Page 8 of To Steal a Lyon’s Heart (The Lyon’s Den Connected World #85)

A surgeon, Dr. Sloan, repaired my internal injury.

I am a medical marvel, he says. I will be featured in textbooks and medical histories.

Though his stitching is rather sloppy. He could have used your expert talent with a needle.

Dr. Sloan is residing here to document my recovery.

If you see a tall, dark-haired man lurking in the halls, avoid him.

If you see a short, dark-haired man lurking in the halls, avoid him as well.

They are not dangerous, but they are exceedingly strange and arrogant. Spare yourself.

Come and sit with me if you feel so inclined. As I remain abed and bored to near death, you may as well dazzle me with your sewing mastery.

Alston

“Sand and deliver this, will you, Petrov? I’ll need a clean shirt and breeches when you return,” Sam said.

“Of course, my lord.” Petrov left to deliver Sam’s letter.

“Bollocks, I want to stand to piss,” Sam muttered to himself.

Miss Smith jumped to fetch the shallow pot.

Blast it. He didn’t think she’d heard him. “No, I want to stand. I need to move, however limited I may be, or my limbs will forget how to do so.”

Miss Smith looked around, but Petrov was gone, which meant Miss Smith was left alone to help him. Which would have been fine if she didn’t seem to tremble every time at the very idea of touching him.

Sam sighed. “I’ll wait. No need to have an apoplexy.”

She fisted her hands, and her shoulders straightened. “It’s my job.”

“It is obvious it bothers you.”

“It shouldn’t. I am a nurse. I’ve tended to many wounded people—men, women, and children.”

“When was that?” Sam asked.

She met his gaze for half a second before looking away. “Before. Where I used to live.”

Sam raised a brow and did not ask any more questions. This girl was evasive, and she likely had a reason. An awful reason if her reticence was anything to go by.

“Take the tray and then put the pot on the floor.”

She did so.

Sam circled his ankles, his joints popping. “Do you hear that? I’m turning to stone.”

“It is wise to take caution after all you’ve experienced, my lord.”

His pulse increased as he moved one leg toward the edge, then the other. His feet now hung off the bed. All that was left to do was slide to the floor, but he did not trust his knees to hold him.

Bloody hell, this was as bad as when he’d stood to get to the bathtub.

And that was unacceptable. He needed to regain his strength, and he’d have to do it alone as long as everyone followed Amelia’s orders and ignored his.

His anger surged as he scooted forward, and his toes and then heels touched the carpet.

Tingles shot through his feet, and he gasped.

“My lord?” Smith asked in worry, raising her hands as if she could catch him.

“It’s fine.” What wasn’t fine was the single blanket he held over his lap. He’d need both hands to steady himself.

“You may want to turn away now.”

She frowned, never moving her gaze from his feet. “I should help you.”

“And yet I don’t want you to. Not in this state of undress.”

“My lord, it is part of my duties.”

Sam bit back a groan. “Smith—forgive me, Miss Smith—I suspect none of your previous patients have looked quite so stunning as I.”

Her cheeks filled with color. She lifted her gaze to his, her eyes stern. “This is my job.”

He raised a brow. “So, you do have some spirit?”

She frowned. “Am I making you uncomfortable?”

“You are.”

“H-how?” she sputtered.

“You seem frightened. That makes me feel like I’m doing something wrong, and the last thing I would ever do is hurt a woman.”

She swallowed. Something painful and sad washed over her face. “I know. You are not like other men I’ve known.”

His heart pounded as a swell of protective, brotherly rage swept through him. Someone had hurt this young woman, and he badly wanted to thrash them.

“Thank you, but that doesn’t solve our problem now.”

“I will not leave you and risk further injury, my lord. I have my instructions from both your sister and Dr. Sloan.”

Sam rolled his eyes. He could feel a blush climbing the back of his neck. He’d never been embarrassed to be naked in front of a woman, but he’d never been this pitiful, either.

“Fine. Fetch the changing screen and bring it here.” He would not attempt a step. Not if there was a chance he’d crumple to the floor, and poor Miss Smith would have to help him up.

She struggled a bit, but she brought it over to him and spread the screen in a semicircle around him. Sam dropped the blanket on the bed, put a hand on the screen for balance and took care of his needs then he covered himself again.

“I’m done.”

She folded the screen closed and put it back. If she was determined, who was he to stifle her courage?

“Can you help me put on a shirt?” he asked.

She nodded, her mouth set in a line. She fetched the shirt, and Sam raised his right arm, his pain minimal.

But then he tried to raise his left arm.

He couldn’t lift his arm higher than his shoulder without the muscles around his ribcage screaming.

A string of curses left his mouth before he registered Miss Smith’s silence.

“Forgive me.”

“’Tis fine, my lord. How about we start with your left arm rather than your right?” She tugged his shirt off his head and carefully slid his left arm into the sleeve and over his head.

Sam was breathing hard, which worsened his pain, but it worked. His shirt was on. He was almost decent.

“Now my breeches, or we can wait for Petrov.”

“Unnecessary.” She was firmly focused now. She collected a soft pair of breeches and removed the chamber pot. She dropped to her knees before him. From Sam’s vantage point he could see the tips of her ears were bright red, but she held his breeches open for him to slide his feet into.

“Once they reach my knees, I can manage.”

She started to shake her head.

“I’m not an infant. Please allow me the dignity of pulling on my own breeches.”

She sighed in response and stopped at his knees. She turned away, and Sam carefully and slowly got his breeches under his arse and fastened them.

His clothing felt... heavy. He was tired already, and the pain in his side was growing.

“I’ll give you a thousand pounds to fetch me a glass of whisky.”

She cast a sidelong glance at him. “No.”

“Then a chair at least.”

She dragged a chair over. Sam stared at the wooden frame and leather seat.

He reached for the back of the chair to steady himself and then cursed for reaching with his left arm like an idiot.

He clutched his arm to his side and reached with his right, gripping the back, standing, and then turning to sit.

The room spun, sparkles filling his vision, but it settled, and he took a shallow breath of relief. “This feels good.” He decided then to wait a little longer before taking the laudanum he’d set aside.

She moved to stand in front of him and bent close, her eyes darting back and forth between his.

“No dizziness?”

“Only for a moment.”

“Good. Water?”

“Tea, please.”

Petrov returned and was startled as he caught sight of Sam sitting in the chair.

“Miss Smith assisted me,” Sam said.

“But—”

“She’s a nurse. She allowed it,” Sam said, defensively.

Her lips twitched as she handed him a cup of tea, and Sam considered that small, almost-smile a gift.

This woman clearly lacked joy. Her story—even just the little glimpses of it he’d seen in their one conversation—was most certainly tragic.

Whatever that story may be, it wasn’t his business, but he would tread carefully, and hopefully, she’d grow more comfortable.