The Pirate

6

"No leeches!"

Meredith glared at Griffin as he sat on the end of Dr. Kincaid's examining table. The nurse had shown them in a few minutes before and ordered Griffin to remove his shirt. She gave him an appreciative once-over before she popped a thermometer into his mouth and left the room, leaving Meredith alone to ponder the play of muscles across his shoulders and chest.

Meredith had thought it best to accompany Griffin, considering his rather low opinion of the medical profession. Apparently, the only doctor Griffin had ever encountered had used some rather primitive medical practices, including the curative use of bloodsucking worms.

"Put that thermometer back in your mouth," Meredith said.

He stuck it under his tongue with a stubborn expression. "Ummph!" he replied. "Ut about da eeches?"

"Do you see any leeches?" she asked impatiently. Lord, he was going to drive her mad. He'd been prowling the cottage for the past few days, even surlier than he'd been before, coughing and sniffling and ignoring his symptoms as if giving in to them would be less than manly. She'd offered him aspirin, cold tablets, cough medicine, but he'd preferred whiskey, straight up. "Forget the leeches," she said.

Griffin grumbled an unintelligible response, then snatched the thermometer from his mouth. "The butcher will bleed me, then. 'Tis the same thing. Always with them 'tis bad blood. They should stick to what they do best, cutting hair."

She placed a hand on his upper arm to calm him, then hesitantly pulled it away as a flood of warmth raced up her arm. If she knew what was good for her, she'd make it a point not to allow herself the pleasure of touching him, especially when they were alone in a room with him half-dressed. "I promise you," she said, "this doctor will not bleed you, or cut your hair. He'll give you some medicine to help your cold."

"But I am not cold."

"You have a cold, or the ague, as you call it. I think you might have a bronchial infection-"

"Lung fever," Griffin corrected, slapping his broad chest with his palm. "I know what ails me and I know how to cure it. A mustard poultice and a few drams of good whiskey."

Her gaze wandered to his hand as he idly rubbed his palm on his chest. Meredith, mesmerized, imagined her fingers doing the same, furrowing through the silky dark hair, drifting over the hard muscle and smooth skin. With a sharp breath, she glanced up at his face. "If you have an infection, the doctor will give you some antibiotics and you'll be fine," she said, her voice a bit uneven.

She drew a long breath. At first, she thought Griffin had just caught a common cold, a result of his midnight swim in Bath Creek, but then she realized he was stoically fighting something more. When she finally managed to force a thermometer between his teeth, she found a low-grade fever. It was then she realized that Griffin was probably at risk for any number of modern diseases and mutated germs.

"If I were you, I wouldn't mention the leeches again," Meredith said. "Just let me answer any questions the doctor asks."

"I can speak for myself," Griffin countered, putting the thermometer back into his mouth as if to signal the end of the discussion.

The door to the examining room opened and a woman in a white lab coat walked in. She held out her hand to Meredith. "I'm Dr. Susan McMillan. I'm taking care of Doc Kincaid's patients while he's on vacation. I usually work out of the medical center in Kitty Hawk." She held out her hand to Griffin, as well. Griffin glanced at Meredith before mimicking her handshake.

She knew what he was thinking. A doctor was bad enough, but a woman physician was guaranteed to arouse suspicion.

Dr. McMillan pulled the thermometer from Griffin's mouth. "What seems to be the problem, Mr. Rourke?"

"Griffin," he said. A smile quirked the corners of his mouth. "Or Griff, if you prefer."

Dr. McMillan took a deep breath and blinked hard, obviously not immune to Griffin's infectious smile, but apparently shocked that he'd be so blatant about it. Meredith bit back a laugh. If he thought he'd be able to charm his way out of an exam, he had another guess coming.

"Griff," Dr. McMillan repeated. "What is the problem, then?"

"The problem is, I don't want to be here," he said in a seductive tone. "Merrie believes me to be ill, but as you can see I am in perfect health."

"I think he has a chest cold," Meredith amended. "He's had it for about a week. And now, I think it might be developing into a bronchial infection. He's been coughing a lot and running a low-grade fever for the past three days."

"His temperature is elevated," the doctor remarked. She adjusted her stethoscope and placed it on Griffin's naked chest. He jumped at her touch and she looked up at him in concern. "A little cold?" she asked.

He nodded. "That's what Merrie calls it, but I told her I don't feel cold. 'Tis lung fever. Or the ague." He watched the stethoscope suspiciously, frowning. To Meredith's relief, Dr. McMillan was listening more to Griffin's breathing than his self-diagnosis.

"Breathe in," she ordered. "Deep breath."

He did as he was told, over and over again, and Meredith watched the rise and fall of his chest. What if it was something more than just a cold? He could have tuberculosis or some other disease that he'd brought with him. Meredith clasped her hands in front of her, twisting her fingers together. She couldn't bear it if she'd brought him here only for him to succumb to some twentieth-century illness.

When the doctor finished listening to his breathing, she pulled out a tongue depressor and held it up to his mouth. He drew back and stared at the flat stick as if the woman were holding a dead fish to his nose.

"Open," she said.

"You expect me to eat that?" he asked. He gave Meredith a knowing glance, as if the medicinal properties of eating a piece of wood were well known, even to his colonial mind.

"Open your mouth," Meredith said, arching her eyebrow.

Hesitantly, he parted his lips.

"Open wide," Dr. McMillan said. As soon as she touched his tongue with the depressor, he pulled back. She looked at him in amusement. "I know most people hate the way it feels, but I need to see what's happening down there."

Dr. McMillan methodically proceeded to look into Griffin's throat, nose and ears, all the while dealing with his reluctant behavior. After she'd finished, she scribbled a few notes in the file, then turned to Griffin. "You do have a lot of congestion in your chest. We'll try a normal course of antibiotics and if it doesn't dear up, I'd like to do a chest X ray and a few more tests. I'll give you an injection right now and some tablets to take for the next ten days. I want you to be sure to take the entire course of medication. I'll be right back."

Meredith winced. An injection? If Griffin balked at the tongue depressor, he surely wouldn't care for a needle. She silently watched as the doctor left the room.

"She's not going to bleed me?" he whispered once she left.

"Griff?" Meredith asked, ignoring his question. "I could have told you that flirting with her wouldn't help, Griff. Maybe things are different in your time, but these days, doctors don't mess around with their patients."

"You sound like a jealous harpy, Merrie-girl," he teased.

"I'm not jealous! I just don't want you to make a fool of yourself. People will begin to ask questions that neither you nor I are prepared to answer."

"I never play the fool," he said, turning his smile on her.

She paused. "Then I better warn you now. She's going to give you a shot. But don't worry. Though it might look a little scary, it's really nothing. Children have them all the time."

"Scary?" Griffin asked.

"Well, there's a needle. And she'll inject some medicine into your arm, or maybe your backside, but-"

"What?" Griffin shouted.

"Trust me, it will only hurt for a second and it will help you get rid of that cough. A man who has taken to piracy for a hobby should not be afraid of a little old needle."

Griffin grabbed his shirt and pulled it on. "We are leaving now. I have been poked enough for one day and I have no intention of continuing the torture."

"Sorry for the wait!" Dr. McMillan breezed into the room. She stepped beside Griffin, and before he could protest, dabbed alcohol on his arm and jabbed him with the needle. He cursed vividly and pulled away, but it was all over quickly. Griffin was merely left to stare at his left arm in confusion. Strangely, the doctor was doing the same. She rubbed his upper arm with her thumb, examining it closely.

"You have no smallpox scar."

"I have managed to avoid that particular plague in my lifetime," Griffin murmured.

"No, I mean the scar from the vaccination."

"I-I don't believe Griffin had the normal vaccinations," Meredith said. "He had a rather… unusual childhood. Maybe you could give him the full set of shots now?"

Griffin snapped his head up and glared at her. "I don't believe that's necessary," he said.

"It would be no trouble," Dr. McMillan said. "And even if you've had the vaccinations before, there would be no harm."

"Give him the whole list," Meredith said. "Whatever he needs. Smallpox, measles, polio, diphtheria."

The doctor nodded. "I can give him all the usual childhood vaccines, but I'm afraid we don't give a vaccination for smallpox anymore. The disease has been eradicated in this country, and in most of the world. If you plan to travel to some exotic locale, you'll need one for yellow fever, though."

"Yellow fever?" Griffin asked. "You have a needle to prevent yellow fever?"

"Yes," Dr. McMillan replied. "But I don't keep all those vaccines here. I'll need to send to the mainland for them. We can schedule another appointment. By that time, his fever will be gone and there won't be any problem administering the vaccines," she said to Meredith.

"And after you poke me with this needle, I will not get the fever?"

"Not for at least ten years," the doctor said. "You can put your shirt back on and I'll tell Linda to schedule another appointment for you next week."

Meredith stood and grabbed Griffin's arm as Dr. McMillan walked out of the examining room. "Thank you, Doctor."

Griffin stared after her, as if his mind were a million miles, or three hundred years, away. He silently followed Meredith out of the room and waited while she made another appointment. Finally, they stepped out onto the shaded porch of the tiny raised cottage that housed the island's health center. He still hadn't said anything and she suspected he was angry again.

"I'm sorry if the shot hurt you, but it's for your own good."

Griffin strode down the porch steps and headed across the sandy parking area.

Meredith ran after him, falling into step at his side. "All right, you can be mad if you like, but I was only looking out for your best interests. And just because I made an appointment for next week, doesn't mean that I believe you're going to be here. In fact, I'm doing this because I know you'll be going back."

He looked at her distractedly. "What?"

"Well, if you get these vaccines, it will protect you. When you go back-and please note that I said when, not if-at least I'll know that you won't die of some disease that could have been prevented. I-I guess it would make me feel better to know that you're healthy… and alive."

"That is very thoughtful of you, Merrie-girl," he said. Pausing, he drew a deep breath and forced a smile. "I have a taste for some of Mr. Muldoon's crab cakes. I think we should have lunch."

"Why won't you talk to me?" Meredith asked in frustration. "Whenever you seem bothered by something, you bottle it up inside. There is nothing wrong with expressing your feelings. It doesn't make you any less a man."

"Nothing is bothering me," he said with a shrug, continuing down the road.

Neither of them spoke again until the waitress had seated them on the deck of the Pirate's Cove, overlooking the tiny harbor. She greeted Meredith warmly and gave Griffin an appreciative glance, then placed a menu in front of them.

Griffin studied the menu intently, then dropped it to the table and sighed. "It is not something I find simple," he replied. "You seem to want to speak of everything, leaving nothing to private contemplation."

"That's not it," Meredith said, picking up the conversation as if there had been no lull at all. "It's just that we've been living together for nearly two weeks and I know very little about you. If we were truly friends, then you would talk to me."

"I could drink a pint of ale right now," Griffin said, looking out across the water.

"You're doing it again," Meredith said.

"It seems I'm not hungry, after all," Griffin said, pushing to his feet.

Meredith rolled her eyes at the waitress's questioning look. Griffin stood next to the table for a moment, waiting for her to get up, but she stubbornly picked up her menu and studied it.

"I'm hungry," she said, "and I'm going to have some lunch. You can join me and we'll talk, or you can find a nice quiet place and spend the rest of your afternoon in brooding solitude."

"All right," he said, sinking into the chair across from her. The waitress hurried over and took their orders before Griffin had another chance to escape, then brought them two mugs of beer and a basket of hush puppies.

Griffin picked up a hush puppy from the paper-lined basket, stared at the deep-fried blob of cornmeal for a long moment, then put it back where he got it. "My wife died of yellow fever," he said bluntly, his gaze fixed on the plastic basket.

His words hit Meredith like a bolt from the blue, causing her heart to skip a beat. "Your-your wife?" Meredith asked, attempting to eliminate the shock from her voice.

"Jane," he said without emotion. "She died four years ago… with our son. There was an outbreak of yellow fever all along the James."

"Did you catch it?"

He laughed, the sound bitter with self-disgust. "I was not there. I was at sea, on my way back from London, captaining the Spirit. I was so pleased with myself. I had a hold full of China tea I'd traded for Virginia tobacco. And I had purchased a cradle with a bit of our profits. When I arrived in Williamsburg, my father was waiting at the dock. He told me Jane had given me a son. Then he told me they had both succumbed to the fever, just three days apart."

"I'm sorry," Meredith said softly. "You must have loved her very much."

He shook his head. "When we married, I barely knew her. But we came to care about each other. She was a good woman. Whenever I would leave for another long voyage, she would smile and kiss me goodbye. She never complained. She gave me a son. I will not soon forget that."

"Life is a very fragile thing where you come from," Meredith said.

His jaw tightened. "Do you know how they fight the fever in my time? They fire cannons and muskets, and people carry bits of tar with them. They soak sponges in camphor and dip handkerchiefs in vinegar. And they put garlic in their shoes. I am not a physician, Merrie, but even I sense this is not right. Yet I have no idea what might prevent this disease."

"You should drain stagnant ponds and dump out every barrel of rainwater. The fever is spread by mosquitoes."

He looked at her in shock. "Mosquitoes?" He considered the notion for a moment, then tipped his head back and sighed. "I find it a great irony that I've come to a time where women and children do not die of the fever, where a prick of a needle can protect a life against a tiny insect and Jane needn't have died." He paused and shook his head. "A great irony."

"There are many diseases which we've found cures for- typhus, smallpox, measles, the plague. But there are others that still baffle medical science. I guess things haven't changed that much."

They sat in silence for a long while. Meredith was startled by the traces of agony that etched his frozen expression. Slowly, she reached out and wove her fingers through his. "Thank you for telling me," she said. "It helps me to understand."

He didn't reply, merely stared out at the harbor, his features frozen. Meredith's heart ached for him, for his dead wife and the baby son he'd never held. For she could see in the depths of his pale eyes that he blamed himself for their deaths. And she could see that the blame was eating away at him.

And in that instant, she knew it was not just his honor standing between them, but his guilt.

The late-afternoon sun beat down on Griffin's bare back as he scraped another layer of paint off the hull of the old shrimp boat. It felt good to labor again, to work so hard the sweat dripped from his forehead and his muscles ached.

He'd been working for nearly a week and he and Merrie had slipped into an easy routine, a routine in which they kept a careful but friendly distance from each other. Still, the attraction between them had not diminished, and though he only visited her bedroom while she slept, he had been hard-pressed to keep from touching her in all the ways he wanted to.

The thought of her body beneath his hands caused a flood of warmth to pool in his lap and he quickly turned back to work, scraping at the paint with renewed vigor.

Early Jackson was below deck, tinkering with the engine, leaving Griffin to his own thoughts. From the time Griffin was a child, he'd been fascinated by boats and ships. He and his father had spent hours together, carving model-ship hulls from wood before they commissioned the Betty. And at one time, Griffin had thought he might prefer the building of ships to the sailing of them.

In his year at William and Mary, he'd studied mathematics to better understand the design of a hull and the efficiency of a sail. Now, as he worked on refurbishing the shrimper, he found a certain satisfaction in bringing a battered old boat back to life.

Perhaps this would not be a bad way to make a living. Surely there were many boats like this one, boats that needed a tender hand and a loving eye. Griffin stood and stretched, examining the morning's work.

If the boat were his, instead of Early's, he would treat her with much more care. He would strip her to the bare wood and sand her until she was smooth as silk. Then he would lay on a perfect coat of white paint. And after every piece of brightwork was varnished and every winch spitshined, he would hand-carve a nameplate for each side of the bow. Griffin smiled to himself. And he'd call her the Merry Girl.

"Hey, sailor. How about some supper?"

Griffin shaded his eyes against the sun and found Merrie watching him from the side of the road, a teasing smile on her face. She was wearing a loose cotton dress in cornflower blue, which left her arms bare, and a pair of sandals that allowed her toes to peek out. He still hadn't gotten used to seeing Merrie's feet and ankles displayed in public, much less her knees, but that didn't prevent him from appreciating the view.

Bracing his shoulder on the boat's cradle, he grinned and waved.

She jogged up to the boat, swinging a basket at her side. "Are you hungry?" she asked.

"Ravenous," he said. He pulled up the cloth that covered the contents of the basket and peered inside. "Did you bring me a soda pop?"

She pulled out a can and flipped the top. "What are you going to do when you go back and you can't have soda pop with every meal?"

He wiped his hands on the ragged, paint-spattered blue jeans that Early had given him, then took a long swallow of the cold pop, nearly draining the can. "Maybe I will just have to stay," he said. "The prospect of life without soda pop is nearly too much to bear."

She laughed, taking his words more lightly than they were really meant. By the minute, the prospect of life without Merrie was becoming even more unthinkable. He looked forward to seeing her every day, to listening to her musical voice, to watching her face light up with a smile.

"Can you take some time to eat? We can have supper right here if you like."

He slipped into his shirt, then grabbed her hand. "I have a better idea. I am finished for the day. Come." Griffin snatched the basket from her hands and dragged her across the parking lot, then stopped beside a small motorcycle. "We will go for a ride."

Merrie stared at the motorcycle. "I don't know how to drive this thing."

"Ah, but I do. Early taught me a few days ago. He sends me down to the hardware store on this machine to fetch supplies. 'Tis quite… exhilarating."

"You can't drive this without a license," Merrie said.

Griffin frowned. "What is a license? Early did not tell me this."

"It's a permit that allows you to drive on the roads. Didn't you tell Early you don't have a driver's license?"

Griffin shrugged. "How could I tell him this if I didn't know I needed one?" He climbed onto the bike and pushed it back off its stand. "Get on. We'll go for a ride now."

"I don't think so," Merrie said.

"Come," he said, grabbing her hand. "We'll have fun. And I will not drive fast."

With a reluctant smile, Merrie climbed onto the back of the bike. Griffin wedged the basket between them, then kicked the starter as Early had taught him. Moments later, they were weaving down the narrow road that circled the harbor. When they reached the highway, Griffin turned and headed out of town.

As he promised, he didn't drive fast, but Merrie still clutched his waist with both hands. "I can't believe I'm doing this!" she shouted.

He laughed, then twisted the throttle, increasing the bike's speed. She screamed and grabbed him more tightly as they sped down the highway. Once they left the boundaries of the village, all signs of civilization disappeared, save for the long strip of paved road in front of them.

Most of the island was a national seashore, he had been told, though he wasn't sure exactly what that meant. What he did know was there were no houses or people beyond the town. The island looked much as it had when he'd first sailed past it nearly three centuries ago-sweeping sand dunes, pristine beaches and tall sea grass waving in the breeze.

Griffin turned off the main road and followed a sandy path, then stopped the motorcycle. Merrie slipped off the back and ran her fingers through her windblown hair still clutching the basket with one white-knuckled hand. He climbed off the bike and stood beside her. "'Tis like riding a very fast horse," he said.

"I've never ridden a horse, so I wouldn't know," Merrie replied.

"Trust me, this is much better. Come, we will have a picnic on the beach. I want to relax. I have worked hard today."

Hand in hand, they climbed up one side of a dune and slid down the other. In front of them, the deserted white sand beach stretched long and wide. Waves broke against the shore, and above the brilliant blue water, seabirds dipped and swayed on the breeze.

Griffin grabbed the small tablecloth from the basket and spread it out on the sand, then pulled Merrie down beside him. As she unpacked the basket, he watched her, enjoying the sight of her bright eyes and rosy cheeks and quick smile.

Over the past week, they had spent little time together. Griffin had worked from sunrise to sunset, glad for a reason to put some distance between himself and Merrie. It had become much more difficult of late to see her and ignore the deep stirring of desire she provoked in him.

Most nights, he fell asleep on the couch after dinner. Hours later, in the middle of the night, as he paced the floors of the cottage, he would sneak into her bedroom and watch her sleep, always certain to leave before dawn without waking her. If she knew he was there, she didn't speak of it in the light of day. In fact, she seemed to prefer this space between them, as if it made living together, and the prospect of his leaving, much easier.

He was beginning to wonder if he'd ever go back. Every night he stood on the beach at midnight, waiting for some sign, for the powers that had brought him here to snatch him up and send him back. But night after night, nothing happened. He was running out of time and there was nothing he could do about it.

Griffin rested his arms on his bent knees and stared out at the ocean. He pointed to the east. "See that?" he asked.

Merrie squinted into the distance. "What?"

He leaned nearer to her, his shoulder brushing hers. To his relief, she didn't move away, but tipped her head closer. "There," he murmured, turning to inhale the fresh scent of her hair. His gaze drifted along the delicate features of her face and came to rest on her perfect mouth. He'd nearly forgotten how she could addle his brain with just a guileless smile. "Just beyond the horizon."

She squinted. "I don't see anything."

"England," he said. "'Tis right over there…somewhere."

Merrie turned to look at him, then blinked in surprise at his sudden nearness. "If that's how you navigate," she said softly, "remind me never to get on a boat with you again." With trembling hands, she dug through the basket, then pushed a sandwich at him.

Griffin unwrapped the sandwich and took a bite, glad for a brief distraction. "I believe I would like to see London in your time," he said as he chewed. "It must be a grand city by now."

"It is," Merrie said, her expression uneasy.

"Then you have been there?"

"Several times. But I would like to see London in yourtime, before cars and buses and modern buildings."

"Then I will send you back to deal with Blackbeard," he said. "There are times when I swear you could charm the man into surrender with just a simple smile."

Merrie gave him a sideways glance. "They say he was quite the ladies' man."

"He is said to have married many women," Griffin replied. "Most put the number at ten or twelve, but no one is certain." He paused. "Early Jackson was telling me a story about a pirate festival Teach held on the island in late September 1718. According to him, 'tis quite a colorful legend. The afternoon I went overboard, Teach was planning to set sail for Ocracoke. Do you know of this legend?"

Merrie nodded hesitantly.

"Then tell me of it. I want to know it, everything."

"I-I don't know much," she began, "but they anchored their ships in Teach's Hole and went ashore on the southern tip of the island. Charles Vane was there, and Calico Jack Rackham, and Robert Deal and Israel Hands. They barbecued a couple cows and hogs, and drank a lot of rum. There was music and dancing. When word of this festival reached Governor Spotswood, the story had become twisted into the news that the pirates were building a fortress on the island. It was after this that he began to make firm plans to set off for Ocracoke and capture Blackbeard."

"You know much about this legend," Griffin said. "Everyone knows about it," Merrie replied, a hint of defensiveness in her voice. "Not just me."

He frowned. "I have been thinking. Perhaps there is no reason for me to go back," he said. "Perhaps it will all happen without me."

"You can't know that," Merrie said. "Not for sure. You have the journal and the letters. For all we know, those may have had an effect on Spotswood's decision, or on the outcome."

He turned to face her. "But I am beginning to think there isno way back, Merrie. We have tried everything, to no avail."

She gave him a sideways glance. "Would that be so bad, if you couldn't return?" Her green eyes were filled with curiosity.

He stared at her for a moment, then, with a frustrated sigh, he lay back on the sand and threw his arm over his eyes. "I have invested so much of my energy over the past year on bringing Blackbeard down," he murmured. "It has become part of who I am. I would like to think that I might have had the chance to put a finish to this, to make Teach pay for what he did to my father."

"And maybe you still will," she said.

Griffin laughed harshly. "Damn, I do not even know how I got here!" He pulled his arm from his eyes and found Merrie leaning over him.

"Griffin, there is something… something I need to tell you."

"What is it?"

She bit her bottom lip and winced. "You'll be angry."

He reached out and cupped her cheek in his palm. "What troubles you so, Merrie?"

"It's just that I-I-" Suddenly, without warning, she brought her mouth down on his and kissed him, quick and hard. Then, as if she'd surprised even herself, she drew away, her eyes wide with shock.

Gently, Griffin placed his hand on her nape and drew her closer. "I cannot be happy with just one sweet taste, Merrie-girl," he murmured against her lips. "I must have more."

She opened to him and he pressed her mouth to his, quietly demanding her surrender. Hesitantly, her tongue touched his and a warm rush of desire washed over him, heating his blood, making his pulse race. Lord, how could he fight this, these exquisite sensations that her touch aroused?

Wrapping his arms around her waist, he pulled her beneath him, settling himself against her bewitching body, his hips pressed against hers. How long had it been since he'd felt such need for a woman? He'd lost himself in so many after Jane's death, and though they'd slaked the ache in his loins, none had soothed the ache he felt deep in his heart. After a time, he'd stopped trying to numb the pain and avoided women altogether.

But somehow, he knew Merrie would make his heart soar with pleasure and his body shudder with passion. He would bury himself deep inside her and there he would find his release. The past would finally melt away and he would be left with only the present… and the future… and the woman who had freed him from his demons.

Without breaking their kiss, he pushed up on one arm and reached between them, fumbling with the buttons of her dress. One by one, he loosened them, then relinquished her lips for the silken skin of her neck and shoulder. He parted the bodice of her dress and slipped his palm inside, then froze.

Instinct had trained him to expect another layer or two, a chemise and a corset at least. Instead, his hand cupped the soft flesh of her breast and hard bud of her nipple. He sucked in a sharp breath and held it, waiting until the overwhelming need for release passed.

He had thought to deny this attraction between them would be to honor her. But now he knew he was wrong, for to make love to her, to give himself entirely to this woman, without reserve, would be the greatest honor of all.

Griffin brushed his lips along her collarbone, tasting her silken skin and tracing a path between her breasts. And then, with exquisite care, he drew her nipple softly between his lips, teasing at it with his teeth, exciting it with his tongue.

She moaned softly, then whispered his name. Weaving her fingers through his hair, she pressed him against her, the sweet torment of his mouth on her breast no longer enough for her.

Griffin focused his thoughts, trying to control his hunger. He knew the moment he entered her, he would be lost in an explosion of long-denied need. So he would take her slowly, treating her with great care and bringing her own passions to the surface, waiting until she was ready for him at last.

Reaching down, he drew her leg up against his thigh, sliding his palm along the length of her limb, his hard shaft fitted against a spot between her thighs. "I need you, Merrie," he murmured. He drew back and pressed his palm against her cheek, stroking her reddened lips with his thumb. "Faith, but I think I must have been brought here to make love to you, for there is no other reason I can fathom."

Her eyes snapped open and she looked directly at him, her expression suddenly lucid, the hazy passion in her eyes clearing like the morning fog beneath the sun.

"I-I can't do this," she murmured. She glanced around, then wiggled out from under him, clutching at the buttons of her dress. "I-I'm sorry… I shouldn't have… I mean, this was all my fault."

"Merrie, wait. I did not mean to-"

"We should go now." She grabbed the basket and stumbled to her feet. "I-I'll meet you back at the road." Griffin watched as she clambered up the dune, slipping and sliding against the steep mound of sand. When she disappeared behind it, he flopped back down and cursed out loud.

What the devil had he done wrong? He knew things between men and women had changed in the past three centuries. But a woman's honor was now her own responsibility-or so Merrie had told him. Besides, she'd had other men and how many, he didn't care to speculate. Had he been so inept that he hadn't even lived up to her past lovers? No, that couldn't be so! She had responded to his touch, urging him on with her soft, pleading moans.

Griffin groaned. For the first time in a very long while, he felt like a fumbling boy, untrained in the ways of the world. He had made a mess of things, of that he was certain.

There was only one solution to his dilemma, to this war that raged between his past and his present. He had little chance of returning to his own time. No matter how much he wanted to go back, he'd have to come to terms with making a life here, in the twentieth century. So he would do the only proper thing after their unfortunate encounter on the beach. All their problems would be solved.

He would simply take Merrie as his wife.

The night breeze blew softly through the screened porch, ruffling Meredith's hair and cooling her flushed skin. Curling her feet beneath her on the chaise longue, she listened idly to the songs of the crickets and the gentle ebb and flow of the waves. But her eyes never strayed from the figure that stood on the beach, illuminated by the light of a half moon.

Griffin stood at the water's edge, staring out across the Sound, his hands braced on his hips. He'd been there since they'd arrived back home, pacing, then stopping to gaze at the horizon. He'd spent many midnights in the same spot, watching and waiting, at the edge of the water while she pretended to sleep. But tonight was different.

He was still dressed in the faded jeans and ragged shirt that he'd worn to work. The leather pouch was still sitting on the mantel and his boots and breeches were inside the hall closet. For the first time in many nights, Griffin was not waiting to leave. And in that realization, Meredith knew she should feel some joy. But all she felt was utter confusion and a healthy dose of remorse.

She drew a long breath and closed her eyes. She'd wanted to go to him, to explain her sudden rejection of his advances, but then she'd thought better of it. For an explanation would also require a confession, and she wasn't sure he was ready to listen to what she had to say. Nor was she prepared to tell him what she'd been trying to deny from the night he'd arrived…that shewas the cause of his leap in time.

Meredith covered her eyes with her hands. It had to be the truth, nothing else made sense. Over the past week, she'd carefully questioned him about Blackbeard, knowing full well it may be the catalyst to send him back. But to her surprise, she'd discovered that Griffin knew very little about the man he hunted and could provide few facts that she didn't already know. She'd somehow forgotten that news did not travel fast in colonial America. Without the benefit of newspapers and television, news of Black-beard's crimes and background had been spread mostly by word of mouth.

She was now certain she'd brought him here as an answer to her fantasies. Over the past week, she had desperately tried to a recall a specific incident, an errant musing or a frustrated thought that may have provided the key. Yet nothing had come to mind. One day she was happily writing a biography and the next night, he was lying on her beach, half dead, her fantasy man come to life.

She would have to tell him the truth before their relationship went any further. But she couldn't bring herself to say the words without sounding as if she'd lost her mind.

Meredith snatched her hands from her eyes. "What am I supposed to do?" she muttered to herself.

"Perhaps you could begin by explaining what happened between us, Merrie."

She sat upright, her gaze riveted on Griffin who was standing at the end the chaise. Damn his pirate tricks! He moved like a cat, with unerring stealth. So much for her plan to be safely locked in her bedroom before he headed back inside.

"I-I really don't know what to say," Meredith said.

"Did I do something wrong?"

Meredith got to her feet. "Oh, no," she said nervously. "It's my fault. I guess-I guess I just wasn't ready. There are some things that we need to talk about before we…you know."

"'Tis my fault," Griffin countered. "I pushed you."

"No…no, you didn't." Meredith winced. "Griffin, I think you should know that I'm the one who is-"

Griffin reached out and placed his finger over her lips. "Merrie, I think I know what you want to say."

"Griffin, I-"

"As I see it, there is only one solution to this problem between us. We must marry."

Meredith looked up and met his gaze, then shook her head in confusion. "What?"

"I want you to be my wife."

"You-you want me to marryyou?"

He nodded. "After this afternoon, I believe it is the only honorable thing to do. My behavior was improper and ill-mannered. And though I know you do not have a care for your virtue, I must."

"And you think you'll protect myvirtue by marrying me?" Meredith asked, unable to contain her disbelief. "Are you crazy?"

Griffin shifted on his feet and frowned, obviously not getting the response he'd expected. "No, I am in complete control of my faculties."

Meredith laughed. "You want to marry me because of one little roll in the sand? We didn't do anything!"

"We did plenty. Now, will you marry me or not?"

"No!" Meredith shouted. For an instant, she couldn't believe she was actually turning down his marriage proposal. But then, she knew she had no other choice.

Griffin took a step back. "I don't understand. Why not?"

"What about when you go back? Do you really expect me to marry someone who might suddenly get yanked back to his own century? Just so you won't feel guilty when we sleep together?"

Griffin grabbed her hands. "Merrie, let us be honest here. I don't think I will be going back. With every day that passes, this fact becomes more real to me."

"You-you can't be sure of that," she said.

"Marry me," he repeated.

"No," Meredith said, snatching her hands from his. "I will not marry you, Griffin Rourke."

With that, she turned and walked through the door, making a point to slam it behind her. Of all the nerve! Who did he think he was? She couldn't imagine a more ridiculous proposal. Honor? He could take his half-witted proposal and his moral obligation and shove it, for all she cared.

"Damn it, Merrie, wait!"

"Leave me alone, Griffin!"

Meredith strode to her bedroom and slammed that door, as well. "A marriage proposal should be based on love, not some debt of honor," she muttered. "If he thinks I'd even consider such an insult, he's more provincial than I thought!"

Meredith threw herself on the bed and covered her head with a pillow. All right, so maybe she was tempted to accept. Deep inside, she wanted nothing more than to spend her life with Griffin Rourke. But she also wanted a marriage based on love, not duty. And she was not fool enough to believe that Griffin loved her. He may desire her, but he did not love her. In his mind, love was not necessary to make a good marriage.

Yet, that didn't stop her from wanting him. There wasn't a minute that passed in which she didn't think of him and didn't wonder what it might be like between them. And the more time that passed, the more she began to see him as a man who belonged in her time.

When he was dressed in body-hugging jeans and a torn T-shirt, she could almost believe that he had been born in the same decade as she had. His speech had even slipped into more familiar patterns and as time passed, he seemed more comfortable with his surroundings.

Meredith sighed. Who was she trying to fool? When it came right down to it, he was still Griffin Rourke-a man whose heart and soul belonged to the past.