But he had been tall and broad enough to make her feel petite and feminine, and when he hadn’t known who she was, his smile had been most charming….
Across the valley, a horn sounded and the hunt was on. Hounds streamed down the hill, followed by exhilarated riders on horses bred to run. Jack Langdon and his fellows dropped out of sight behind a rise.
Smiling at her foolishness, Abby covered the telescope and returned to her still room. Time for an honest wizard to return to work on her potions and remedies and leave the idle rich to their frivolous pursuits.
It was a grand morning for hunting. Less grand was the tedium when the first fox escaped and the hunters had to wait until the hounds drew another. But Jack was enjoying the day too thoroughly to mind the wait. His gaze passed over the rolling hills, their lush contours defined by neatly hedged fields and an endless variety of fences. Though he’d hunted in Spain, no place could match the Shires. Hurling himself heedlessly after the hounds, savoring the excitement of pushing the limits of courage and common sense—in this he found freedom from the intractable problems of life.
His sense of well-being faded. After he finished his hunting holiday, he would have to return to Yorkshire. He had been cowardly for too long already.
His friend Ashby, who had dismounted, remarked, “You look like you can’t wait to risk your neck again, Jack. Even if you don’t need a breather, Dancer does.”
“Nonsense.” Jack patted his mount’s neck affectionately. The dark bay was one of the largest horses in the field, which was necessary for a rider of Jack’s weight. “Dancer is good for a twenty-mile run. I hope we get that. Buying a hunting box here is the cleverest thing I ever did.”
Ransom, his other houseguest, said with a wicked glint, “Your cleverest act was inviting Ashby and me to Melton so we can show you the way to the hounds.”
Jack laughed, unoffended. “I’ll be glad when Lucas arrives. He’s always the best at cutting you down to size.” He glanced at the manor house that crested a hill farther down the valley. “I don’t recall hunting this particular land before. The owners maintain good coverts. How are the fences?”
“There are a couple of oxers that will give even you pause, Jack. Or at least they should,” Ashby replied. Not being in the army, he had hunted the area more often than his companions. He nodded toward the manor house. “The local wizard, Sir Andrew Barton, lives there. A very well regarded fellow. Maybe that’s why the hedges grow with such vigor.”
Jack felt the chill that came with any mention of magic and wizards. Stonebridge Academy had done its job well. He hated to think how fascinated he’d been by the corrupt temptations of magic when he was a weak-willed boy. Thank God for the academy.
A deep voice called “Halloo!” from the far side of the covert. Jack whirled Dancer around. “The hounds have drawn a fox!”
As Jack and Ransom took off, Ashby vaulted onto his horse with amazing speed, no more than a few strides behind the other two. The hunt was on again.
Jack caught up with the other leaders of the field by jumping a stiff thorn hedge with a ditch on the other side. Dancer soared over with a foot to spare, as eager to fly as his rider. The hounds were in the next field, their white and tan bodies rushing headlong across the hillside and their cries echoing through the valley.
He urged Dancer faster and they went headlong through a tall bull-finch hedge. Jack held his whip in front of his face to protect his eyes from lashing branches. It was worth the scratches to find himself in the same field with the hounds. Only two or three other riders were so close, though from the corner of his eye he saw Ransom vaulting the bullfinch half a dozen strides behind him.
The fact that they were friends made the rivalry all the keener. Dancer was equal to the task of lengthening their lead over Ransom and his chestnut. The fence at the far end of the field was an oxer—a rail fence and a ditch with a narrow landing area just large enough to collect a horse and jump a second rail fence. “Are you ready, Dancer?”
The dark bay flicked his ears back with disdain. Dancer was even keener on jumping than Jack, if that was possible. They thundered at the first fence with reckless exhilaration. Man and horse soared, free of anger, regret, and sorrow. Jack laughed aloud, wishing he could stay in such a moment forever.
Dancer came down on the narrow band of earth between the ditch and the second fence. As he landed, the soil crumbled beneath his hooves. Instinctively Jack shifted his weight to help the horse regain his footing, but Dancer was too far off balance. As the horse crashed heavily to the ground, Jack pitched from the saddle. He’d had his share of falls and knew how to relax and roll, but his right foot caught in the stirrup. His foot and ankle twisted horribly and prevented him from falling cleanly.
He slammed headfirst into the rail fence, feeling a distinct cracking of bones as he crashed to the ground. His momentum sent him rolling across the damp grass and he ended sprawled on his back. He blinked dazedly at the pale blue sky and tried to assess his injuries. No pain, only numbness, except for a stinging slash on his cheek from the bullfinch hedge. Breathing was hard, very hard, but it was usual for a fall to knock the wind out of him. Numbness was also usual after a hard fall, with pain coming later. But this felt…different.
He realized that a horse was thrashing wildly somewhere to his right. Dancer! He tried to push himself up so he could go to his mount, but he couldn’t move.
“Jack!” Ransom’s face appeared against the sky. “Are you all right?”
Jack wanted to reassure his friend, but when he tried to speak, no words emerged. No air in his lungs, no words. Made perfect sense.
But he could blink, and he did repeatedly as his vision began to fade. Ashby’s voice sounded horror-struck. “My God, there’s so much blood!”
“Scalp wounds bleed like the devil.” Ransom gently blotted blood from Jack’s eyes. “I’m more worried about an injury to his neck or back. Jack, can you squeeze my hand?”
Was Ransom holding his hand? Jack felt nothing. He tried to squeeze. Again, nothing. His whole body was numb. Lucky that Ransom was here. Like Jack, he was an officer on leave from the Peninsula, and he had rough-and-ready field experience with all kinds of injuries.
Jack flickered in and out of consciousness. Other voices could be heard, one exclaiming, “My God, Lord Frayne has got himself killed!”
Another voice said, “Lucky Jack has the devil’s own fortune. He’ll be all right.”
The distant voices faded. Ransom’s face came into view again, looking white under his Spanish tan. Ashby’s face also appeared as he pressed a folded cloth against Jack’s skull to reduce the bleeding. Jack felt that. It hurt.
Dancer no longer thrashed, but he was whickering in pain. Ransom leaped to his feet. “Damn that horse! I’ll get my pistol.”
“No!” Jack managed a raw whisper. “Don’t…kill Dancer. Not…his fault.”
Ashby said sharply, “Stop, Ransom! Jack doesn’t want you to shoot Dancer. He just said so.” There were sounds of conflict, as if Ashby was physically restraining Ransom.
“Damn you, Ashby!” If Jack hadn’t known it was impossible, he’d have said that Ransom sounded near tears. “That bloody beast threw Jack!”
“It looks as if Dancer landed on a weak patch of ground, over a badger hole maybe. An accident.” Ashby’s voice was soothing. “Jack will never forgive us if we have his favorite hunter put down unnecessarily.”
“It looks like Dancer has a broken leg,” Ransom said flatly. “It’s shoot him now or shoot him later. And soon enough, Jack won’t care.”
Jack puzzled at the words. Did Ransom mean he was dying? Surely there would be pain if that was the case. But there was the problem with breathing….
Fear cut through his dreamy vagueness and he tried with all his might to flex his hands, his feet, his fingers. Nothing.
He couldn’t move any part of his body below his neck. He was paralyzed, which meant that very soon he would be dead. No wonder Ransom and As
hby were upset.
He had flirted with death for much of his life, alarming his friends with his reckless behavior. Not suicidal—he would never deliberately cause his own death. But he had thought that when the time came, probably on the field of battle, he would embrace the Grim Reaper with a certain amount of relief. Death was simple; life was not.
Yet now that the time before his demise could be counted in minutes or hours, he realized that he didn’t want to die. He had problems in his life, but who didn’t? If he had tried to solve them rather than running away, they’d be solved by now. New problems would arise, but those could have been solved, too.
Instead, in the name of honor and serving his country, he had run away from the duty he owed his name and family. He’d always thought there would be time enough for duty. One day he’d settle down and sort out his inheritance, but first there were battles to be fought and foxes to be chased. Which proved he was not only reckless but a fool.
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
Abby 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.