The Marriage Spell by Mary Jo Putney Page A

life, as a wizard whose work was utterly repugnant to him—or a woman with a threatening degree of sensuality. The wheelchair definitely added weight to the view of her as compassionate.
    â€œGood day, gentlemen,” Miss Barton said cheerfully. “Lord Frayne, I thought you might enjoy a roll around the house. My grandfather’s chair has been retrieved from the attics and still seems serviceable. I had the estate carpenter build a support for your splinted leg. Would you like to give it a try?”
    â€œYes!” He was already pushing the covers back.
    â€œI’ll send Morris in to prepare you for this grand excursion. It might well take three men to transfer you safely to the wheelchair.” She withdrew from the room.
    To Jack’s disgust, she was right. Ashby and Lucas steadied him while Morris helped him into a robe, then moved the chair behind him so he could sit down. Jack felt huge and ungainly as everyone worked to arrange him in the chair. Morris’s careful hoist of the broken leg onto the long, padded support caused excruciating pain.
    By the time Jack was settled, he was sweaty and exhausted. For a moment he thought longingly of his soft bed, but he was not going to waste this opportunity to move beyond his cell.
    Miss Barton reappeared with her arms full of folded blankets. He hadn’t realized how tall she was, only an inch or two shorter than Ashby.
    She shook out the fabric, revealing two lap robes. “It’s drafty around the house,” she explained as she tucked one of the robes around his legs. Her gentle touch didn’t produce more pain.
    As she wrapped the other robe around his shoulders, he protested, “I’m not an invalid!”
    Her blue eyes sparked with amusement. “You most certainly are. Not for very long, I think, but it will be good for you to discover what it’s like not to be bursting with rude health. You will learn sympathy for those less fortunate.”
    â€œYou might even learn to be more careful so you won’t break your neck again,” Lucas said acerbically. “Are you ready to roll, Jack?”
    He used his hands to shift his splinted leg a little, trying without success to make it ache less. “I am, and as excited as the first time I crossed the channel and set foot in a foreign country.”
    â€œI can’t promise you the exotic delights of France or the Low Countries,” Miss Barton remarked, “but at least here everyone speaks English. Mr. Winslow, beware the sill between the bedroom and the hall. It’s necessary to go slowly from room to room, or your passenger will be jostled.”
    Lucas slowed, though not quickly enough to prevent a painful jolt. “Sorry, Jack,” he apologized. “I hadn’t realized that there was an art to pushing a wheelchair.”
    â€œThe kingdom of illness is a whole different nation from the land of the healthy,” Miss Barton said musingly. “One that most of us enter sooner or later. Turn left at the end of this hall, Mr. Winslow. That will start us on a circular tour of the ground floor.”
    As Lucas pushed him along, Jack studied his surroundings, absurdly delighted by the change of scene. It was a gentleman’s house, attractive and well furnished with a mixture of graceful new furniture and old pieces that had obviously been in the family for generations. Nothing proclaimed that Barton Grange was the home of ill-bred wizards.
    What had he expected—dried bats and newts hanging from the ceiling? Perhaps he had. It was strange trying to reconcile this peaceful oasis with the queasy darkness of wizardry.
    As they rolled through the drawing room, he realized that he must come to terms with his deep distaste for magic. Out of cowardice and fear of death, he had accepted magical aid rather than die in accordance with his principles. Which meant that now he must accept a wizard wife and her wizardly family.
    He hadn’t