The words crawled in, burrowing just below the skin like so many wriggling maggots. “You admit that you willfully banished me from that surgery?”
“Banishment? Such dramatics, Doctor, and a bit draconian at that.” Peckwood chuckled as he returned the bag to the shelf. “I merely needed to put a stop to your inquiries, as they cast a pall on what should have been an unbiased presentation of medical prowess to the journalists. I couldn’t very well have you tainting what they might write. God knows men of the press are blown about by the slightest of winds. And your absence was no danger, for I am fully capable of managing a scalpel on my own. Granted, it took me longer than if you’d been present, but the outcome remained the same.”
Graham shook his head, thoroughly disgusted. “Don’t tell me you’re saying the end justifies the means.”
“In some cases, that adage is incontestable.” Peckwood shrugged, then returned to his chair, gripping the back of it instead of sitting. “Lastly, Miss Balfour was in a state of high agitation, and understandably so. As a doctor of strong morals, I can only assume you would have done the same as I: namely, supply a distraught female with a calming agent. Would you not?”
Graham scowled. Once again, Peckwood had nicely shuffled the conversation into a winning hand for himself. To deny would paint him as an uncompassionate fiend.
He narrowed his eyes. “What did you use?”
“A proprietary formula I developed for my wife, God rest her. It is completely safe, so you need not trouble yourself further on the matter.” He cut his hand through the air. “And as for leaving the Balfours alone in the recovery room, I had only recently slipped up here to capture a few notes on the procedure before you barged in. And now it is you who keeps me from returning. The longer we play this charade, the longer the patient will remain medically unattended. That being said”—he dipped his head, a bull about to charge—“have you any more questions?”
A sigh deflated all that was left of his fight. The wily surgeon had batted away each of his accusations as if they were nothing but gnats. One by one, his fingers uncurled, fists forgotten. “I suppose there is no more to be said. For now.”
“Good.” Peckwood threw back his shoulders. “Then I suggest you hie yourself downstairs and monitor Mr. Balfour, though if all goes well, I expect there will be nothing to oversee other than the complaint of a headache when he awakens. Our biggest concern now is risk of infection, so it is imperative we keep the wound site clean.”
Scowling, Graham strode to the door, disgusted by the man’s clinically cold evaluation.
“Oh, and Mr. Lambert?”
He glanced over his shoulder, brows raised.
Peckwood’s blue eyes turned icy, as did his voice. “The next time you question my integrity will be the end of our partnership. Am I quite understood?”
Graham gave him a sharp nod and pulled the door shut behind him, praying to God there would be no more cause to doubt the man.
But that, he highly doubted.
She’d drifted a long time here, in this sea of darkness. Alone. Afraid. But now something stirred those waters. The black depths lightened to the purple of a bruise. The oppressive weight that had been pushing Amelia down released its grip, and she floated higher. Rising, ever rising. Purple fading into grey. Lungs lighter. Life tingling in her hands. Her fingers.
With a gasp, she jerked awake and gripped the chair arms to keep from flying off the seat. A blanket fell from her shoulders, pooling in her lap. Shadows loitered against the walls like so many ruffians in a dark alley. Where was she?Whenwas she?
Night, apparently. Across from her, Graham slept in a chair, eyes closed, lips parted. The single lamp glowing on the small table next to him cast a warm glow over half his face. But even asleep, he looked bone weary. As if he’d given all he had and more. But to whom? Her? Was that why he was here? Keeping some sort of vigil while she’d floundered in the darkness?
She swallowed, tongue thick and fuzzy. A metallic aftertaste soured her stomach. And then it all rushed back. The surgery. The fear.
Colin!
She snapped her gaze aside, desperate to see her brother—then gasped when an intense gaze locked onto hers, so awful it would surely haunt her in nightmares to come. But it didn’t matter. Colin lived. He breathed! She pushed from the chair, not caring a whit for the blanket lying strewn in her wake.
Dropping to her knees at his bedside, she reached for her brother’s hand and held it tight to her chest. “Colin, I was so frightened,” she whispered.
His big lips moved, yet no sound came out.
She shook her head. “No, don’t talk, dearest. You don’t have to—”
“Ah-me. Ne-mo.” His voice was a rusty hinge.
“What was that?” She bent closer.
“Lee-ahhh!” He yanked his hand from her, pressing his palm to his jaw, arm locked, muscles clenched. White bubbles foamed at the corners of his mouth. A frightened little boy looked out through his man eyes. Lost and pathetic.
Her heart broke.
“Shh,” she soothed, gently trying to pry his hand from his face. If he jarred the bandage swathing his skull, would he start a bout of bleeding? “Calm yourself, Brother.”
Eyes wide, he froze, still as death.
