Page 1 of To Steal a Lyon’s Heart (The Lyon’s Den Connected World #85)

H is eyes would not open, but Sam could hear talking. Amelia’s voice filtered through the haze of his dreams coming from somewhere far off. His own mind? He couldn’t discern the direction or if it was real or a dream.

Sam’s throat burned like a parched desert, his tongue thick and sandy.

Amelia’s voice came again, closer and sharper. He was... awake. Awake and in pain . Hot, it was so damn hot. His coverlet felt like a blanket of molten lead.

“Off,” he wheezed. Pain sliced through his gut, like he’d taken a sword through his belly. “Help me,” he gasped.

“Sam? I’m here. We’re all here,” Amelia said.

Her voice was like cool water, and a cold cloth smoothed over his brow.

Heaven, that cloth was heaven. His hand curled and he could feel the blanket scrunched between his fingers.

He took a deep breath, that pain spiking, but damn it, he wanted to wake this time.

To open his eyes, to see something real.

“My eyes, wipe my eyes,” he gasped, as more pain ripped through him.

That blissfully cold cloth dabbed lightly at his eyes, swiping across his lashes.

“Stop,” Sam ordered. He could smell whoever bent close to him and it wasn’t Amelia. Someone touched his right hand, and he knew instantly that was Amelia. His twin, his darling, hoyden sister.

“Amelia?”

“Yes, Sam!” she said excitedly. “Get Mr. Blakewood!” she ordered.

Sam focused on his eyelids. Open. Open, you bloody scraps of flesh.

It took far too much effort, but he opened his eyes. The light in the room was blindingly bright. He winced as blurry shapes appeared around him.

“Close the curtains,” Amelia bid.

Blessedly, the light dimmed, and he blinked several times.

The blurriness melted away, and there stood Amelia, her pale blonde hair hanging limp around her shoulders, her light blue eyes filling with tears.

Blakewood stood beside her, his arm around Amelia’s shoulders.

His burnished brown hair was in disarray, like he’d been pulling at it, and his pale green eyes were red from lack of sleep, but they both smiled at him like he’d hung the moon.

It all came back to him. The fall from his horse, Blakewood putting Carson out of his misery, the look on Amelia’s face when she first saw him after the accident, Dr. Bradley, then Amelia and Blakewood being engaged, his aunt’s horrid face and Nelson’s belligerent whining, and more.

They seemed more like nightmares than memories.

Fear stole his breath as he tried to find the words to convey everything that he felt.

Their smiles faded, worry marring their brows.

“Take some water,” Amelia said as his valet, Petrov, moved closer and spooned water into Sam’s dry mouth. It trickled over his lips and chin, but the cool liquid was ecstasy. He swallowed, running his tongue along his teeth. Ugh, he needed to clean his teeth desperately.

“Ah, that’s enough,” Sam whispered. He winced as he drew in a breath. “Why do I feel worse than before?”

A man out of Sam’s view cleared his throat, and then a tall, slender, dark-haired, and rather pale man stepped into sight, a nurse by his side with brown hair covered by a white cap. But the man—he looked like an undertaker.

“Lord Alston, I am Dr. Sloan. I performed an experimental surgery to stop your spleen from leaking blood into your abdominal cavity. You’ve been in and out of consciousness for two weeks, fighting infection and fever.”

Sam blinked. His head grew light, and silver sparkles floated around Dr. Sloan’s slick black hair.

“How do you feel?” Dr. Sloan asked.

“Like a hot coal,” Sam wheezed.

Dr. Sloan nodded. “Lord Alston, you should know you have a very large incision along your right side. Miraculously, infection has been minimal and your fever has been manageable. Your pulse and coloring have improved. I am the best in my field. It was fortunate for you I was in London when your sister sought my help, but the odds of you living were slim. Your recovery to this point is due to my skill and your age and strength.”

“Not one for humility, are you?” Sam said in a gravelly voice.

Dr. Sloan shrugged.

“What do you remember?” Blakewood asked.

Sam stiffly turned his neck to face his friend. He now held Amelia’s hand. Amelia had her other hand pressed to her heart, and there was their mother’s ring on her finger.

“Mostly everything. You were engaged,” he said.

“We’re married now,” Amelia said.

Emotion stole his voice. Married? He hadn’t been there to give his sister away.

“When? Why?”

“The night of your surgery. We wanted you to be there. We didn’t know...” She clamped her mouth shut.

“If I would survive.” Sam finished for her. He closed his eyes for a moment. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want you to be forced into a marriage.”

“There is no need for apology. We married because we wanted to,” Amelia said.

“We fell in love,” Blakewood said.

Stunned, Sam ripped his gaze away. His eyes burned. In love? They were in love after years of barely tolerating each other? He should be bloody thrilled, but he couldn’t manage excitement in this drowsy state. Something tore at his insides—confusion, exhaustion. A whip of fire lashed at his organs.

He slowly shook his head. “I’m sorry I was not able to see it. What else should I know?”

“Aunt Ruth and Nelson have thoroughly ruined Amelia’s reputation,” Blakewood said. “They’ve revealed to society that I have been living here unchaperoned with Amelia while you were incapacitated.”

“Excellent,” Sam said dryly. His eyelids were already feeling heavy, but he fought it. He didn’t want to succumb to sleep again. He’d already missed so much.

“You should eat something of substance,” Dr. Sloan said. “Petrov, a broth soup with soft potato and bits of chicken will suffice.”

“Yes, doctor.” Petrov said.

Sam looked toward the foot of the bed. Petrov beamed at him and his eyes brightened with unshed tears.

Sam smiled weakly. “Greetings, old friend.” Sam could now remember the moments when he would smell cloves and shoe polish. Petrov had been close to him then. Taking care of him.

“No doubt you need a holiday,” Sam said.

“Not until you are strong enough to toss me from the room yourself,” Petrov said. He exited to fetch the meal.

Sam sighed, his stomach clenching and pain spearing him. But it wasn’t nearly as awful as before. He wiggled his feet and then his knees. His legs were pitifully weak, and even those small movements winded him.

“How long must I stay in bed?”

“As long as necessary,” Amelia said. Her face had gone pale. He could tell she’d been biting her nails with worry.

“You’ll regain your strength in time,” Dr. Sloan advised. “You must go slowly.”

“What do my insides look like?” Sam wondered, trying to lighten the mood for Amelia’s sake. She stared at him like he could disappear at any moment.

Dr. Sloan brightened as he grabbed a book. “Quite splendid. I’ve never had a body so young. Your organs are in supreme shape.” He flipped the book open and held it out to Sam.

Amelia stepped forward. “Don’t—” Amelia huffed angrily as Dr. Sloan set the book on Sam’s lap.

Sam wasn’t sure what he was looking at. An illustration of what appeared to be a corpse covered the page, flayed open like a fish. His skin went cold. “Is that me?”

“Indeed,” Dr. Sloan said.

He turned another page to what Sam presumed to be an organ was drawn in detail, including a spot where it was tied together. Sam looked at his own hand, nearly as pale as the paper his palm rested on. An unnerving color that sent an icy chill down his spine.

“You may not be aware of this,” Dr. Sloan said. “But I rendered my services under the condition that you will be in medical texts and discussed widely among the medical community. You are an advancement in surgical medicine. You will help save many lives to come.”

Sam’s queasiness faded at that. He swallowed and nodded. Dr. Sloan closed the book and set it aside.

“Who’s this?” Sam asked, nodding toward the brown-haired woman.

“Miss Smith, my lord.” She stepped forward and bobbed a stiff curtsy. “I am pleased to meet you.”

“Your nurse,” Amelia added.

“Well, I’ll be a stuffed duck, he lives,” a voice said from the doorway.

Sam looked past Blakewood to where the voice had come from. Blakewood rolled his eyes and stepped back revealing Mr. Tristan Chase.

“It’s alarming how you appear in key moments,” Amelia muttered. “How did you know he was awake?”

He twirled a top hat around his finger as he perused Sam.

“I didn’t. Lucky coincidence.” His dark hair and blue eyes were startling in the dim light against his pale skin.

He had a sinister air, like a ghost. Sam recognized him from the Lyon’s Den, haunting the place, searching for leverage he could use against desperate gamblers.

Sam pinned him with what he hoped was a steely, threatening glare. “Why the devil are you in my home?”

“Mrs. Dove-Lyon sends her regards. She is thrilled every day that you exist and I’m certainly heartily overjoyed to learn that you are fully awake. Dr. Sloan? What is his progress?”

“What business is it of yours?” Sam scoffed. Lightly, because just talking was tiresome, let alone speaking forcefully.

Mr. Chase chuckled. “Not mine—Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s. She’s the one who orchestrated Dr. Sloan’s and Miss Smith’s presence to save your life. You owe her a great deal.”

The true meaning of his words washed over Sam slowly, seeping into his muddled head.

The Black Widow of White Hall, proprietress of the Lyon’s Den.

He knew she favored him more than most of the patrons of her gambling club, but she did not bestow her gifts out of goodwill.

She was a businesswoman. She orchestrated, manipulated, and negotiated with claws and teeth.

“I’ve made no bargains with her,” Sam said. He’d remember that, wouldn’t he?

Mr. Chase folded his arms, tucking a fist under his chin. “Not you, no.”

In a surge of alarm, Sam clutched his stomach as he weakly pushed himself up with his other arm.