The Marriage Spell (2 page)

Chapter
I

M
ELTON
M
OWBRAY
, L
EICESTERSHIRE
E
NGLISH
M
IDLANDS
J
ANUARY
1813

A
telescope had many fine and worthy uses. One could study soaring birds in flight. One could admire the rings of Saturn or the timeless mystery of the stars.

Or one could use it to watch handsome young men during hunting season. Since packs of horses and hounds often raced across her father's fields, Abigail Barton thought it only fair that she be allowed to admire the splendid specimens of manhood that had turned her native Leicestershire into the heart of English hunting country. Three famous hunts were based around the market town of Melton Mowbray, so the area attracted the most dedicated hunters in the country each winter.

It was a perfect early January day. Pale sunshine brightened the empty fields and there was a not-unpleasant chill to the clear air. She swung the telescope in its mounting. Today's meeting of the Quorn was forming up across the valley…. Ah, there.

She focused on the seething mass of horses, hounds, and riders visible on the hilltop estate opposite Barton Grange. The hunt would begin soon, but until then the riders greeted friends and quaffed drinks and did whatever it was that men did on such occasions. Talked about horses, mostly.

Being of a practical turn of mind, Abby knew that chasing foxes across the countryside was a monstrously silly business. Hunting was an inefficient way of eliminating vermin, it was shockingly expensive, and far too many men and horses were injured, maimed, or killed outright. Yet she could understand the intoxication of speed and recklessness, and she guessed that the young men who made up the bulk of the field cherished the camaraderie of their fellows.

Slowly she scanned the broad lawn where the hunters were gathering. Some she recognized as local men or as regular visitors to the Shires. Others were strangers. No matter. She enjoyed seeing the excitement and anticipation. For the youngest men, hunting in the Shires for the first time was close to a religious experience.

The slow sweep of her telescope halted. So Jack Langdon had managed to come for part of the hunting season. Though he was Lord Frayne now, she had trouble thinking of him that way. She had first seen him perhaps ten years ago, when he was a mere stripling. Now he was a man full grown, broad of shoulder and solid with muscle.

He was splendidly at home on horseback, not surprising since he and several of the friends laughing with him were army officers. During the summer campaign season, they fought Napoleon's forces in the Peninsula, but campaigning slowed or ceased altogether during the winter. Wellington and other senior military commanders were generous in allowing junior officers furlough to return home for hunting season. Chasing foxes kept them fit and happy, ready to chase Frenchies come spring.

Occasionally she had seen Jack Langdon in Melton Mowbray. Always he was the center of a group of friends. Though he wasn't the most handsome or the most fashionably dressed, he always drew her eye. His magnetic personality compelled attention like the sun attracted flowers.

The closest Abby had ever come to Langdon was the day she was leaving the draper's shop with bundles of tied fabric and almost tripped over him. He had laughed off the incident while collecting her bundles and apologizing for being in the way. In other words, he had been a perfect gentleman, but the friendly smile he'd given her had gone beyond mere courtesy. Langdon had actually seen her as a person, not as an anonymous local female. That was rare among the Meltonian hunting set.

She had been so flustered that she hadn't done a proper reading on him, and she had never come so close again. They certainly wouldn't meet socially—a viscount would never condescend to appear in any company that included a wizard's daughter. Especially one who was gifted herself.

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.

I
t 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 Ashby 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.