Page 10 of To Steal a Lyon’s Heart (The Lyon’s Den Connected World #85)

Three days later

S am’s mood was already bleak when he awoke.

He had a recurring nightmare plaguing him when he slept.

In this dream he was in his bed and there was blood everywhere.

He was surrounded by people: Amelia, Blakewood, even the widow, Mrs. Dove-Lyon.

They stood at his bedside talking over him while he remained frozen, unable to move or speak.

Then another figure would appear, veiled in black like Mrs. Dove-Lyon, with a priest at her side.

Everyone else would fade except the veiled woman and the priest. The priest would then begin to recite the marriage vows, and the woman would reach for his hand with bone fingers, her touch as cold as ice.

His unknown bride, the stranger he was obligated to marry, was death itself.

Sam would jerk awake and then spend hours staring at the shadows of his room, waiting for the specter of his bride to step out.

It was foolish. He wasn’t a child who feared the dark anymore, but all the same, he couldn’t shake the ominous feeling he got when he thought of the contract and the unknown woman.

A hollowness spread through his chest. He did everything he could to not think about that woman, whoever she was, and focus on the present, but it was difficult when he couldn’t get out of his bed.

He needed distraction, he needed something meaningful to do instead of waiting for a future he didn’t want to come.

More importantly, he needed to find a way to get out of the contract, but to do that, he had to get his strength back and get out of this bed without anyone knowing.

In the light of morning, he could always think more clearly.

Today was a new day, and with the ghost of that nightmare still haunting his mind, he was determined to enact his plan of getting stronger in secret.

He’d anticipated seeing Miss Blakewood yesterday.

Her letter had charmed him, and he was eager to hear more of her travels.

He hadn’t written to her again to let her rest and recuperate, but Sam was growing worried despite Miss Smith’s assurances that she was only mildly ill.

Miss Smith cleared his breakfast tray while Petrov finished stirring his shaving soap. He tucked a towel around Sam’s neck and lathered up his face. Sam tipped his head back and stared up at this canopy.

Bloody hell, he wished he had something better to look at.

Maybe he should commission an artist to paint something on the cloth.

Or Petrov could have one of the footmen rig a tapestry above him.

Something naughty to entertain him while he was shackled here by his weak legs. Naked nymphs frolicking in a meadow?

Heavy footsteps entered the room. Measured, flat, sturdy practical boots. Sam didn’t have to look to know Blakewood was there.

“How is Miss Blakewood feeling this morning?” Sam asked.

A chair slid over the rug, and Blakewood sat. “Much better. Amelia is taking her for a walk in the park. How are you feeling this morning?”

Sam held still as Petrov started on the other side of his face, then paused so Sam could respond. It was a complicated question that Sam couldn’t answer. Scared, angry, helpless. What was he supposed to say that wouldn’t cause them to worry?

“Fine.”

“Fine? Is that all?” Blakewood asked with wariness.

“How am I supposed to feel? Put yourself in my boots. Boots that I can’t wear because my legs are weaker than bread loaves.

I’m not allowed to move. I’m not allowed to drink whisky.

I’m not allowed to leave this room. I’m not even allowed to perform my duties.

Do you see the problem?” Sam ground his teeth, closing his eyes as his anger seethed in swells of fire in his belly.

“Who’s been overseeing the ledgers, answering my correspondence, and monitoring my investments? ”

“Amelia and I have—”

Sam groaned. “I am capable of managing those for myself. They don’t require legs.”

Blakewood remained silent for a moment. “You need rest. That includes not engaging in mental strain as well as physical.”

Sam didn’t respond while Petrov finished his shave. As soon as the blade lifted, Sam wiped his face. He gritted his teeth as he sat up, hugging his arm to his battered rib.

“I’m restless, Blakewood. I woke from the clutches of death incapable of even feeding myself.

I’m being forced to marry a strange woman.

My sister’s reputation is shattered, and I can’t even help her.

I can’t move, breathe, or piss without someone’s assistance.

Do you know what that does to a man’s pride?

I am unable to even rest properly when it feels like I’ve lost control of everything. ”

Blakewood held his stare.

“I happen to concur with his lordship,” Dr. Sloan said as he entered. “He is unduly restless because of his state of ennui.”

Without taking his gaze from Blakewood, Sam jabbed a finger in Sloan’s direction for emphasis.

Blakewood dropped his gaze. “I’ll talk to Amelia.”

Sam folded his arms. “You claim to want to help me, but you’re not listening to what I need. Why would Amelia understand my needs better than I?”

“What is it you need?” Blakewood asked.

His throat tightened as his nightmare came back to him. He was lying on the bed, dying, frozen with fear. He was helpless to fight, to yell. He’d never felt like this. Not even as a boy when illness took his father and an earldom was thrust upon his shoulders.

Sam cleared his throat. “I need to feel like I’m not powerless.”

Blakewood searched his face. “How can I do that for you?”

He couldn’t ask for what he truly wanted, which was to break the contract, not when it put Amelia at risk. Nor could he ask Blakewood to help him get stronger behind Amelia’s back. He wouldn’t put his friend in that position.

“Collect my ledgers and correspondence. It’s time I resumed my duties. I’ve been running the Alston estate since I came of age. I can do it from my bed chamber just as easily as from my study.”

“Alston . . .”

Sam held Blakewood’s stair, grinding his teeth in frustration.

“You asked me what I needed. I need this. I need to feel like a man. Like myself. Look at me, Blakewood—I’m pathetic.

You might not want to admit you agree, but deep down you do, and that is why you and Amelia are coddling me like I’m still hovering on the edge of death. ”

Blakewood ran a hand through his hair and sighed heavily. “You’re right. I’m sorry. We just want you to get better.”

“I know. So do I.”

Blakewood stood and walked toward the door but hesitated. He pivoted to face Sam. “But I want you to promise me that if you do need help, you won’t be too stubborn to ask for it. Needing help doesn’t make you weak. Shall we all dine together tonight?”

Sam nodded. “That would be nice. I can hardly remember what your sister looks like. How old is she?”

Blakewood smirked. “She is nineteen. She hasn’t changed much since you last saw her two years ago. I’ll return shortly.”

Petrov gathered the remaining supplies, watching Sam with a frown. “Their concerns come from their hearts.”

“I know. I don’t fault them for loving me.

It’s Amelia’s fear that is ruling her decisions, and Blakewood follows her lead because that is what a good husband does.

She can’t think rationally where I’m concerned, but I can’t let that stop me.

I know in time my body will heal, but this bloody bargain.

..” Sam rubbed a hand over his freshly shaven jaw, pinching his bottom lip in aggravation.

“This is a wound that will never close. I can’t help but feel betrayed.

Like I’ve lost something I held so dear without even knowing how much I wanted it.

I don’t even know this woman and yet I resent her already. ”

The clatter of books hitting the floor filled the room. Sam and Petrov turned their heads to where Miss Smith kneeled to pick up the books, her face beet red.

“I’m sorry, my lord.” She had two small trunks in front of her.

“What are those books you’re packing?” Sam asked.

“My medical texts,” Dr. Sloan answered from Sam’s desk. “It’s time I left. There’s nothing more I can do for you. I’ll return periodically to note your progress, but I must return to my students.”

Sam blinked at him in surprise. “I’m barely out of this bed and you’re leaving? Amelia won’t have it.”

Dr. Sloan shrugged. “Dr. Bradley will resume his duties. Now that the surgery is healed, he can oversee the remainder of your care. Rib fractures are too banal for my expertise.”

Banal? Sam would have laughed but it would hurt too much. “What about my weakness? The dizziness?”

“Again, not my forte. I cut things open and close them up. I’d greatly appreciate if you would journal your continued recovery for me.” He approached and handed Sam a leather-bound journal.

Sam flipped it open to the first blank white page. “What am I supposed to write?”

“Anything related to your physical body.”

“Such as?”

Dr. Sloan shrugged again, and Sam rolled his eyes.

“Dr. Bradley will be of help.”

Sam sobered and considered Dr. Sloan. Even he had to admit that the physician’s presence was a comfort on some level, but this was good. If Dr. Sloan was comfortable leaving, it meant Sam was one step closer to full health.

“Thank you for saving my life.” He didn’t think he’d miss the odd doctor, but they would always be connected.

Dr. Sloan nodded. “Thank you for providing the opportunity. You’ve changed medicine for the better.”

At least he’d done something beneficial in all this time spent on his back. “I’d like to continue to help.”

“I’m not certain you’d survive a second time.”

Sam smiled. “I mean financially. I’d like to invest in your work, Dr. Sloan.”

Dr. Sloan almost smiled. His eyes brightened. “Your patronage would be most welcome, my lord. I look forward to seeing you return to full health.”