Page 12 of To Steal a Lyon’s Heart (The Lyon’s Den Connected World #85)

T rue to his word, Blakewood delivered Sam’s correspondence and then hurried off to tend to his own responsibilities running his father’s business.

Sam’s mood lifted as he sifted through the letters. This was exactly what he needed—purpose. To feel like he had some portion of his life within his control and something to look at other than these four walls and the same faces. Sam opened the first letter, one from a tenant in Wiltshire.

He worked steadily for two hours until his vision blurred and his head hurt, but he’d done a good deal of work. He passed his replies to Petrov to post, then lay back and covered his eyes with his hand.

“Are you hungry?” Miss Smith asked.

“Yes, but give me a moment to rest my eyes.” Sleep pulled at him, but he resisted. He did not want to slip back into his nightmares.

“I’ll ring for a tray. Anything particular?”

“Cake and coffee,” Sam murmured, picturing a fat wedge of chocolate cake.

“I don’t think cake is approved.”

“Cake is approved because I said I want cake,” Sam muttered with a wince. “And some headache powder.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Several hours later Sam jerked awake, his room shrouded in darkness. He was flat on his back, the coverlet up to his neck. He searched the room through bleary vision and a heavy head. Someone approached him from the shadows and his heart leapt.

That woman, that bloody ghostly woman.

He’d been dreaming of her again, holding him down while he’d bled everywhere.

“Stay back!” Sam yelled.

The figure paused. “My lord?”

Relief washed over him. It was only Petrov. Sam rubbed at his dry eyes. “Forgive me, I thought I was still dreaming. How long have a I been asleep?”

Petrov approached and turned up the oil lamp at Sam’s nightstand. “It’s near eleven.”

Bollocks, he’d slept through the day. Did that mean something was wrong? He should be getting better. Maybe Blakewood was right and even the strain of reading and writing correspondence was too taxing. Bloody hell, that was depressing. He couldn’t write a damn letter without injury.

“Why are you still awake?” Sam asked.

“You were restless in your sleep. Miss Smith almost wouldn’t leave with Mr. Chase, but I assured her I would stay by your side.”

Sam rolled to his side to sit up. His stomach felt hollow with hunger. “I missed dinner with Blakewood, Amelia, and Miss Blakewood.”

“I’ll make something if you’re hungry.”

“Thank you,” Sam said. Petrov left and, though Sam’s eyelids were still heavy, he would not close them.

The room was too still, the shadows longer and darker than they ought to be.

It was like his nightmare wanted to stay with him while he was awake, to make itself the only world he knew.

The place where he was defenseless and weak.

Petrov returned with a cold beef sandwich, a slice of cake, and a dram of whisky.

“Bless you, Petrov,” Sam said, eyeing the glass.

His valet chuckled. “It will be our secret. You sounded as though you needed a wee bit. You look stronger every day, my lord.”

Sam took a bite of his sandwich and swallowed before answering. “Was I talking in my sleep?”

“Aye, my lord. You were crying out for help.”

The words chilled him. In his dreams his voice was so small no one could hear him.

“I don’t remember why,” Sam lied. He finished his sandwich and then the cake. He picked up the tumbler with reverence, savoring each sip as the honey-smoothed fire breathed life into him. He set it down and sighed with relief.

“Will you go back to sleep now?” Petrov asked.

“Maybe.” Another lie. “But I’d like to read for a little while. Will you build up the fire?”

“Yes, my lord.”

After Petrov left, Sam did try to read, but his eyes would not focus on the small print of the page.

Sam set the book aside and sighed in frustration.

He needed something to occupy his mind, to shift his thoughts away from that bloody nightmare.

He looked around, but nothing was in immediate reach, not even his bellpull.

Blast it, he should have a bell or something.

He caught site of his deck of cards, sitting on the far corner of his nightstand.

It would be a stretch, and it might bloody hurt, but he could reach them if he tried.

Sam gritted his teeth and scooted to the edge of the bed.

He tucked his left arm in, bracing himself for the pain and reached with his right.

His fingers stretched toward the cards, the tips nearly touching.

He let out a stream of curses as he reached, his abdomen tightening, the skin around his scar stinging.

He sucked in a swift breath and pushed himself further.

He blinked as he had a strange feeling of suspension before his muddied thoughts caught up and he realized he now teetered on the edge of the bed.

Sam grabbed to the nightstand to stop himself, but it was too late, his muscles too weak. He rolled over the side and slammed to the floor. His body seized with pain, as if lightning had struck him. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.