Dr. Sloan chuckled. “Scars fade with time. Every time you look at that scar, remember that you are the first man to survive an open abdominal surgery. That scar is history in the making.”
Sam wanted to scoff but worried the action could hurt. “Surgery is not so unheard of.”
“’Tis not the surgery itself that I’m speaking of. I’ve cut many bodies open and I’m hardly the first to attempt such a feat. The marvel is that you survived. It’s no impressive feat to cut a person open, remove a tumor or a fragment of bullet—what have you. But keeping them alive? During and afterward? That is the real challenge, my lord.”
Sam eased back against his pillows with a heavy sigh. “I’ll try to remember that when my lovers faint at the sight of me.”
“I’ll update your sister on this morning’s progress, unless you’d prefer otherwise.”
“No. You may tell her. If she doesn’t know what’s going on, she’ll claw through the wall to get to me.”
“Something to be grateful for.”
Sam rolled his eyes. “I know. But it’s hard to feel grateful now. Yes, I’m alive, but there was a steep price.”
“The scar or the marriage?” Dr. Sloan asked.
“Can’t it be both?”
“It can, though I’d rather be scarred than married.”
“It’s not marriage itself,” Sam clarified. “It’s the idea of not having the choice in who I marry. She is a stranger to me.”
“I suspect many women feel the same.”
Sam closed his eyes. “Are you calling me a hypocrite?”
“Did I say those words?”
Sam glared at the doctor. He was right, though. But Sam couldn’t shake this sullen mood. Which was half the reason he wanted to be alone. He was an ungrateful arse. Angry at his pain, his weakness, his helplessness, at the terror that lingered just under the surface of his consciousness. He tried to ignore it, but he could feel it there, looming in his mind, his thoughts, the dreams he couldn’t remember.
Petrov was setting up supplies to bathe and shave Sam. He could feel the salty brine on his skin. Daily wiping with a cloth kept him from smelling, but he would rather have a bath—a steaming hot bath—to wash away this melancholy.
“Can’t I bathe properly?” he asked.
Petrov halted and turned toward the doctor. “Can my lord have a bath?”
Dr. Sloan didn’t turn away from his book. “With assistance, yes.”
Sam raised his brows at Petrov.
“I shall ring for water.”
Sam was nothing short of giddy. Almost the first positive emotion he’d felt since waking. Perhaps he wasn’t turning into a curmudgeon—perhaps he just needed to be clean.
But when the first footman tried to enter with a pail of steaming water, Amelia was right on his heels.
“What the devil are you doing?” Amelia demanded.
“Trying to have peace and a bath. Neither of which should include you. Where is your husband?”
“Dr. Sloan, is this advisable?” Amelia asked from the doorway.
Dr. Sloan shrugged from Sam’s desk, appearing entirely used to Amelia’s interference. “I don’t see why not.”
“You said we had to worry about infection,” Amelia pressed.
“He’s well enough now. The skin is healed.”
