Sound of Madness A Dark Royal Romance - Maria Luis Page 0,122
Broadmoor, I allow myself the chance to really look at the man who once stood side by side with Pa. His dark eyes are half-shut, all signs of consciousness out the door; dried blood paints his palms and forearms, from where he clearly tried to staunch the flow after Rowena stabbed him. Remove the impact of age and stress, though, and it’s the same face that I remember from childhood.
Another mirrored perception.
The Robert Guthram I knew never would have done what this man did to Rowena today. Unlike his son, Robert lived by a strict code of moral conduct—women and children were always off-limits, no matter who they were. Ten years at Broadmoor clearly changed that, changed him. Just as the nervous twitch to Rowena’s shoulders tells me that she won’t soon be forgetting the taste of death.
Kill him.
My molars grind and I rip my stare away from his face before I give in to temptation.
“Where’s Grafton’s exam room?” I ask Rowena.
She tilts her chin down the hallway. “Two doors past the drawing room, on the left. I’ll grab her for us—I doubt she’s in there.”
“Rowena, I—” When she blinks up at me, I fall irrefutably silent. Words of apology beat to life inside my chest, all demanding exit though none of them take flight. Forgive me, please. For dragging her into this mess and putting her in danger. I stand there, holding up the man who tried to kill her and all I know is that if she demanded that I end Guthram, I would.
Her stare lowers then flickers to where Guthram is hauled up against my side. With narrowed eyes, she studies him like she would a cockroach that ended up on her plate. Distaste flattens her lips before she steps back and folds her hands at the base of her spine. “I’ll get Sara.”
Fuck.
Just before she disappears around the corner, I catch a glimpse of her linked fingers and it takes all the concentrated effort in the world not to chase after her. Do what has to be done, Godwin. It’s for the sake of the mission that I drag Guthram’s limp body down the hallway. Voices echo from the drawing room—Gregory and Samuel, I think—and with the toe of my boot, I shove open Grafton’s door. Hit the light switch with my elbow before shouldering my way inside.
One glance reveals that that the room is nowhere close to the state-of-the-art OR that Matthews worked out of at the Palace, but beggars can’t be choosers. The Palace is gone, at least for now, and I doubt Saxon’s place in Oxford is outfitted with the medical supplies we need to keep Guthram alive.
Fighting the urge to drop him, I set him down carefully on the exam table and arrange his body so that he’s fit for a coffin—legs straight, arms by his sides. Only the shallow rhythm of his chest proves that he’s still among the living.
I hear Dr. Sara Grafton’s voice in the hall before I see her: “I won’t do it, Rowan. There’s nothing you can do or say that’ll convince me”—the door flings open and Grafton stumbles in with Rowena at her back—“otherwise.”
Rowena keeps her hand on the doctor’s shoulder as she lets the door close behind her. “Sara,” she says, her tone sharp, “I pay you to administer to the wounded, don’t I?”
Blue eyes slide toward Guthram on the exam table. “You don’t pay me enough to care for anti-loyalists. And, from what you said, this one tried to kill you.” She whirls around to face Rowena. “Why in the world would I keep him alive? Answer me that.”
“Because if you don’t there’s nothing that’ll stop me from ending you next.”
Slowly, Dr. Sara Grafton peers over her shoulder and coolly meets my gaze. “Congratulations, Priest, you’ve just signed his death warrant.”
When she makes an attempt to leave, Rowena is already there to head her off. She’s still in that torn jumper from Broadmoor. Blood and dirt cake the fabric, her feet and face, too, but it doesn’t stop her from extending an arm to block passage to the door. “You’ll keep him breathing,” she utters quietly, firmly, “and you’ll do it because there are lives at stake.”
“Whose?” Grafton demands.
“Damien’s, for one, but also—”
“Seven-hundred-and-ninety-three souls.”
Both women turn to stare at me, and I plant one hand on the doctor’s desk to steady my frame against the memory of Caren Fitz begging me to set him free. “That’s the number of anti-loyalists who have gone missing