The Pirate

1

A long shriek sliced through the night like a banshee's lament, rattling the windows and whirling around the cottage until the wail obliterated everything but the pounding of her heart in her throat and the taste of panic in her mouth. Meredith Abbott wedged herself farther into the corner of the musty closet and buried her face in her knees, pressing her bent arms against her ears.

"It'll be over soon," she murmured to herself. "It can't go on forever. It can't."

This very same terror had haunted her childhood, but after so many years of undisturbed sleep, Meredith had assumed she'd outgrown the nightmare. After all, she was a woman now, nearly twenty-nine years old-a woman reliving the most frightening night of her life.

While other children may have dreamed of dragons beneath the bed or cackling crones lurking in the shadows, Meredith had dreamed of Hurricane Delia. And now, with another Delia screaming outside the windows of the gray-shingled cottage, Meredith's fears had returned with such astounding clarity that she wondered if she had ever really left them behind.

"Shiver me timbers! Awwwk! Thar she blows!"

"Shut up, Ben!" Meredith whispered. The gray parrot flapped its wings, the movement eerily illuminated on the closet walls like some bizarre shadow-puppet game. The electricity had failed six hours ago and all she had to scare away the dark and her demons was an old hurricane lamp, the flame sputtering and swaying with every draft that slipped beneath the closet door.

"Would you perchance have a piece of cheese?" Ben inquired, punctuating the request with a wolf whistle and another squawk.

If she hadn't been so preoccupied with her phobias, Meredith probably would have throttled the bird then and there. First, he'd presented a recitation of every nautical cliché in the book and now, he'd started quoting his namesake, Ben Gunn from Treasure Island. But in all honesty, she was glad she didn't have to face Delia alone. She'd faced the hurricane alone when she was just a child and the experience had haunted her until the day she'd sailed away from Ocracoke Island on the Hatteras ferry.

"Yo ho ho, and a bottle of rum!" Ben cried.

"Rum," Meredith repeated. "I could use a good stiff drink right now. Are you buying?"

"I takes my man Friday with me!"

"Ah, Robinson Crusoe now, is it? Imagine my luck. I'm sharing a closet with a parrot more widely read than most of my graduate students."

"Aye, matey."

Maybe she shouldn't have come back to Ocracoke after all, but it had seemed the perfect setting to work on her newest scholarly endeavor. She'd taken a year's sabbatical from her teaching position at the College of William and Mary to finish her biography on Blackbeard-the book that would assure her spot on the top of the list for the Sullivan Fellowship. And once she'd been awarded the fellowship, she'd be first in line for a tenured position. After that, she planned to be the youngest department chairperson on campus.

She had arrived on the island off the coast of North Carolina right after Labor Day, and for reasonable rent, she'd set up housekeeping in a roomy cottage on the water overlooking Pamlico Sound and Teach's Hole, the channel where the infamous Blackbeard had once anchored his sloop, Adventure.

The first three weeks had been idyllic, the simple rhythms of island life settling back into her blood. Once an Ocracoker, always an Ocracoker, they'd told her. She'd been accepted into the tight-knit community as if she'd never left. After all, her father had been an islander and these people had all but raised her after her mother died. She was family and she'd come home.

When the first storm warnings had sounded, she'd considered leaving the island on the next ferry, but instead, she'd stupidly decided to face her fears and ride out the storm. After all, Horace had been declared only a tropical storm, not yet a dreaded hurricane like Delia, and Ocracoke had weathered much worse.

By the time Horace had been upgraded to a category-one hurricane, it had been too late to leave. The ferries were safely moored on the mainland and she was left to face eighty-mile-per-hour winds, driving rain and a surging sea-alone.

Meredith leaned back against the wall. It was nearly midnight and the wind still howled outside, the rain scratching against the glass like a hag's fingernails. She didn't have the courage to venture out of the safety of the bedroom closet-not until the storm showed signs of weakening. She grabbed the lantern and held it up to survey her cramped surroundings, desperate for anything to occupy her mind. A stack of books at her elbow caught her eye and she pulled a dusty volume off the top.

The smell of mildew touched her nose as she held the book up to the lantern light. The gold inlaid letters on the cover were burnished by age, but the title was still legible.

Rogues Across Time. The author's name was worn from the spine, and a dark stain obliterated the name on the title page.

She turned back the leather-bound cover and the book fell open to an illustration, a finely rendered, black-and-white drawing-of a pirate. A shiver ran through her at the strange coincidence, another in a long line of happenstance, little bits of luck and good fortune that seemed to be tossed in her path by some greater force.

"Stop scaring yourself," she said out loud. "Everything happens for a logical reason. You don't believe in fate."

Still, she could understand why a person might. When she'd arrived at the real-estate office after disembarking the ferry, she'd been told that the old cottage she'd originally rented on the wooded path called Howard Street was not available. Instead, the real-estate agent had given her the keys to a larger cottage on the water-overlooking the exact spot where Blackbeard used to drop anchor. Twist of fate number one.

The cottage came along with twist of fate number two, the owner's pet parrot, a salty-tongued bird that would have made any sailor a fine companion. With Ben Gunn sitting on his perch spouting "nauticisms" and Meredith at her computer, the atmosphere had seemed perfect for writing the definitive biography of Blackbeard. She had never worked harder or written better in her life.

And then came Horace-twist of fate number three. A hurricane hadn't hit the island for more than twelve years. But then again, hurricanes usually hit the Outer Banks in nine-year cycles, so she really couldn't count Horace as fate, and he certainly couldn't be considered good fortune.

Now, as she stared down at the picture of the pirate, an overwhelming sense of apprehension assailed her, as if she was suddenly powerless against this greater force. Something was about to happen, she could feel it in the air, and it frightened her.

"Stop it!" Meredith scolded.

"Stop it!" Ben mimicked.

"This storm's got me so tense I'm beginning to imagine things."

She purposefully returned her attention to the book, running her finger over the illustration, taking in each detail. The pirate had long dark hair that framed aristocratic features. He wore knee breeches, a flowing white linen shirt and a dark waistcoat. Two leather straps crisscrossed his chest with small pistols tucked in loops along them. In his right hand was a short, curved cutlass, and tucked into his belt, a dagger.

Meredith was surprised by the accuracy of the drawing, considering Hollywood's imprint on the image of a pirate-eye patch and peg leg, tricorn and gold earring, and the requisite bird on the shoulder. Her gaze drifted back to his face. All right, so maybe the drawing wasn't entirely accurate. This pirate looked more like one of those male models that appeared in designer-underwear ads than a real buccaneer from the bounding main.

She focused on the illustration, trying to block out the weather that raged around the cottage, allowing the image to drift off the page and into her mind. Since her girlhood, she'd been fascinated by the legends of pirates, the ruthless men who plied the waters of the Outer Banks, preying on ships with merciless abandon. It was with the stories of pirates that her love of history took root.

But as she'd grown older, the fascination had fueled a bizarre fantasy, a fantasy so uncharacteristic of her normal, conservative nature that she'd been embarrassed to even think about it. The notion was borne of pure romance and based on nothing resembling reality.

In her dreams, the pirate, a devilishly handsome rogue, would come to her at midnight, slipping into her bedroom. His hand would cover her mouth as she put up a halfhearted struggle. After he'd bound her hands and gagged her, he would toss her over his shoulder and take her to his ship. From there, the fantasy would become more erotic, a sensual dance between a predator and his prey.

But that was as far as the fantasy ever went. She'd usually wake up before the first item of clothing was discarded and no matter how hard she tried to resume the dream, she'd never managed to complete it.

Why bother? She knew how it would end. Her fear of intimacy would overwhelm her and she'd run away…the same way she had in real life. At first, she'd blamed her fears on practicality. Outside of her work, she had little room in her life for a real relationship. But as time passed, she realized that all the years spent in scholastic pursuits, her nose buried in history books while other girls thought only about boys, had done little to prepare her for a real relationship. She had less knowledge of the opposite sex than the average nun.

"I was born too late," Meredith murmured as she stared at the drawing. She'd always wanted to live in an earlier time, when life was more immediate, more exciting- when men were heroic and courageous and chivalrous. And women were modest… and virginal.

But since that hadn't been possible, she'd chosen the next best thing-she had majored in history in college and spent her life reading and writing about the past. Her doctoral dissertation focused on American maritime history-to be specific, colonial pirates and privateers.

"Call me Ishmael," Ben implored in a raucous voice.

Meredith jumped at the sound, clutching the open book to her breast. "I'll call you parrot potpie if you don't stop with the quotes!" she replied. The image of the bird between two pastry crusts brought a hesitant smile. "Parrot potpie," she repeated. "Yum, yum."

"Awk! Parrot potpie," Ben mimicked. "Yum, yum."

Meredith glanced back down at the pirate and traced her finger along the lines of his face. Strange how he looked so much like the man in her dreams. As she held the book, she felt a pulsing warmth seep into her icy hands. Suddenly, the book seemed to vibrate with a life of its own. Startled, Meredith drew in a sharp breath and quickly snapped it shut before replacing it on top of the stack.

She wasn't sure how long she stared at the closed volume, trying to arouse the fantasy again, but when Ben ruffled his wings, attracting her attention, she dragged her gaze away. Only then did she realize that an eerie silence had descended on the cottage. The wind had stilled and the rain now drummed softly on the roof. She glanced down at her watch. It read exactly midnight.

She drew a deep breath and pushed open the closet door, then unfolded her stiff legs and crawled out. Ben flapped out behind her. The lantern illuminated the bedroom around her, casting giant shadows on the walls.

She made a quick survey of the house's interior, finding very little damage-just a few broken windowpanes in the bathroom. After placing the parrot back on his perch, she continued her search for destruction.

The screened porch which overlooked the Sound hadn't fared well. She stepped out the door, picking her way through twisted wire mesh, upended lawn furniture and debris from the live oaks scattered about the property. Warily, Meredith made her way down the stairs and out to the yard. The calm was unnerving after the chaos just a few minutes before.

The waves still crashed against the shore, encroaching on the lawn with every surge. But the rain, no longer blown into stinging shards, now seemed almost as soothing as a springtime shower.

She held up the lantern and stared out into the darkness. A flash of white caught her eye and Meredith squinted to see what it was. An odd piece of flotsam, half-black, half-white, lay on the lawn, just beyond the reach of the water. Slowly, she walked across the surf-saturated grass, keeping her eyes on the strange shape. It moved once, but she was certain it had only been a play of light or the breeze, even though the air was deadly calm.

Common sense told her to return to the house and assess the damage in the light of day, but she found herself drawn to the water's edge. Only when she stood directly over the form did she realize she was looking at a man.

"Oh, Lord!" she murmured. Dropping onto one knee, Meredith placed the lantern near his head and gently turned him from his side to his back. He moaned softly but didn't regain consciousness. His long wet hair was plastered across his face and she pushed it away. A thick black beard obscured his features, but there was something about him that seemed familiar. So familiar, and yet entirely nameless. Even in the dim light, she was certain she didn't know this man.

He was wearing a torn white shirt, an odd vest, and, of all things, breeches. A pair of black leather boots covered his feet and legs to the knee. And around his waist was fixed a scabbard which held no weapon.

Meredith groaned. "I should have known. You're one of Tank Muldoon's boys."

Trevor Muldoon, known on the island as "Tank," ran a waterfront tourist trap, a restaurant and bar called the Pirate's Cove. All of his waiters dressed as pirates, adding to the restaurant's ambience and popularity. But most of the waiters were rowdy college kids who'd left the island right after Labor Day.

"What did you do?" Meredith scolded. "Slam down a few rum punches before you decided to experience a hurricane firsthand?" She shook his shoulder. "Come on, get up before the tide washes you away."

He moaned again and turned his head toward her. A trickle of blood slid down along his temple before the rain washed it away. Meredith cursed softly. She couldn't just leave him out here, but what else was she supposed to do? He was too big to pick up and carry into the house.

She drew a deep breath and tried to calm her jangled nerves. She should phone for help. The police would come and drag him away to jail, giving him time to dry out before they sent him on his merry way.

An errant breeze played at the flame of the lantern. She sucked in a sharp breath as a wash of light fell across the man's face. Even though his shaggy hair and beard made him appear uncommonly fierce, right now he looked vulnerable, helpless.

Slowly, she reached out and brushed the rain off his forehead, her fingers tracing his strong features. As she felt his damp skin beneath her fingers, her breath stopped in her throat. He was so cold, so still. A shiver skittered down her spine and she snatched her hand away and clutched it to her chest.

Warily, she stood, then backed away from him, filled with a strange sense of foreboding. He was a perfect stranger and she should be frightened. Meredith Abbott was usually leery of pretty much everything, especially men. But this man, lying half-dead on her beach, didn't scare her.

No, what truly frightened her were the forces that had brought him here.

Meredith flopped down onto the floor, every muscle in her body aching with cold and exhaustion. Her pirate lay sprawled next to her on the couch where she'd finally settled him after dragging him inside. Ben stared at them both from his perch in the corner, silent, suspicious of the stranger.

As soon as she'd closed the door behind him, the wind and rain had kicked up again, almost on cue, resuming its former fury. But this time, she couldn't run for the closet. The pirate didn't look at all well and, at the moment, she was the only one available to tend to him. She efficiently gathered all the candles and lanterns from the rest of the house and brought them into the living room. The cottage was well-stocked with both, for the island suffered power outages during most storms.

As she set a kerosene lamp on the coffee table, the pirate moaned again, then muttered something she couldn't understand. His expression suddenly turned angry, agitated, and she was again reminded of how menacing the man looked. His clothes were in tatters and his face was covered with a scruffy black beard. Tall and broad-shouldered, he barely fit on the couch. She gently pushed his shoulders back and in a few moments he relaxed. If he were lucid, she knew she'd be no match for his strength.

With a shaking hand, she reached over and placed her palm on his cheek. His skin was still cold and the rise and fall of his chest nearly imperceptible. The scrape on his forehead had stopped bleeding, but he had other wounds more serious than a simple abrasion. A quick examination revealed a knot the size of a golf ball on the back of his head, several cuts and scrapes on his jaw beneath his beard and a nasty bruise on his left knee.

"Couldn't you just have gotten drunk and passed out on your own couch?" she said in a small voice. "I don't know what to do. I'm not a doctor. And I have no way to get help, not until the storm breaks."

She'd tried to call the police, but the phones were out. The sheriff's deputy and his assistant, who served as the island's police force, were probably well occupied with other problems. She would have tried the neighbors, but she already knew the houses on either side of her cottage belonged to summer residents. And the island's doctor visited the small medical clinic only once a week. For the present, she was this man's sole help.

If she were brave, she'd venture out and find help. But the opening in the storm that had allowed her to rescue him had quickly closed. She'd have to walk at least a quarter mile to the main road and hope to flag down the sheriff. Meredith sat up on her heels and rubbed her eyes. Suddenly, the weather outside seemed insignificant compared to what was happening inside the cottage.

"Where did you come from? And why did you have to pick my beach?"

She idly brushed his tangled hair back from his face. His eyelids fluttered and then opened. He stared up at her, his pale blue eyes empty, uncomprehending, as if he were looking right through her.

She leaned forward. "Can you hear me?" Meredith asked. "Who are you? What happened?"

He opened his mouth and tried to speak, but all he could manage was a raspy croak. As if the effort was too much, his eyes closed again and his harsh breathing settled back into a shallow, even rhythm.

"I don't even know what to call you," she murmured. "You must have a name." Meredith crawled to the end of the couch and tugged at his knee-high boots. "Maybe I'll call you Ned. Ned, the pirate. You know, Blackbeard's nickname was Ned, for Edward." She glanced over at him and shook her head. "I guess you're not in any condition to complain about my choice, are you Ned?"

After a long struggle, the wet boot suddenly slipped free of his foot. Meredith landed on her backside, the boot in her lap. She stared down at it, stiff leather around the calf and a flared top that formed a cup around the knee. She turned the boot over in her hand and looked at the sole.

"This is a handmade boot," she murmured. Meredith tugged the other boot off and examined it closely, searching for a brand name or a label. "Jackboots. These boots haven't been made since the early eighteenth century. Where did you ever find a cobbler to…"

Her voice trailed off as her eyes moved up from his rough woolen stockings to his breeches. Like the boots, they were handmade, fitted at the leg and baggy at the waist. Glancing nervously at his face, she plucked at the fly with her fingers, causing a flood of heat to rush to her cheeks. "Hmm, no zipper, just buttons. Very authentic." Her confusion was deepened even further by his tattered linen shirt, full at the sleeves and ruffled at the wrist. There was no tag in the neckline, only very fine hand stitching on the band collar..

The shirt lay open nearly to his waist. She stared down at his deeply tanned chest, mesmerized by the play of candlelight on the rippled muscle. With a small pang of uneasiness, she pushed the damp linen together, her hand brushing against the light dusting of hair that ran from his collarbone to his belly.

All of his clothes were wet, but Meredith wasn't about to remove them. Not that she wasn't curious as to what he looked like beneath the odd garments. It wasn't every day she had a man lying helpless on her couch. But there were limits to her nursing skills and to her temerity.

Instead, she pulled a throw from the back of the rocking chair and tucked it around his body. Then she dragged a quilt from the guest bedroom and arranged that on top of him. By the time she'd finished building a fire, his breathing seemed less labored and the color had begun to return to his lips.

She drew a steadying breath. "All right, Ned, now that you're warm, we'd better take care of your wounds. After that, I'll make some coffee and we'll sober you up."

A quick search of the medicine cabinet in the bathroom turned up alcohol, bandages, shaving cream, a straight-edged razor and a small pair of scissors. After bandaging the scrape on his forehead, Meredith tucked a towel around Ned's neck and began to snip away at his salt encrusted beard. She staunched the bleeding from the cuts with the towel before she gently covered his face with shaving cream.

With great care for his wounds, she drew the razor along his cheek. Stroke by stroke, she carefully stripped away the remains of his dirty beard, intent on her task. When she was finished, Meredith drew back. She blinked in shock, clutching the razor in her fist as her gaze fell on the planes and angles of a startlingly handsome face. Until this instant, she'd had nothing more than a nagging fear of this stranger, of having this man alone in her house with help so far away.

As she stared down at his perfect features, Meredith found herself hypnotized. She had seen him before, just hours ago as she focused on the illustration of the pirate in the old book. Pinching her eyes shut, she tried to steady her spinning thoughts. If she had believed in the powers of fate, she might have also believed that she'd somehow summoned him here to answer her girlish fantasies.

But she knew better. He was merely one of Tank Muldoon's boys, she repeated to herself, out to tear up the town right alongside Hurricane Horace. And yet, even though that explanation seemed perfectly logical, it didn't make sense. This was a grown man, not a college boy. No one developed a body like his waiting tables-he worked hard for a living, probably outdoors. And no one took Tank Muldoon seriously enough to wear an authentic costume.

Meredith leaned over to wipe a trace of shaving cream from his cheek. Suddenly, his hand snaked up and clamped onto her wrist in a punishing grip. She cried out and tried to pull away, but he held her fast. Her gaze met his. His pale blue eyes were now lucid and hard as ice. They watched each other for a very long time in the dim light, Meredith's pulse thudding in her throat, his breathing harsh and even.

"Where am I?" he demanded, his voice ragged.

Meredith tried to pull out of his grasp again, but he only tightened his fingers.

"Tell me, lad. Who are you?"

"Lad?" Meredith asked.

He easily twisted her wrist and brought the razor she was holding flat against her throat; "Who brought me to this place?" he asked, enunciating each word, a slight brogue to his proper British accent. "Have a care, for I will know if you speak falsely."

"I-I brought you here," Meredith whispered. "You were washed up on the beach during the storm."

"The purse, where is it?"

"You want my purse?"

"The purse," he said, his grip weakening. "I… I must deliver… proof… upon my soul… I must… avenge… father…" His eyes rolled back in his head and his hand flopped down on his chest, suddenly lifeless, boneless.

"Have a care!" Ben squawked from the shadows.

Meredith quickly retreated from the couch, watching the man from a spot near the fireplace. If she wasn't frightened of Ned before, she certainly was now. He was a madman, muttering about purses and revenge in some hokey British accent. She could still feel the cold blade of the razor against her throat. Her fingers flexed and the straight-edge clattered to the wooden floor. Without thinking, she wrapped her grip around the fireplace poker instead.

She turned and raced to the closet for her slicker. She couldn't stay here. She'd have to summon the sheriff before her pirate woke again. But when she pulled open the front door, the reality of the situation slapped her in the face.

The wind ripped the door from her hand, slamming it back against the wall with stunning force. Debris whipped through the air and the rain stung her skin like a hail of tiny bullets. It took all her strength to push the door shut-and all her courage to admit that she stood a better chance inside with the pirate than outside with the hurricane.

In a panic, she searched the house for something to use against him, something to provide protection in case he tried to attack her. Lord, he'd called her "lad." He wasn't just drunk, he was hallucinating, too. She nearly missed finding the coil of rope on the closet floor, until she tripped on it.

"That's it!" she cried. "I'll tie him up! So tight he won't be able to move. And once the storm dies down, I'll get the sheriff."

"Tie him up," Ben echoed. "Tie him up!"

By the time she finished, he looked like Gulliver after the Lilliputians were done with him. A riot of ropes circled his wrists and ankles, then wrapped around both his body and the couch. It would take superhuman strength to break the bonds and if she believed anything about this pirate, he would be too hung over to be sailing the high seas for some time.

Once he awoke, she'd question him, and if she decided it was safe to let him go, she would. If not, the sheriff could have him. As an added measure of protection, she retrieved a butcher knife from the kitchen before she curled into an overstuffed chair near the fireplace and watched him warily, exhausted.

Meredith closed her eyes and tipped her head back, trying to calm her racing heart. Suddenly, the raging weather outside didn't frighten her at all. This man had become her "Delia" now, the name she had given to all her fears since she'd been a child.

Meredith had been only eight years old when Hurricane Delia had roared along the Atlantic shore of the Outer Banks of North Carolina. She and her widowed father, a shrimp fisherman, had lived in a tiny weather-beaten cottage on the creek side of Ocracoke Village.

Though she had been only a child, her memories of that day had completely supplanted all the shining Christmas mornings and blurry birthday celebrations she'd come to experience in the following years. The day, September 11, 1976, had dawned calm and humid. But somewhere south of the island, Delia had lurked, turning the ocean into a terrifying force of nature. As darkness began to fall and the wind began to rise, her father had left her alone in their cottage, promising to return once he had checked the lines on his boat for a final time.

As he pulled on his rain suit and knee-high rubber boots, she had begged him to stay. He'd bent down from his towering height and told her she would be safe, tucked inside the house until he returned. But he hadn't returned. She'd crawled inside a dark closet and cried for her father, and then for her mother, even though Caroline Abbott was just a vague memory to her. She'd been left to face a hurricane alone and from that night on, Delia came back to haunt her dreams.

Her father had been injured that night and had nearly died, but with the help of friends on the island and Meredith's nursing, he'd recovered. His boat hadn't fared as well, but a bank loan repaired it and he continued to shrimp in the waters off the Outer Banks. Still, shrimping had been a hand-to-mouth existence before Delia, and it only got worse after the hurricane.

He lost his boat to the bank the year Meredith turned thirteen, bringing an end to her childhood on the island. Sam Abbott was forced to leave Ocracoke for a dredging job in Maryland, his young daughter in tow. How well she remembered that day, standing at the rail of the ferry and watching Ocracoke Island disappear behind the southern tip of Hatteras.

In her heart, she'd been secretly relieved. There would be no more dreams of Delia and no more hurricanes to fear. But though she hadn't missed Ocracoke, her father had. The island had been part of his blood, calling to him every minute he spent on the water. He died when Meredith was twenty-five, still longing to return to his island home.

So she had made the trip back for him, to bring back the memories of the times they'd spent together when she was young. And now, in less than a day, her life had turned into one major nightmare. She was trapped inside this cottage with a man who could very well be a psychopath.

But even though she knew she should be terrified, she wasn't. She was an adult. She had a big knife, an even bigger fireplace tool and a few more miles of rope if needed. She actually felt in control, as if she could handle whatever might happen.

And she could… until Ned the pirate decided to wake up.

He was dead, of that much he was certain. He recalled very clearly falling overboard… or had he been pushed? God's teeth, his head ached. Had someone bashed him on the costard, as well? 'Twas no small talent for a man who had spent his entire life on the deck of a ship to simply pitch over the rail without cause. Aye, that must be the truth of it then. Murder had been done and Griffin Rourke had died of it.

But were he truly dead, he would not feel such blinding pain. If he were among the angels, he would have the power to open his eyes and look about, to know where he was. Unless his death had brought him to the devil's doorstep.

Griffin tried to move his arms and legs, but his limbs felt like lead ballast, too heavy to lift, as if he'd had a cup too much at the Horse and Plow. Then that be the truth of it. He was simply drunk and dreamed his trip into the brine. If he just opened his eyes, he'd find himself in his bedchamber above the taproom, dragged there by the kindly innkeeper. Gathering his strength, he forced his eyelids open.

In a trice, he realized that he was neither dead nor drunk. He was trussed up like a Christmas goose and laid out on a huge settee in some strange parlor. And damned if someone hadn't shaved him, as well.

The room was lit by candles and lamps, hiding all detail deeply in the shadows. He slowly turned his head toward the flickering fire and his gaze came upon his captor. The boy slept, curled like a cream-fed cat in a chair that seemed to be fashioned of pillows. He was barely more than a child, smooth-faced and slender, with russet hair cropped above his ears. He wore an odd pair of breeches, made of indigo canvas, that reached his ankles, and a shirt that was many years too small for a boy of his age. He was a pretty lad, the kind who found easy favor with those debauched reprobates who eschewed the company of women.

Griffin opened his mouth to speak, then swallowed hard. His throat burned as if he'd been breathing saltwater. So he hadgone overboard, and very nearly drowned by the taste of it. He licked his cracked lips and tried again.

"Boy," he croaked. "Boy!"

The lad sat up with a start. His eyes wide, he looked in Griffin's direction and then scrambled to retrieve a long blade he had hidden at his side. He stood, holding the knife out in front of him, watching Griffin with a wary eye.

"Put the blade away, boy," Griffin ordered, wincing at the pain that shot through his head. "I'm not of a mind to harm ye. Unless ye give me good cause. Now untie me, or face the consequences."

The boy shook his head, his eyes wide.

Griffin strained against the ropes and cursed. "By God, boy, you would do well not to anger me."

"I-I'm not going to untie you until you answer a few questions," the lad said, waving the knife in his direction. "Who are you? What is your name?"

The soft, sweet sound of the boy's voice was so unexpected that Griffin held his tongue and stared at his captor. Had his eyes been closed, he would have thought the voice belonged to a woman, full-grown. His gaze drifted down along the boy's slender body. Griffin groaned inwardly as he took in the tiny breasts, the narrow waist and the gentle swell of her hips.

"Damnation!" he muttered. He wished he had his fingers loose to rub away the ache in his temples. "I've been rendered helpless by a mere slip of a woman."

"Answer me!" she demanded. "Who are you?"

"Griffin Rourke," he muttered. "And who might you be, lass? Or is it, lad? Damn me, for I cannot settle on which it really is."

"Where are you from?"

"From?" Griffin snapped, glancing over at her. "You want to know where was I born?"

She nodded.

"I was born in the colony of Virginia on the James," he said tightly. "In my father's home in the room at the back of the house."

She glared at him. "You British still haven't gotten over the revolution, have you? Virginia is a state, not a colony. And you expect me to believe that you were born at home?"

"Where else?" Griffin asked. "Now, you must answer my questions. What is your name?"

"Meredith," she said. "Meredith Abbott."

He laughed harshly. "Then you are a boy."

"No!" she cried as if the observation caused insult.

"Yet, you carry a boy's name."

"Meredith is a girl's name, as well, and it has been for quite some time."

"What about your hair and clothing? Who allows you to dress like a lad?"

She seemed quite taken aback by his comments. "For your information, short hair is considered quite chic, and jeans are not the exclusive uniform for men. Just what planet have you been living on?"

"Planet? I do not understand," Griffin said. "How can I live on another planet? And what would you know of the planets? I have not met a woman yet who possesses a mind which can comprehend the complexities of Copernicus or Brahe or Kesler."

"Well, at least you don't think you're an alien life-form," Meredith said. "I guess we should be thankful for that. But you are the worst sort of male chauvinist, which isn't good. Why are you dressed like a pirate?"

"Damn it, girl, I'm done with this inquisition. Untie me!"

"No!" she retorted.

Griffin closed his eyes. "Then tell me where I am. And tell me when you plan to release me."

"You washed up on my beach during the storm and I dragged you into my cottage. You almost drowned, and would have if I hadn't saved you."

"You saved me?" he asked.

She nodded.

"Where? Where is this cottage you speak of?"

"On Loop Road on Ocracoke Island," she said.

"Occracock?" he asked. "I'm on Occracock? But I cannot be. There are no houses on Occracock."

"It's called Ocracoke," Meredith corrected. "And of course there are houses on the island. There's a whole village. There's been a village here for over two hundred years."

Griffin stared at her. She was mad, or bosky, or both. That was the only explanation for her holding him here. Or perhaps hewas the one who had lost his mind. Who knows how long he had been tied up? He could have been unconscious for days.

"What is the date?" he asked.

She frowned. "September twenty-second."

He closed his eyes, relieved. He wasn't mad. The date wasSeptember twenty-second.

"Nineteen ninety-six," she added.

His eyes snapped open. "Nineteen ninety-six what?"

"That's the year," she said.

"You are mad," he murmured. "Untie me now, or I swear on my father's grave, I will kill you."