Page 3 of To Steal a Lyon’s Heart (The Lyon’s Den Connected World #85)

S am woke the next morning as Petrov delivered his breakfast. After taking the broth twice yesterday, Dr. Sloan had promised him solid food today. Sam scraped his scaly tongue over his teeth. He couldn’t get enough water, but when he took more than a few sips, he grew nauseous.

“My lord, did you sleep well?”

“Well enough,” Sam replied. In truth, all he wanted to do was sleep, and yet every time he closed his eyes, panic that he wouldn’t open them again gripped him.

He fought the exhaustion as much as he could, but it was futile.

He was given laudanum for his pain and the medicine quickly put him into a drugged sleep.

He hated how muddled his head was with the laudanum, but his whole body ached from the roots of his hair to his toenails—he couldn’t really do without it yet.

“You look better than yesterday,” Petrov said. “I’d wager you’ll feel like a new man with a stomach full of eggs.” Petrov slid his arm under Sam’s back and nudged him forward, stuffing pillows behind him so he could sit up to eat.

Sam gritted his teeth. The tight scar pulled, and his back screamed with the movement. The room spun as his new orientation settled, and then he could see straight once more.

“Bloody hell, who knew lying still could be so detrimental to one’s health? I will go mad, Petrov, just you watch.”

Dr. Sloan strolled in. “Eat slowly.”

“Yes, doctor.” Sam saluted him. The doctor was an odd man, but his straightforward demeanor soothing in a way. There was no fuss, no exhausting emotions to wade through with him. His presence didn’t tax Sam’s energy.

Dr. Sloan sat and opened his books. He scanned Sam’s plate of food and made notes. Sam downed a full glass of water before taking his first bite, which might have been a mistake. The deluge hit his stomach, and it rumbled angrily.

“What happens if cast up my accounts?” Sam asked Dr. Sloan.

“We’ll find out only if you do.”

Sam took a small bite of toast and chewed slowly. His stomach settled and Sam ate at a slow and steady pace. With more than half his food still left on the plate he was full.

“I was dizzy for a spell when I sat up. What does that mean?” Sam asked.

Dr. Sloan set down his quill. “Dizziness is the least of your worries.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

Dr. Sloan stood and approached. Petrov set the tray aside, and Dr. Sloan lifted the coverlet, exposing Sam’s bare upper body to the chill room.

Sam could hardly look at the vicious scar without gagging, but he made himself do it. He’d be seeing it for the rest of his life.

“Have I not been clear?” Dr. Sloan asked.

“Everything you do is the first time it’s being done.

There are no expectations here. This is a new frontier for both of us.

” Dr. Sloan pressed his fingers along the scar.

Sam sucked in a breath. The pain burst to life, but as Dr. Sloan’s fingers moved lower, it faded.

“Why does it hurt at the top and not lower?”

Dr. Sloan cocked his head sideways, reminding Sam of a raven.

“Your bleeding injury is healed. Your fractured rib is still healing. Ribs take at minimum six weeks to heal properly. There is nothing to be done for it but rest.”

Sam scowled at his scar. “You call that healed?”

Dr. Sloan chuckled. “Scars fade with time. Every time you look at that scar, remember that you are the first man to survive an open abdominal surgery. That scar is history in the making.”

Sam wanted to scoff but worried the action could hurt. “Surgery is not so unheard of.”

“’Tis not the surgery itself that I’m speaking of.

I’ve cut many bodies open and I’m hardly the first to attempt such a feat.

The marvel is that you survived. It’s no impressive feat to cut a person open, remove a tumor or a fragment of bullet—what have you.

But keeping them alive? During and afterward? That is the real challenge, my lord.”

Sam eased back against his pillows with a heavy sigh. “I’ll try to remember that when my lovers faint at the sight of me.”

“I’ll update your sister on this morning’s progress, unless you’d prefer otherwise.”

“No. You may tell her. If she doesn’t know what’s going on, she’ll claw through the wall to get to me.”

“Something to be grateful for.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “I know. But it’s hard to feel grateful now. Yes, I’m alive, but there was a steep price.”

“The scar or the marriage?” Dr. Sloan asked.

“Can’t it be both?”

“It can, though I’d rather be scarred than married.”

“It’s not marriage itself,” Sam clarified. “It’s the idea of not having the choice in who I marry. She is a stranger to me.”

“I suspect many women feel the same.”

Sam closed his eyes. “Are you calling me a hypocrite?”

“Did I say those words?”

Sam glared at the doctor. He was right, though.

But Sam couldn’t shake this sullen mood.

Which was half the reason he wanted to be alone.

He was an ungrateful arse. Angry at his pain, his weakness, his helplessness, at the terror that lingered just under the surface of his consciousness.

He tried to ignore it, but he could feel it there, looming in his mind, his thoughts, the dreams he couldn’t remember.

Petrov was setting up supplies to bathe and shave Sam. He could feel the salty brine on his skin. Daily wiping with a cloth kept him from smelling, but he would rather have a bath—a steaming hot bath—to wash away this melancholy.

“Can’t I bathe properly?” he asked.

Petrov halted and turned toward the doctor. “Can my lord have a bath?”

Dr. Sloan didn’t turn away from his book. “With assistance, yes.”

Sam raised his brows at Petrov.

“I shall ring for water.”

Sam was nothing short of giddy. Almost the first positive emotion he’d felt since waking. Perhaps he wasn’t turning into a curmudgeon—perhaps he just needed to be clean.

But when the first footman tried to enter with a pail of steaming water, Amelia was right on his heels.

“What the devil are you doing?” Amelia demanded.

“Trying to have peace and a bath. Neither of which should include you. Where is your husband?”

“Dr. Sloan, is this advisable?” Amelia asked from the doorway.

Dr. Sloan shrugged from Sam’s desk, appearing entirely used to Amelia’s interference. “I don’t see why not.”

“You said we had to worry about infection,” Amelia pressed.

“He’s well enough now. The skin is healed.”

Her mouth dropped open. “‘Well enough’ is not satisfactory for my brother.”

Sam sighed heavily, hitching slightly at his rib pain. “Amelia, I want a bath, and I will have one. Someone fetch Blakewood to manage his wife.”

She glared at him. “He isn’t here.”

“Where the devil is he?”

“Meeting with your new man of business. Mr. Crest was let go for aiding our enemies.”

Sam ground is teeth. “Let me have a damn bath.” He winced. He didn’t need her damn permission. “Amelia, leave me, please. I don’t want to argue. I just want to feel clean.”

Her eyes watered. She turned toward Dr. Sloan. “Could a bath hurt him?”

Sam narrowed his eyes at her. “I’m sitting right here and can decide that for myself. Do you think I’m incapable of making simple decisions now?”

Dr. Sloan looked between them, then addressed Amelia. “I don’t see how, other than him being weak, but I told him—”

“There, you’re too weak to leave the bed,” Amelia said. “You could drown in the bath.”

Sam fisted his hands in the sheet. He could feel his face turning hot. “I won’t drown in two feet of water, you over-bearing frog wart.”

She glared at him. “I won’t give you the opportunity, you knob-headed boil.”

“Leave, Amelia. Or so help me, I’ll stand from the bed, naked as the day we were born, and you’ll want to pluck out your own eyes.”

She folded her arms and smiled in challenge. “Try. I’m quite familiar with male nudity now.”

Sam growled. He actually growled, and if Blakewood were within strangling distance, Sam would have his hand around his throat. Married or not, he did not want that knowledge floating about his brain. He flipped back the sheet, and just as he suspected, she yelped and turned away.

“You’re impossible!” she cried.

“A trait we share. Get out,” Sam said as she left his room and shut the door.

Sam replaced his sheet and while a parade of footmen entered and retreated, depositing bucket after bucket of hot water until the tub was full.

Petrov had also moved the tub closer to the bed instead of placing it before the hearth.

Sam’s bath wouldn’t be as warm, but he’d have less distance to travel and at least he’d feel cleaner.

Wafts of steam and the scent of peppermint rose from the water.

Sam tried to shift his legs toward the edge of his bed, but they felt weighted with lead.

Blast this weakness. He was as thin as a starved chimney sweep.

His heart pounded from the effort, like he’d sprinted up the stairs.

Every breath stretched his scar, each painful stab reminding him of his vulnerability.

“Petrov, help me. I’m as weak as a babe.”

Dr. Sloan didn’t bother to help as Petrov assisted Sam.

Sam’s knees wobbled and his head went light.

Sparks of light filled his vision as the room tilted.

Sam gritted his teeth, his breathing labored, and his blasted rib screamed as he hobbled the few steps to the tub.

By the time he lifted his leg and sank down into the soothing water, he was depleted of all strength.

Devil take it, Amelia was right. He was pitifully helpless and might have drowned in this bath if the tub were bigger and deeper.

Normally he washed himself, too proud to let Petrov coddle him like a baby, but right now the pain in his side would not let him lift his left arm. Petrov didn’t have to ask. He lathered up Sam’s hair and face, while Sam closed his eyes.