"Bloody hell," Ian said, involuntarily flinching from the last of the surgeon's seemingly endless probing.
"Almost," the man said, the fingers of his left hand wrapped like an iron band around Ian's upper arm. In his right were the forceps with which he was attempting to extract Travener's ball. "One would think if one can see the blasted thing..."
Ian's gasp coincided with the surgeon's exclamation of satisfaction. "There now," he said, obviously relieved. He held the ball, firmly grasped between the metal tongs, up to the light. "Hardly damaged. Lucky you weren't standing any closer."
Dr McKinley stepped around the surgeon to place a thick pad over the wound, which was bleeding again. He began to wind a strip of clean linen around the lint to hold it in place.
"Major Sinclair's lucky is well documented," McKinley said, gesturing with his chin towards Ian's chest as he worked.
