The Marriage Spell by Mary Jo Putney Page B

permission for him to call her that. Since lady’s maids were often called abigails, the name wasn’t popular in high society, yet it suited her. This was a woman who wouldn’t be afraid to dirty her hands when a job needed doing. He could do worse, which was fortunate, given that he had no choice.
    While he studied her, she was studying him. “You will sleep a great deal over the next few days,” she said. “That is usual after a major healing. Don’t fight it, my lord.”
    â€œI’m tired and hungry,” he murmured as his eyes drifted shut again. “What are the chances of a few slices of roast beef when I wake up?”
    â€œNil,” she said promptly. “But you will be fed, I promise that. A nice chicken broth with perhaps a bit of barley in it.”
    â€œBroth,” he said with disgust. “Wake me up when I’m ready for beef.” Or perhaps he only thought the words as he fell asleep again.
    A shby hadn’t exaggerated that his lordship was himself again. Or at least he was articulate and individual. Though Abby hadn’t known him before, his behavior fit her idea of him. He filled the room with his personality. Even when his handsome, highborn friends were present, it was Lord Frayne who compelled her attention.
    Jack.
He had bid her to use his name. Though she wasn’t ready to call him that directly, she was glad to call him that in her thoughts, as she had done for years.
    The footman arrived and Abby charged him with watching over their patient. She left the bedroom, knowing there was no need to order broth, since her excellent cook always had a pot on the hob. When Jack was awake and ready to eat, Abby would infuse the broth with extra healing energy. He would eat it while complaining that he preferred food that required chewing. He was not going to be the sort of patient who would stay willingly in bed.
    Though he actually seemed willing to carry through on his promise to marry her. That bore thinking about.
    On her way to the breakfast room, she heard angry voices in the front hall. She detoured and found a tall, dark man in a muddy driving coat castigating her butler. At her entrance, the stranger swerved toward her. “Are you the lady of the house? What is this bloody story about Lord Frayne being brought here to die?”
    His voice was furious and his handsome face was all hard angles, but she saw the underlying fear. “You must be another of Lord Frayne’s old friends,” she said peaceably. “I am Miss Barton. Yes, his lordship was brought here yesterday gravely injured, but he is not dying. In fact, he is well on his way to recovery.”
    The man’s anger drained out of him. “Thank God,” he breathed. “When I stopped at an inn outside of Melton for breakfast, I was told Jack had been brought here and was surely dead already. I was so afraid…” He cut off his words.
    â€œHe has had two friends here with him—the Duke of Ashby and Mr. Ransom. Are they also friends of yours?”
    â€œThey are. So he has been in good hands.” The man gave her a smile of surprising warmth. “Forgive my rag-manners, Miss Barton. I am Lucas Winslow. Might I see Lord Frayne? Or Ashby or Ransom?”
    â€œLord Frayne and Ashby are both sound asleep,” she replied. “Yesterday was a very tiring day. Ransom left for London this morning. I can take you to Lord Frayne, but you must not wake him. He needs his rest, as does Ashby.”
    â€œI would very much like to see him.”
    â€œThen take off your coat and hat and prepare to stay a bit. After you’ve seen your friend, perhaps you would join us for breakfast?”
    He smiled ruefully. “You’re very perceptive. When I heard the news at the inn, I didn’t stay to eat.” His voice cooled. “If this is the home of a wyrdling, as they said, I suppose it’s inevitable you would be perceptive. Invasive,