One of the lost wrecks of 1733 was here. And she had found it.
She let out a shout that did nothing more than spray bubbles that blurred her vision. Remembering herself, she slipped her knife from its sheath and rapped sharply on her tank.
Turning a circle, she saw the shadow of her partner yards away. She thought he was signaling, and impatient, rapped again.
Come here, damn it.
She rapped a third time, putting as much insistence as she could manage into the one-toned signal. With satisfaction, and the beginnings of smugness, she watched him cut through the water toward her.
Be as irritated as you like, hotshot, she thought. And prepared to be humbled.
She could see the moment he recognized the stones, the slight hesitation in rhythm, then the quickening of pace. Unable to help herself, she grinned at him and attempted a watery pirouette.
Behind his face mask his eyes were blue as cobalt, intense, with a recklessness that had her heart thudding hard in response. He circled the pile once, apparently satisfied. When he took her hand, Tate gave his fingers a quick, friendly squeeze. She expected they would surface, announce her discovery, but he tugged her back in the direction from where he’d come.
She pulled back, shaking her head, jerking her thumb up. Matthew pointed west. Tate rolled her eyes, gestured back toward the ballast pile and started to kick toward the surface.
Matthew grabbed her ankle, shocking her with the familiar way his hands worked up her leg as he drew her back down. She considered swinging at him, but he had her arm again and was towing her.
It left her no choice but to go along, and to imagine all the vicious things she would say to him once she could speak.
Then she saw and her mouth fell open in reaction. She readjusted her mouthpiece, remembered to breathe and stared at the cannons.
They were corroded, covered with sea life and half buried in the sand. But they were there, the great guns that had once graced the Spanish fleet, defended it against pirates and enemies of the king. She could have wept for the joy of it.
Instead, she grabbed Matthew in a clumsy hug and spun him around in what passed for a victory dance. Water swirled around them, and a school of silver fish cut around them like blades. Their face masks bumped, and she bubbled out a giggle, still holding on to him as they kicked toward the surface forty feet above.
The moment they broke through, she pushed back her face mask, let her mouthpiece drop. “Matthew, you saw it. It’s really there.”
“Seems to be.”
“We’re the first to find it. After more than two hundred and fifty years, we’re the first.”
His grin flashed, his legs tangling with hers as they tread water. “A virgin wreck. And it’s all ours, Red.”
“I can’t believe it. It’s nothing like the other times. Someone else had always been there first, and we just puttered around what they’d overlooked or left behind. But this . . .” She tossed back her head and laughed. “Oh God. It feels wonderful. Enormous.”
With another laugh, she threw her arms around him, nearly sinking them both, and pressed her lips to his in an innocent kiss of delight.
Her lips were wet and cool and curved. The shock of them against his blanked his mind for a full three heartbeats. He wasn’t fully aware that he tugged her lips apart with his teeth, slipped his tongue into her mouth to taste, that he changed the kiss from innocent to hungry.
He felt her breath hitch, and her lips soften. Then heard her low, catchy sigh.
Mistake. The word flashed like neon in his brain. But she was pouring herself into the kiss now, in a surrender as irresistible as it was unexpected.
She tasted salt and sea and man, and wondered if anyone had ever sampled such potent flavors all at once. Sun-showered golden light, diamonds of it dancing on the water; the water cool and soft and seductive. She thought her heart had stopped, but it didn’t seem to matter. Nothing mattered in this strange and lovely world but the taste and feel of his mouth.
Then she was cut loose and floundering, the door to that fascinating world slamming shut in her face. She kicked instinctively to keep her head above water and blinked at Matthew with huge, dreamy eyes.
“We’re wasting time.” He snapped it at her and cursed himself. When she pressed her lips together as if to recapture the kiss, he bit back a groan and cursed her.
“What?”
“Snap out of it. Somebody your age has been kissed before.”
The hard edge of his voice and the insult beneath it cut away the mists. “Of course I have. It was just a gesture of congratulations.” That shouldn’t have left this hollow sensation in the pit of her stomach.
“Well, save it. We’ve got to tell the others and put out markers.”
“Fine.” She headed toward the boat with a quick, efficient crawl. “I don’t see what you’re so mad about.”
“You wouldn’t,” Matthew muttered and started after her.
Determined not to let him spoil the most exciting day of her life, Tate clambered onto the boat.
Marla was sitting under the awning giving herself a manicure. One hand was already tipped with bright-salmon pink. She looked over with a smile. “You’re early, honey. We didn’t expect you up for another hour or so.”
“Where are Dad and Buck?”
“In the pilothouse, studying that old map again.” Marla’s smile began to crumble at the edges. “Something’s wrong. Matthew.” She scrambled out of her chair, panic darting out of her eyes. Her secret, never-voiced fear of sharks clawed at her throat. “Is he hurt? What happened?”
“He’s fine.” Tate unhooked her weight belt. “He’s right behind me.” She heard his flippers hit the deck, but didn’t turn to offer him a hand up. Instead she took a deep breath. “Nothing’s wrong, Mom. Nothing at all. Everything’s great. We found it.”
Marla had hurried over to the rail to make certain of Matthew’s safety. Her heartbeat began to level again when she saw him whole and unharmed. “Found what, honey?”
“The wreck.” Tate passed a hand over her face, stunned to see her fingers were trembling. There was a roaring in her ears, a flutter in her chest. “One of them. We found it.”
“Christ Jesus.” Buck stood at the door to the deckhouse. His normally ruddy face was pale, the eyes behind his lenses stunned. “Which one?” he said in a strained voice. “Which one did you find, boy?”
“Can’t say.” Matthew shrugged off his tanks. His pulse was scrambling fast, but he knew it had as much to do with the fact he’d nearly devoured Tate as it did with the possibilities of treasure. “But she’s down there, Buck. We found ballast, galleon ballast, and cannon.” He looked beyond Buck to where Ray stood, goggling. “The other spot was a bounce site, like I figured. But this site has real possibilities.”
“What—” Ray had to clear his throat. “What was the position, Tate?”
She opened her mouth, closed it again when she realized she’d been too enthralled to mark it. A flush bloomed on her cheeks.
Matthew glanced at her, offered a thin, superior smile before giving Ray the coordinates. “We’ll need to put out marker buoys. You guys want to suit up, I’ll show you what we have.” Then he grinned. “I’d say we’re going to put that nice new airlift of yours to use, Ray.”
“Yeah.” Ray looked at Buck. His dazed expression began to clear. “I’d say you’re right.” With a whoop he grabbed Buck. The two men hugged, rocking like drunks.
They needed a plan. It was Tate who, after the noisy celebration that night, offered the voice of reason. A system was required in order to salvage the wreck, and preserve it. Their claim had to be staked legally, and concretely. And the artifacts had to be precisely catalogued.
They needed a good underwater camera to record the sight and the position of artifacts they uncovered, several good notebooks to use for cataloguing. Slates and graphite pencils for sketching under water.
“Used to be,” Buck began as he helped himself to anoth
er beer, “a man found a wreck, and all it held was his—long as he could hold off pirates and claim jumpers. You had to be cagey, know how to keep your mouth shut, and be willing to fight for what was yours.”
His words slurred a bit as he gestured with his bottle. “Now there’s rules and regulations, and every bloody body wants a piece of what you find with your own work and God-given luck. And there’s plenty who’re more worried about some planks of worm-eaten timber than about a mother lode of silver.”
“The historical integrity of a wreck’s important, Buck.” Ray cruised on his own beer, and the possibilities. “It’s historical value, our responsibility to the past, and the future.”
“Shit.” Buck lighted one of the ten cigarettes he permitted himself a day. “Time was we blew her to kingdom come if that’s what it took to get to the mother lode. Not saying it was smart.” He chuffed out smoke, and his eyes grew dim with memory. “But it sure as hell was fun.”
“We haven’t any right to destroy something to get to something else,” Tate murmured.
Buck glanced over at Tate, grinned. “Wait, girl, till you get a taste of gold fever. It does something to you. You see that glint come out of the sand. It’s shiny and bright, not like silver. Could be a coin, a chain, a medallion, some trinket a long-dead man gave his long-dead woman. There it is, in your hand, true as the day it was made. And all you can think about is more.”
Curious, she tilted her head. “Is that why you keep going down? If you found all the treasure the Isabella and Santa Marguerite held—if you found it all and were rich, would you still go down for more?”
“I’ll go down till I die. It’s all I know. All I need to. Your father was like that,” he added, gesturing to Matthew. “Whether he struck the mother lode or came back with nothing but a cannonball, he had to go down again. Dying stopped him. That was all that could.” His voice roughened as he looked down at his beer again. “He wanted the Isabella. Spent the last months he lived figuring how and where and when. Now we’ll harvest her for him. Angelique’s Curse.”
“What?” Ray’s brows drew together. “Angelique’s Curse?”
“Killed my brother,” Buck said blearily. “Damn witch’s spell.”
Recognizing the signs, Matthew leaned forward, plucked the nearly empty beer from his uncle’s fingers. “A man killed him, Buck. A flesh-and-blood man. No curse, no spell.” Rising, he hauled Buck to his feet. “He gets maudlin when he drinks too much,” he explained. “Next he’ll be talking about Blackbeard’s ghost.”
“Saw it,” Buck mumbled around a foolish smile. His glasses slid down his nose so that he peered myopically over them. “Thought I did. Off the coast of Ocracoke. Remember that, Matthew?”
“Sure, I remember. We’ve got a long day ahead of us. Better get back to the boat.”
“Want some help?” Ray rose, was surprised, and a little chagrined to discover he wasn’t entirely steady on his feet.
“I can manage. I’ll just pour him into the inflatable, row him across. Thanks for dinner, Marla. Never in my life tasted fried chicken to match yours. Be ready at dawn, kid,” he told Tate. “And for a taste of real work.”
“I’ll be ready.” Despite the fact he hadn’t asked for help, she went to Buck’s other side, draped his arm over her shoulders. “Come on, Buck, time for bed.”
“You’re a sweet kid.” With drunken affection, he gave her a clumsy squeeze. “Ain’t she, Matthew?”
“She’s a regular sugar cube. I’m going down the ladder first, Buck. If you fall in, I might let you drown.”
“That’ll be the day.” Buck chuckled, shifting his weight onto Tate as Matthew swung over the side. “That boy’d fight off a school of sharks for me. Lassiters stick together.”
“I know.” Carefully, rocking a bit under his weight, Tate managed to maneuver Buck over the rail. “Hold on, now.” The absurdity had her giggling as he swayed over the ladder and Matthew cursed from below. “Hold on, Buck.”
“Don’t you worry, girl. There isn’t a boat been made I can’t board.”
“Goddamn it, you’re going to capsize us. Buck, you idiot.” As the dinghy pitched dangerously, Matthew shoved Buck down. Water sloshed in, soaking both of them.
“I’ll bail her out, Matthew.” With a good-natured chuckle, Buck began to scoop water out of the bottom with his hands.
“Just sit still.” Matthew took the oars out of the locks, glanced up to see the Beaumonts grinning over the side. “I should have made him swim for it.”
“ ’Night, Ray.” Buck waved cheerfully as Matthew rowed. “There’ll be gold doubloons tomorrow. Gold and silver and bright, shiny jewels. A new wreck, Matthew,” he mumbled as his chin dropped to his chest. “Always knew we’d find it. Was the Beaumonts brought us the luck.”
“Yeah.” After securing the oars and the line, Matthew eyed his uncle dubiously. “Can you make the ladder, Buck?”
“Sure, I can make the ladder. Got the sea legs I was born with, don’t I?” Those legs wobbled, as did the small raft as he weaved toward the side of the Sea Devil.
Through more luck than design, he gripped a rung and hauled himself up before he could turn the inflatable over. Soaked to the knees, Matthew joined him on deck. Buck was weaving and waving enthusiastically to the Beaumonts.
“Ahoy the Adventure. All’s well.”
“Let’s see if you say that in the morning,” Matthew muttered and half carried Buck to the closet-sized wheelhouse.
“Those are good people, Matthew. First I was thinking we’d just use their equipment, string them along, then take us the lion’s share. Be easy for you and me to go down at night, lay off some of the best salvage. Don’t think they’d know the difference.”
“Probably not,” Matthew agreed, as he stripped the wet pants off his uncle. “I gave it some thought myself. Amateurs usually deserve to be fleeced.”
“And we’ve fleeced a few,” Buck said merrily. “Just can’t do it to old Ray, though. Got a friend there. Haven’t had a friend like that since your dad died. There’s his pretty wife, pretty daughter. Nope.” He shook his head with some regret. “Can’t pirate from people you like.”
Matthew acknowledged this with a grunt and eyed the hammock strung between the cabin’s forward and aft walls. He hoped to God he wouldn’t have to heft Buck into it. “You’ve got to get into your bunk.”
“Yep. Going to play straight with Ray.” Like a bear climbing into his cave, Buck heaved himself up. The hammock swayed dangerously before he settled. “Should tell them about Angelique’s Curse. Thinking about it, but never told nobody but you.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Maybe if I don’t tell them, they won’t be jinxed by it. Don’t want to see anything happen to them.”
“They’ll be fine.” Matthew unzipped his jeans, peeled them off.
“Remember that picture I showed you? All that gold, the rubies, the diamonds. Doesn’t seem like something so beautiful could be evil.”
“Because it can’t.” Matthew stripped off his shirt, tossed it after his jeans. He slipped Buck’s glasses off his nose, set them aside. “Get some sleep, Buck.”
“More than two hundred years since they burned that witch and people still die. Like James.”
Matthew’s jaw set, and his eyes went cold. “It wasn’t a necklace that killed my father. It was a man. It was Silas VanDyke.”
“VanDyke.” Buck repeated the name in a voice slurred with sleep. “Never prove it.”
“It’s enough to know it.”
“It’s the curse. The witch’s curse. But we’ll beat her, Matthew. You and me’ll beat her.” Buck began to snore.
Curse be damned, Matthew thought. He’d find the amulet all right. He’d follow in his father’s footsteps until he had it. And when he did, he’d take his revenge on the bastard who had murdered James Lassiter.
In his underwear, he stepped out of the cabin into the balmy, star-splattered night. The moon hung, a silver coin struck
in half. He settled under it in his own hammock, far enough away that his uncle’s habitual snoring was only a low hum.
There was a necklace, a chain of heavy gold links and a pendant etched with names of doomed lovers and studded with rubies and diamonds. He’d seen the pictures, read the sketchy documentation his father had unearthed.
He knew the legend as well as a man might know fairy tales recited to him as a child at bedtime. A woman burned at the stake, condemned for witchcraft and murder. Her final promise that any who profited from her death would pay in kind.
The doom and despair that had followed the path of the necklace for two centuries. The greed and lust that had caused men to kill for it and women to plot.
He might even believe the legend, but it meant only that the greed and the lust had caused the doom and despair. A priceless jewel needed no curse to drive men to murder.
That he was sure of. That he knew, too well. Angelique’s Curse had been the motive behind his father’s death.
But it was a man who had planned it, executed it.