Sam floated in darkness, swept along by the currents of an ocean so black no light could penetrate or escape. The sky was starless, the same impenetrable black; sky and ocean melded seamlessly together. Sam felt nothing—not the caress of the water nor the cool fingers of wind, nor the weight of her own body. She heard nothing, too, the utter silence deafening.

And then she heard it—the beat of a drum—soft at first, and then louder and louder until it thundered in her ears, vibrating in her skull. The waters became choppy and rough, and lightning zigzagged through the stark black of the sky. Each time lightning struck, the world flashed brilliantly white. Sam saw glimpses of faces in the white, faces she recognized and faces she did not. Shorn blond hair and a rugged jaw, colorless eyes that held more sadness than any one person had a right to, worry lines across the forehead of a beautiful young woman.

And then there was pain—unbearable, excruciating pain, worse than a hundred broken bones or a thousand seeping cuts. Her body screamed out in agony and her back arched, sharp needlepoints pricking her everywhere.

“Shhh,” came a soft, feminine voice. “Shhh, you’re alright now.” A gentle touch swept Sam’s hair behind her ears and something cool and damp was draped across her brow. Then darkness claimed her again and all was silent but for the beat of the drum.

***

Tristan ran his fingers through his hair. Over the past week, he’d run his hands through the same tract of hair so many times it was a wonder he hadn’t gone bald. “Has there been any change?” he asked the doctor.

The doctor fixed him with a scathing glare, and Tristan winced. Tristan had asked the question twenty times a day since the Uriel took over Sam’s care, and apparently the good doctor was tired of hearing it. “No change, but she’s stable. As I’ve told you before, you will be the first to know if her condition changes, Master Lyons.”

Master Lyons. Tristan still wasn’t used to his new station. He was a nobody now, a man like any other. “Thank you, Addie.”

Addie Branimir nodded distractedly. “Now get out of my sickroom. You’re in the way.”

It shouldn’t have surprised Tristan that the Uriel’s doctor was a woman—and Sander Branimir’s daughter, no less—not when his trainee was his own betrothed. Gods, what a shock that had been. He didn’t believe Braeden at first, and Sam’s face had been so bruised and bloody that it was impossible to reconcile it with the girlish countenance he remembered from his one encounter with the young Lady Samantha. But Braeden had no reason to lie to him, and as Sam began to heal, Tristan slowly started to put the puzzle pieces together.

As for Addie, she could scowl at Tristan for his constant pestering all she wanted, but he would be damned if he lost his betrothed for a second time.

Before exiting the infirmary, he took one last, lingering look at Sam’s pale face. The bruises had faded to yellow and the cuts had sealed over into thin pink lines, some of which would scar. But it was the wound below her neck that scared him—one iota closer and the High Commander’s blade would have pierced her heart. Still, a deep wound to the chest was a grave if not fatal injury, and though her breathing and heart rate were steady, Sam had yet to regain consciousness since she was wounded. Addie changed the dressing twice a day, but refused to let Tristan see what lay underneath the bandages. “A woman has to have some privacy,” she had said.

“I’m her betrothed,” Tristan had insisted, peeling back the thin sheet that covered Sam from neck to feet. Having none of it, Addie had slapped his wrist with the dull end of her lancet. “My sickroom, my rules. Get out.”

If she weren’t so hell-bent on keeping him out of her sickroom, Tristan would have liked Addie Branimir. She had a no-nonsense attitude and a compassionate bedside manner befitting a doctor. As tall as most men but built with the lush curves of a woman, she was, Tristan had to admit, breathtakingly beautiful—the kind of beauty that caused a man to lose his head and a woman to hate her on sight. Addie had inherited her father’s hazel eyes and dark red hair, though it was impossible to tell its length or texture since she wore it in a sensible bun. Her full lips and straight nose, however, must have been gifts from her mother. But she didn’t act like most beautiful women Tristan knew—Addie was far more interested in mending broken bones than in fluttering her eyelashes.

Tristan sighed. “Goodbye, Addie. I’ll check in on Sam again in an hour.”

“Please don’t,” came Addie’s muffled reply. She had disappeared into the storerooms, likely to mix some foul-tasting concoction for the next poor sap who fell under her care. “I’ll send for you if you’re needed.”

Tristan left the sickbay and climbed up the winding stairs to his temporary chambers in the Beyaz Kale. The chambers were in an unused, musty corner of the castle and the accommodations were sparse—little more than a bed and an extra pallet. Sander had apologized, explaining the room was the best he could do on short notice, but Tristan was frankly grateful to have anywhere to stay—he was unsure of the reception he would receive in Luca, despite Sander’s parting words to him.

Braeden sat on the edge of the extra pallet, pricking his fingers with a dagger. “I just came from visiting Sam,” Tristan told him.

Braeden’s eyes lifted and then returned to his fingers. “How is she?”

“The same,” said Tristan. “You haven’t visited her since you got to Luca.”

“I know.”

Braeden had always been self-contained and, Tristan thought, a little aloof, but he was even more taciturn than usual, ever since he arrived in Luca five days ago, two days after Tristan had arrived with Sam. When Tristan had asked him what had transpired with the High Commander, Braeden said, in a voice colder than the grave, “He lives.” And then he clammed up, tight-lipped and somber.

“You should visit her,” Tristan said. “I think she’d like that.”

“She’s unconscious. She wouldn’t even know,” Braeden said callously. He resumed pricking his fingers. “Besides, she has you.”

Tristan shook his head. He didn’t understand Braeden’s reluctance to see Sam—the two of them had been thick as thieves before the events at the Diamond Coast. “You should go,” Tristan urged. “You’ll regret it if you don’t. If she dies—”

The tip of Braeden’s knife drove deep into his finger. “Don’t even say that,” he hissed.

A knock came at the door, breaking the suddenly tense mood. Tristan opened it to a young castle servant. “Excuse me, Master Lyons,” said the servant. “Doc says you should come. Lady Samantha is waking.”

A tidal wave of relief washed over him. “Thank the gods,” he breathed. “Braeden, are you coming?”

Braeden averted his gaze. “I’ll stay for now.”

“Suit yourself,” said Tristan. He grasped the servant’s shoulder. “Take me to her ladyship.”

***

Sam opened her eyes to a face so beautiful it could only belong to a goddess. Idly, she wondered in which of the seven heavens she had landed. The goddess looked a great deal like Naamah, so Sam supposed she must be in her realm. Funny, Sam had always thought that when she died she would wind up in the realm of Hermod, the patron god of Haywood.

“Naamah?” Sam croaked. Why was her voice so rusty?

The goddess rolled her eyes. “Not the first time I’ve heard that one, I’m afraid,” she said in a brisk, businesslike tone. “I’m Addie Branimir, the local doctor. You gave us all quite a scare.”

So Sam wasn’t dead, then? She should have realized; she was in far too much pain to be dead. Sam blinked as the room came into focus. Stained glass windows depicting Elethia, the goddess of healers, let in soft light and color. The walls were lined by neat rows of beds, half of which were empty. The others were occupied by men and women in varying states of illness and injury. “Where am I?” Sam asked. The last thing she remembered was the High Commander’s leer as he plunged his blade into her chest. She shuddered.

“You’re in Luca, in the infirmary of the Beyaz Kale,” said Addie. “Your betrothed brought you here.”

Her betrothed? Sam glanced down at herself—she wore a woman’s chemise and her breasts were unbound. She blanched. Tristan must know.

“You’re hyperventilating,” Addie said. “You need to stay calm.”

As though the thought of his name had summoned him, Tristan burst into the infirmary. “Sam!” He ran and skidded to a stop a few feet shy of Sam’s bed. “Lady Samantha.” He bowed at the waist.

Addie rapped his knuckles. “Stop exciting my patient,” she said. “Too much excitement isn’t good for her.”

Tristan wore a contrite expression. “My sincerest apologies to both of you.” He cleared his throat nervously. “Could I talk to Sam—Lady Samantha—for a few minutes?” he asked, “alone?”

Addie narrowed her eyes at him and then nodded curtly. To Sam, she said, “If he bothers you, just yell and I’ll get rid of him.”

Briefly, Sam considered pretending to fall back unconscious, but Addie was a doctor and would see right through her ploy. “It will be fine,” Sam said weakly. Except it wouldn’t be—after months of deceit, she finally had to pay for her lies. Gods, Tristan must hate her. How could he not?

“Okay, then,” said Addie. She tugged on tasseled drawstrings, enclosing Sam’s bed in a maroon velvet curtain. “If you feel faint or the pain worsens, call for me.” Addie ducked out through a gap in the curtain, leaving Sam alone with Tristan.

Sam squeezed her eyes shut, bracing for a diatribe of accusations and insults. When none came, Sam cracked open a lid.

Tristan bent down on one knee and clasped her hands in his. “Lady Samantha Haywood,” he said. “Would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?"