“How could she prove that?” Con countered.

The landing gear touched the edge of the runway with a slight jolt. “I think we’re about to find out. And if she has, then the scepters belong to Captain Dare and his descendants. Not”-she narrowed her eyes at him-“Judd Paxton.”

“Let’s just find your sister and take it one step at a time.”

After they got through customs, they left their bags with their pilot and flight attendant to check out Vila Nova do Corvo. The only village on the island, it couldn’t be more than a square mile of charmingly dilapidated houses built right on top of one another along a few cobblestone streets, a large Catholic church at its center.

“We could walk this from end to end in an hour,” Lizzie said as they crossed the street from the airport to the village tucked into the foothills of the mountainous island.

“According to our friend in customs, the rest of Corvo is fields, rocks, farms, and lakes. I say we head to wherever people eat and drink. There are only four hundred residents. One of them will know any visiting Americans.”

She curled her fingers into his, a jumble of emotions fighting for space in her chest. “I still hate you.”

He gave her fingers a squeeze. “I know.”

“But I’m very grateful that you’ve done this for me.”

A donkey-drawn cart of fruit and flowers rumbled by, and Con snagged a violet azalea from a bucket in the back, then handed it to her, tickling her chin with the petals. “Forgive me.”

“No.” She took the flower, unable to keep the smile off her face.

He just laughed softly, guiding them up the cobblestone street where a few older women in wheat-colored bonnets and long, dark dresses were coming toward them, talking in Portuguese.

One of them looked up and smiled. “Bem vindos,” she said, lifting the edge of her hat to reveal twinkling blue eyes. “Turistas?”

“Do you speak English?” Con asked her.

Three of them looked at a fourth. “Fale inglês, Marta.”

A younger girl stepped forward from the back of the group, her eyes so much like the first woman’s, they could be mother and daughter.

“I speak a little,” she said softly, her gaze on Lizzie and not Con. “What do you look for?”

“An American woman,” Lizzie said. “Another visitor. Brianna Dare.”

She shook her head and lifted a shoulder. “Is she related to Corvo?”

Lizzie took the question to mean does she have relatives there. “No, but perhaps you know Gabrielle Roberts. Another American who has been staying here.”

The girl’s blank look suddenly changed. “Gabby?” She held her hand up several inches above her head, as if to indicate height. “Tall Gabby? For certain I know her. She is often to be found at Sousa.” She pointed. “On Rua das Pedras. There is room to rent there.”

The English was choppy but clear. “Sousa is a hotel?”

“No hotel in Corvo,” she said, shaking her head. “Sousa is…” She made a gesture of eating.

“A restaurant?” Lizzie supplied.

“Sim. Restaurant. But no sign on wall. Look for tables by the church.”

“Obrigado,” Lizzie said, handing her the flower. “Thank you.”

The walk to the Spanish-style cathedral took five minutes. Every building in the vicinity looked like a private home, until they circled to the front and saw two tables set for dining outside a windowless three-story house.

Con tapped on a whitewashed door and it opened, revealing a tiny restaurant with a brick oven in the middle. A woman, also dressed in the dark garb of the locals, turned to greet them, the tangy scent of her cooking wafting toward them.

“Hello,” Con said from the low-slung door frame, still holding Lizzie’s hand. “Is this Sousa?”

She just nodded, looking from one to the other. “Eat outside?” she asked.

“Actually, we’re looking for Gabby Roberts. Do you know her?”

“Gabby?” She held up a finger, then slowly walked to the back, opening a door and disappearing up a set of stairs. A minute later she reappeared, followed by a tall, middle-aged woman whose easy, familiar smile pegged her instantly as an American.

“I’m Gabby,” she said, reaching out a hand to Lizzie. “The tourists always find me.”

Lizzie shook her hand. “Not tourists, I’m Elizabeth Dare. You e-mailed me about my sister.”

Gabby’s jaw loosened in surprise. “Good heavens, you got here fast.”

“Can you tell me where to find Brianna?”

“Of course. She’s up at the Bettencourt farm.”

“Bettencourt?” Excitement zinged through Lizzie at the name of Aramis Dare’s buyer.

“Up the hill-there’s only one road.”

“Who lives there?”

“The lady’s name is Solange Bettencourt, from New York City. Look up fish out of water, and you should find a real nice picture of her.” She laughed a little. “I haven’t been up there since I sent you the e-mail ’cause Mrs. B called and told me your sister was going to be helping her out with the cooking and stuff. You should find her up there.”

She’d come here to work for this woman? That was a stretch Lizzie couldn’t even imagine.

“How do we find the farm?” Con asked. “Do we need a car?”

“You could hitchhike up the hill. Any one of the thirty people around who have a car will give you a lift. That’s how I get there, or I borrow the Sousa’s scooter.”

“Can we borrow it?” Lizzie asked. “I’m really anxious to see her.”

Gabby nodded. “She’s going to be happy to see you, too, I think.”

Lizzie pictured the copy of the manifest she’d brought to show her sister. “I think so, too.”

Solange had kept Brianna Dare waiting for more than half the day, then let her into the attic “library” to read some innocuous paperwork about the Bettencourt family tree. Nothing that could support her ridiculous theory that Carlos Bettencourt hadn’t paid for the delivery of treasures he’d ordered. The girl’s ancestor was a pirate, and Solange’s was practically Portuguese nobility.

Not that she cared about that nearly as much as this girl did. She was too, too close. Still, nothing she could find or produce would be as powerful as the fact that the scepter was on Bettencourt property today-and the other would be here soon.

All the wheels had been set into motion to retrieve the mate, and the discovery would make Jaeger sick with remorse. Then he’d bring her home.

After the library, Solange brought the girl to the kitchen, suggesting she do a little cooking since Gabby was gone for a few days, then left her there to get the scheduled call.

The satellite phone rang right on time, but Solange hesitated when the ID wasn’t a number she recognized. She answered tentatively, and the familiar voice’s first words shook her.

“The dive is over.”

“What do you mean, it’s over?” she asked in a hushed whisper as she closed the door to her upstairs room. “How can it be over?”

“One of the divers was killed in an accident. The Coast Guard brought the FBI in, and Judd’s filed an official claim, so the site can’t be salvaged until next season. We’re done for now, Solange.”

Fury slammed her. “You didn’t find it!”

“No, I didn’t.”

“That’s what I’ve paid you to do!”

“We still have next summer. Of course, it’ll be harder when the dive’s not secret.”

And Judd Paxton would be even more motivated by her husband’s desire to own both of those scepters.

“Brianna Dare is sitting in my kitchen right this minute,” she said, measuring every word for the most impact. “She and her sister have done a tremendous amount of research. It’s only a matter of time until they know all that Malcolm Dare knew.”

“We can handle that.”

Did she really want this many deaths on her conscience? Was vengeance worth that price?

“I can’t…” Afford another accidental death on my farm. But she didn’t want him to know about Ana. “…do anything, except slow this girl down. What are you going to do about that one?”