down with all hands. We might find a few more skeletons, even after a hundred and fifty years.”
“It doesn’t look right.”
“Someone died.” Unzipping his wet suit, Rogan gave him a quizzical look. “That never looks right. Of course your skeleton might not be from our particular wreck. This reef would have caught quite a few ships over the centuries, specially before it was properly charted.”
The clippers carrying nineteenth-century miners and their newly acquired wealth from the Australian gold fields home to America hadn’t had modern navigation instruments and satellite systems to guide them. The Maiden’s Prayer wasn’t the only one reported sunk without a trace, taking a fortune in gold and goods to the bottom of the sea.
Brodie and Rogan finished mapping the site of the wreck as far as they could define it with their sonar and magnometer supplemented by visual inspection, and noted the exact locations of the few artifacts they’d recovered. Rogan’s initial survey had been interrupted when he’d discovered the sunken ship some months ago, and they hoped on this trip to find conclusive evidence that it was, as Rogan believed, the Maiden’s Prayer.
Eating fresh-caught crab on the deck of the Sea-Rogue, Rogan said, “I didn’t have time for a thorough inspection when I was here before, but we picked up coins and ship fittings and pieces of jewelry. There just doesn’t seem to be as much here now as I would have expected.” He stared at the three palm trees on a strip of white sand that marked the edge of the reef.
“Maybe you found all there was on the surface. And things shift and get reburied in storms—you know that.”
“Yeah,” Rogan agreed halfheartedly. “I hope we haven’t had poachers on the site while we’ve been busy confirming our legal claim to the wreck and organizing a proper recovery operation.”
“We haven’t seen any other boats around since we got here. And if some fisherman or recreational diver did get lucky enough to find a few bits and pieces scattered about, they haven’t broached the wreck. They’d need proper equipment and a professional team of divers, and you know how long it’s taking to set that up yourself.”
Rogan cracked open a crab leg and removed a morsel of white flesh. “Right. Even if the location of the site has leaked out somehow, probably the worst that can happen before we get to the real treasure is a bit of pilfering.” He popped the bit of crabmeat into his mouth. “Well, our last dive is tomorrow.”
“Yeah.” Brodie grinned. Rogan had to be back in port for his wedding. “Better get you to the church on time.”
They dived early, found a couple of coins and some glass bottles that might help date the wreck, and then Brodie spotted a few inches of something curved. Something metal and manmade—green, and almost invisible under the sand. Maybe Rogan’s porthole, he thought, digging his fingers into the seabed to clear the object.
He signaled Rogan and they excavated it and took it to the surface, hauling it on board. It was a ship’s bell, tarnished and half covered in corals and sponges. But after scraping those away, faintly the two men could discern some letters just above the rim.
“Eureka!” Rogan exclaimed softly, turning the bell to read the inscription. “Maiden’s Prayer. My dad was right. He found his gold-ship. Let’s go home. But we don’t mention this to anyone.”
Brodie looked up from his awed contemplation of their find. Abruptly he said, “I want to have another look at that skeleton.”
Rogan gave him a curious look but said, “Sure, okay.”
He stowed the bell in the master’s cabin, and when they’d been out of the water long enough for a second safe dive, they donned their gear again and swam to the reef wall.
It took a while to find again the place where the skeleton lay, apparently undisturbed, and by then their time was nearly up. Brodie looked down at the empty eye sockets—almost accusing with their blank, black stare—and peered inside the skull.
There was sand in there, not unexpectedly. But…dimly he discerned a faint raised lump. A brief hesitation, then he stripped off one glove, gingerly poked two fingers into an eyehole, and withdrew a small, dully gleaming object.
A bullet.
Chapter 1
Sunlight slanted through a small high window in the seamen’s chapel at Mokohina. The insistent sound of the sea washing onto the beach backgrounded the bride and groom’s voices as they recited their vows.
In the second row of the pews, Brodie watched the golden light burnish the bridesmaid’s piled curls, inside a coronet of flowers, and turn a wayward strand lying on her graceful neck to an almost ruby red. Something about that slim, pale neck, contrasting with the rich auburn glow of her hair, hinted at vulnerability. A stirring of curiosity kept his gaze focused lazily on her.
He hadn’t seen her face when she’d preceded Camille down the aisle—he’d been riveted by the sudden blaze in Rogan’s eyes as the other man turned to watch his bride approach. The raw emotion of that look had shaken Brodie, waking complicated feelings of awe coupled with a surprising shaft of something remarkably like envy.
Marriage wasn’t something he’d ever thought seriously about, himself. He was pretty sure Rogue hadn’t either until he met Camille, who was gorgeous enough to weaken any man’s resolve, with her green eyes and thick, glossy brown hair, a face that turned men’s heads in the street, and a figure any model might envy.
When the bridal party turned toward the door and the best man—Rogan’s brother, Granger—offered his arm to the bridesmaid, Brodie got his first real look at her.
An almost translucent complexion that reminded him of pearl-shell, delicately arched eyebrows, eyes that were more gold than brown framed by dark, gold-tipped lashes. Which meant their color must be natural, surely. And a mouth made for kissing, with a decided bow on the upper lip, a delicious fullness in the lower one, firmly set together. For a moment he thought he caught a hint of sadness in the golden eyes, and extra sheen. But then, women always cried at weddings, didn’t they? By all accounts they quite enjoyed a good weep.
Even as he watched, the luscious mouth trembled into a smile. Not quite as radiant as the bride’s, but bewitching. He let his gaze slide over her figure—on the thin side, he thought critically. But subtly curved in the right places, her breasts surprisingly well-rounded. Maybe Mother Nature was getting some help there. A man could never tell for sure.
Because her bronze silk dress was quite short, worn with matching high-heeled shoes, he could see she had great legs, the ankles so slim they looked breakable. He reckoned he could easily put a hand around one of them. Picturing it, something more than simple curiosity stirred his blood—something much more carnal. And unsuitable for a church.
Then she swept past with the bridal party and he followed the rest of the congregation outside.
The reception was held in the private lounge of the nearby Imperial Hotel, a two-story white wooden leftover of New Zealand’s colonial past. After the meal and toasts were completed, the cake was cut and the bridesmaid offered pieces to the fifty or so guests now mingling around the room. He followed her progress, having covertly watched her ever since she’d sat down at the bridal table with Camille and Rogan.
Apart from the bride, she was, he’d decided after a quick check, the most watchable woman in sight,
