during the next Season. Would that be acceptable?”
She stared. “More than acceptable. It’s incredibly generous.”
He shrugged. “My sister will enjoy the company, so that is easy.”
“Perhaps, but it takes consideration to think of such things in the first place,” she said warmly. “You are a true gentleman, Lord Frayne.”
He looked a little surprised at her praise. “That’s a judgment that would shock my parents. Let us continue divining what your wizard friends would like.”
“Judith Wayne is a midwife. She would like to own a cottage of her own. One that has enough space for her to look after patients who need special care.”
He made another note. “A spacious cottage, preferably free of rising damp. Next?”
Apart from two of the wizards she didn’t know as well, it took only a few minutes to complete the list. When they were done, Jack set the paper aside. “Which brings us to you, but you made your price clear from the beginning.”
His words were like a slap in the face. What he said was justified—she had indeed said that marriage was her price. Yet hearing that from him made her feel like a fortune hunter. “Saint Augustine said that it is better to marry than to burn. Would you have preferred burning? Though you might have gone to a pleasanter, cooler place.”
“I would definitely have ended among the flames,” he said dryly.
“My feelings about magic are…complicated, Miss Barton. But no, I would rather not be burning for my sins now. Few men receive a second chance. I hope to use this one wisely.” He shrugged. “As for marriage—I’ve never been betrothed before. Much less to a stranger. It will take time to become accustomed. Forgive me if I fail at the courtesies.”
“My experience of betrothal is also lacking, but no doubt we can manage to sort matters out,” she murmured, wondering why she was putting them in such an awkward position. She was being a fool, but when she was with him, she couldn’t bear to give up her foolishness.
“Were you waiting for a peer of the realm to come your way?” he asked with cool curiosity. “Many of them come to hunt the Shires, so I suppose it was just a matter of time until one had a bad accident and ended up on your dining room table.”
“What a clever idea,” she said tartly. “I wish I’d thought of it.”
Given that he was well enough to be difficult, she decided to stop giving him part of her life force. She hesitated a moment, realizing that she enjoyed the secret intimacy of being connected to him. But it was time to return him to his own resources.
Gently she closed off the flowing thread of energy. She immediately felt stronger, more alert. Her gain was reflected in Jack’s loss. He shoved the pillows behind him away so that he could lie down again, his face tired. “Perhaps you’re right about the crutches. I feel a sudden need to sleep the clock around. But I wonder why these miracles of healing aren’t done for more people? I have friends who died in the Peninsula from wounds less serious than mine. It…isn’t fair.”
She stood to adjust the pillows under his head. “There will never be enough of us with healing gifts to take care of all mankind’s physical ills. Even a dozen talented wizards didn’t have the energy to restore you to perfect health. While we were able to fix the mortal injuries, we couldn’t have achieved such good results if you hadn’t been an ideal candidate for healing—a healthy adult in the prime of life. If you were old or less strong to begin with, we probably couldn’t have saved you.”
“Can healing be used to make a man immortal?”
“The deterioration of old age can’t really be reversed. If an elderly person has a specific health problem, it might be fixable, but with age, the whole body declines. We can’t cure that. There are also diseases that damage the whole body. They are very hard to cure.” She thought of the insidious disease that had killed her mother. “The healing gift is limited. We may be able to give some people extra life, but there are very real limitations.”
“Is this why it is not generally known that miracles are so
metimes possible—so that people won’t ask more than you can give?”
She nodded. “If our best work was common knowledge, every healer in the land would be besieged by desperate people. Their anger when they learned how little we can do would be…terrifying. It is better if people come expecting only small healings. Those can usually be managed.”
He nodded, curiosity satisfied. “How soon do you think I can return home? Surely I will heal faster there, and it’s just across the valley.”
“Perhaps a week. It depends on how quickly you regain your strength.” She sympathized with his distaste for lying in bed—she was a restless patient herself. “My grandfather was unwell the last years of his life. This was his room, to spare him from climbing stairs. He also had a wheelchair so he could move around the ground floor. It’s up in the attic, I believe. Shall I have it brought down for your use?”
“Oh, please,” he said fervently. “I am already tiring of this otherwise attractive room.” His eyes drifted shut.
Tenderly she tucked the coverlet around him. Then she forced herself to step away, hands clenched against temptation. She wanted to run her hands down those long, powerful limbs, but she didn’t have a lover’s right to touch him that way even though they were discussing marriage.
Though she’d known he must be weaned from her energy soon, she hadn’t realized how much the loss would weaken him. Now he would probably need to stay longer at Barton Grange.
That hadn’t been her intention, but she couldn’t regret it.
Chapter VII
More cautious than the evening before, Jack didn’t try to get out of bed the next morning. He did insist on sitting up against pillows and asking for reading material; then he chased Morris away. He no longer needed a full-time attendant, and it was unnerving to have Morris sit there watching all day.
The Marriage Spell Page 6