The Marriage Spell by Mary Jo Putney Page B

thought of any of this when he gave her permission to try to save his worthless life. The prospect of death tended to narrow one’s viewpoint dramatically.
    The next room, a handsome library, revealed many books, a fair number of them scholarly treatises on magic, but still no dried bats. Jack made a mental note to visit the library at a later date so he could explore further.
    Lucas swung the chair to enter the main drawing room. Misjudging how far the splinted leg stuck out, he banged Jack’s right foot into the door frame. Jack gasped with agony, his hands clenching the arms of the chair.
    Lucas swore. “I’m so sorry, Jack! I’m a clumsy brute.”
    â€œThere really is an art to pushing a wheelchair,” Miss Barton said as she gently rested her fingertips on Jack’s right leg where the pain was blazing. Within moments, the pain receded to a manageable level. She continued, “Perhaps I should take over. I often wheeled my grandfather around, so I’m something of an expert.”
    â€œI yield to greater experience.” Lucas stepped away with an exaggerated bow.
    With Miss Barton doing the pushing, Jack’s ride immediately became smoother. She stepped on a foot lever on the back of the chair to slightly raise the front wheels whenever they crossed a sill or moved onto a carpet. There really was an art to living in the kingdom of the ill.
    Abigail Barton might be a wizard, but she also had a gentle hand with the infirm despite her own robust health. He was very aware that she was right behind him, her fingers on the chair handles just inches from his shoulders. She was a powerful presence—and despite her wizardly calling, a comforting one.
    They entered the dining room. “I remember looking at that handsome chandelier hanging directly over me, and hoping it wouldn’t fall and produce still more damage,” he said wryly as he recognized the dining room table where he had nearly died.
    â€œYou were not the first critically injured patient to lie on that table and the chandelier hasn’t fallen yet,” Miss Barton remarked. “With a long table and a good light, this makes a decent operating theater. Note the splendid red and black carpet, carefully chosen to conceal bloodstains.”
    He tried to turn and look at her to see if she was joking, a movement that did his leg no good. “Is that true?”
    She grinned. “Somewhat. The rug has been in the family for many years. I was the one who suggested that the dining room was a particularly good place for it.”
    Ashby moved to the mahogany table, his fingers skimming the polished surface. “It looks so peaceful now, after the high drama of life and death.” His expression was abstracted as he remembered Jack’s accident and the healing circle.
    â€œI prefer peace to drama,” Miss Barton said ruefully. “But we seldom have a choice.” She resumed pushing the wheelchair.
    The morning room was in a rear corner of the house, the comfortable furniture splashed with late afternoon sunshine. She pushed him to a position in front of the windows. Outside lay gardens to the right and outbuildings to the left. Largest of the buildings was the stable block. Jack regarded it wistfully. “Will I be able to hunt again?”
    â€œIf you wish. Though you will take longer to recover than Dancer.”
    His head whipped around, and this time he didn’t care about causing pain in his leg. “Dancer is
alive
?”
    Her brows arched. “Didn’t anyone tell you?”
    Lucas, who was ambling along behind with Ashby, said, “I’m sorry, Jack. I assumed you had been told by someone else. We all must have assumed that.”
    Jack drew a deep, unsteady breath, painfully close to tears. He had been so sure his magnificent, loyal horse was dead, killed by his rider’s heedlessness. “I knew his leg broke in the accident. I…I assumed he’d been put