She hoped he was right: the inward track of a heavy bullet through the flesh would be wider, which would make probing and removal easier.
“He said it was one of Jenkyn’s men,” Trenear continued. “A professional assassin would use one of the more modern bullets, with a conical shape instead of round. If so, it would be partially encased in a shell of copper or steel.”
“Thank you, my lord.” A pointed tip made it likely the bullet had pursued a direct course instead of bouncing and ricocheting inside him. And if the projectile was covered by a hard casing, the lead wouldn’t have fragmented.
Trenear gave her an astute glance, understanding that she was going to operate on Ethan right there, in a last-minute effort to save his life. His eyes were dark blue rimmed with black . . . Ethan’s eyes. Was she going mad? No, she wouldn’t think about anything except the work that awaited her.
“What do you need?” Kathleen asked, coming to stand beside her. “We have three large cans of boiled water, and more in the process of heating. We’ve been using it to wash him with carbolic soap.”
“Excellent,” Garrett said. “The footman has carried in a basket of surgical chemicals. If you would, my lady, please find the one labeled sodium hypochlorite, and pour the entire contents into one of the cans of water. Use that to disinfect every inch of the library table, and cover the surface with clean linen sheets. We’ll need as many lamps in here as you’re able to provide.” She turned to Devon. “My lord, can you send someone to fetch Dr. Havelock?”
“I’ll fetch him myself.”
“Thank you. Also, make certain he brings the Roussel transfuser. He won’t want to, but don’t let him come without it.” Continuing to kneel beside the settee, Garrett swabbed Ethan’s upper arm with antiseptic solution. Tilting the morphine syringe upward, she expertly forced the air from the small glass chamber until a clear drop appeared at the tip of the hollow needle.
Ethan stirred and blinked, seeming to regain his sensibilities. “Garrett,” he said carefully, as if he knew her but wasn’t quite sure of the name. His gaze flickered to the hypodermic needle in her hand. “Don’t need that.”
“You’ll be glad of it when I start probing for the bullet.”
His chest rose and fell with an agitated breath. “Don’t even think about opening me up like . . . a tin of boiled ham.”
“You’re going to receive proper medical treatment,” she informed him.
“If I made it through surgery, the fever would kill me.”
“You will make it through surgery, and you will definitely have fever. A nasty one. After being doused in that filthy river, you’re teeming with inflammatory microbes. Fortunately, I’ve brought a variety of antiseptic solutions. Before long I’ll have you as clean as a bobbin.”
“For God’s sake, woman—ahh, damn it, what is that?”
“Morphine,” she said, depressing the plunger slowly to release the medicine into the thick muscle of his upper arm.
Ethan subsided, realizing there would be no stopping her. “You haven’t one romantic bone in your body,” he muttered.
That sounded so much like his usual self that Garrett almost smiled. “I reassembled an entire disarticulated skeleton in medical school. There’s no such thing as a romantic bone.”
He turned his face away from her.
Garrett was wrenched with love and agonized concern. She felt her lips tremble, and she clamped them shut. She knew Ethan understood how close to death he was, and had resigned himself to what he thought was inevitable. He wanted to spend the last few minutes of his life lucid and aware, in the arms of the woman he loved.
But instead of caressing him, her hands would be plying surgical instruments. Instead of gazing at him adoringly, she would be examining inner contusions and lacerations.
No, her way was not romantic.
She wouldn’t be the woman he loved, however, if she didn’t use all her skills in an effort to save him.
Setting aside the hypodermic syringe, Garrett looked down at the perfect shape of his ear. She bent to rub her lips softly against the lobe. “Éatán,” she whispered, “listen to me. This is what I do. I’ll bring you through this and take care of you. I’ll be with you every minute. Trust me.”
His cheek nudged back toward her. She saw that he didn’t believe her. All the light in his eyes had vanished save a last glint or two, like the ember of a candlewick that had just been snuffed.
“Tell me you love me,” he whispered.
Panicked words fluttered and darted inside her . . . I love you I need you Oh God please stay with me . . . but she had the terrifying premonition that saying it would allow him to let go. As if she would be giving him permission to pass away peacefully instead of fighting for his life.
“Later,” she said gently. “When you wake up after the surgery, I’ll tell you.”
By the time Dr. Havelock had arrived, Ethan had been transferred to the massive oak library table. It had taken the combined efforts of West Ravenel and three footmen to move him as carefully as possible, in the fear of dislodging possible bone shards or lead fragments, or causing other damage. Ethan had slipped into a delirium, only letting out an occasional groan or wordless exclamation.
With Kathleen’s help, Garrett had wiped Ethan’s form from head to toe with disinfectant solution and shaved around the gunshot wound in preparation for surgery. They had draped a towel across his hips for modesty, and covered him with clean cotton blankets afterward. A blue-white pallor gave his flesh the illusion of cool marble perfection, sculpted and polished to a silky sheen.
It was somehow worse to see a man of such robust health reduced to this condition. The morphine had taken what effect it would, but Ethan was still in obvious pain, and Garrett didn’t dare give him any more with his blood pressure so low.
Garrett had never been so relieved as she was when Dr. Havelock arrived. His capable presence made her feel that together, they would pull Ethan through. Havelock’s distinctive shock of snow-white hair had been brushed back hastily, his cheeks and chin glinting with the day’s growth of silver beard. He examined Ethan with quiet efficiency, responding to the wounded man’s incoherent murmurs with a few soothing words.
When Havelock had finished his evaluation, Garrett went with him to the far end of the library for a private conference.
“He’s on the verge of circulatory collapse,” Havelock said quietly, his expression grave. “In fact, I’ve never seen a patient with a capacity to endure such severe hemorrhage. The bullet penetrated the left pectoral muscle. I wouldn’t be surprised if an artery has been completely severed.”
“That’s what I thought—but if so, it should have been immediately fatal. Why has the bleeding stopped? If it were leaking into the chest cavity, his lung function would be impaired, but it isn’t.”
“It’s possible the artery has constricted and retracted within its sheath, thereby sealing itself temporarily.”
“If it turns out to be the axillary artery, would there be enough blood supply left for the arm if I tie it off?”
“Yes, there would be sufficient collateral circulation. But I wouldn’t advise it.”