A few moments later, the tavern keeper returned with a strange concoction in an even stranger-looking glass. A tiny parasol and a plastic flower floated in the pink drink, the parasol skewering what Griffin assumed was fruit, though it didn't look like any fruit he'd ever seen. He took a hesitant swallow and smiled. Somewhere during the past few centuries, rum had mellowed from a hellish, eye-popping liquor to a smooth, subtle drink, barely perceptible beneath the exotic blend of fruit juice. He drained the glass and placed it on the bar.
"Another?" the tavern keeper asked.
Griffin nodded.
A second drink was placed in front of him. This time, Griffin sipped more slowly, savoring the sweet blend of juice and rum.
"You're Meredith's friend, aren't you?"
Griffin looked up. He'd known his presence on the island had caused some speculation, but he hadn't thought it would become talk for the taproom. Still, he shouldn't be surprised. He was blatantly living with an unmarried, and unchaperoned, woman. A woman with considerable charm, one that any man might find difficult to resist. "How have you come to know this?" Griffin asked.
The big man chuckled. "You're on an island, buddy. No such thing as privacy. Besides, Meredith's a born-and-bred Ocracoker. Her daddy was a shrimper on the island for years and her mama was the second cousin of our current police chief. We all watch out for our own, if you know what I mean." He sent Griffin a pointed look.
"I am her friend," Griffin said. "That much is so."
"Hmm. You two have a fight?"
"What?" Griffin asked. He'd never met a tavern keeper quite like this man. Idle gossip belonged in the parlor with maiden aunts and in the kitchen with household servants, not at the local ordinary. But then, he and Merrie hadn't parted on the best of terms this morning. Damn, his temper. When would he learn to control it?
"We did not have a fight," Griffin replied grudgingly. "Just a few cross words at breakfast." He would make a point to apologize as soon as he returned to the cottage. And he would vow never to inflict his boorish moods on her again. "To be perfectly truthful, Ihad a few cross words. She merely listened."
"So you're in the doghouse," Tank stated, nodding his head in understanding.
"Doghouse?" Griffin asked.
"You know, banished to the sofa? No more nooky?"
"Nooky?" Griffin frowned, at a complete loss to understand the man's meaning.
"Hey, I'm a bartender," he said. "It's not that I'm nosy, but we're supposed to ask." He held out his hand. "Trevor Muldoon. My friends call me Tank."
Griffin shook his hand. "I am Rourke. Griffin Rourke. My friends call me Griff."
"You don't sound like you're from around here, Griff," Tank said. He picked up a wet glass from beneath the bar and dried it distractedly. "What is that accent-British? You from England?"
Griffin scrambled for an answer. "Yes," he replied, certain that was safe enough. "London." He shifted on the stool. All he'd wanted was a drink and now he was stuck with an inquisition that rivaled the Spanish. If he was lucky, Tank's knowledge of England would be limited and the questions would stop here and now.
"You're a long way from home," Tank commented. "How long do you plan to stay round these parts?"
The real inquiry was subtly hidden beneath Tank's innocent question. How long do you intend to reside with Meredith? Griffin shrugged. "I haven't decided," he replied.
"You and Meredith an item?" Tank asked, his gaze moving from his task to watch Griffin.
"An item?"
"A thing," he clarified. "Are you… together?"
"I-I am not sure of your meaning," Griffin said. Was he asking him if he and Merrie slept in the same bed? Or was he questioning what went on in that bed?
Tank snorted. "When it comes to women, no one's ever sure, right, Griff?"
Griffin forced a smile. His relationship with Merrie was not a fit subject for public discussion and he wasn't about to let this go any further. Besides, at this moment, he wasn't sure exactly what his relationship with the fair Merrie was.
"So," Tank said, "have you and Merrie been keepin' company for a long time?"
"Not long," Griffin said. He drew a long breath. "I have been wondering what a man does around here to make a wage." The change in topic was clumsy, but the tavern keeper didn't seem to notice.
"You mean, like a job?" Tank asked.
Griffin nodded, not wanting to say the words, but compelled to ask. Over the past few days, he'd been considering what the future might hold. Merrie had found nothing in her little computer box to help him, and her friend still hadn't called. He couldn't just sit still and wait for something to happen. He needed to occupy himself, or risk losing his mind. And he couldn't continue to live off Merrie's charity.
"If I would decide to stay on this island," Griffin said, "I will need to find work."
Tank grunted and shook his head. "Jobs are hard to come by on Ocracoke. Either you make a living off the tourists or you make your money on the water. Beyond that, there's not much left. What kind of work do you do?"
"I have made my living on the sea, crossing the Atlantic on a merchant ship."
"Well, I can watch out for something on one of the fishing boats," Tank said. "Can't promise much, though."
"I would appreciate that," Griffin said. "Thank you."
A man at the other end of the bar called Tank's name, and to Griffin's relief, the tavern keeper turned and walked away. Griffin sat alone for a long time, listening to the strange music that filled the room and watching the other patrons while he had more of Anne Bonny's Grog. This was what he was hoping for-a dark corner, a numbing drink and a moment to consider what lay ahead.
He'd spent the last few days at war with himself, refusing to believe that he might never get back. But he was a practical man, a man who was used to thinking on his feet and attacking a problem head-on. If he couldn't return, he'd have to find a position that paid a wage and make a new life for himself. He was not a man who would consider being kept by a woman, even a woman as kind and compassionate as Merrie.
Griffin cursed himself and downed the rest of his rum punch in one long gulp. What was wrong with his head? Was the course he'd set against Teach so meaningless that he'd given it up already? Merrie or no Merrie, he could not stay here-he would not. He didn't belong here, he belonged in his own time. Teach was waiting.
Griffin grabbed the remainder of his money and shoved it in his pocket, then slid off the stool, ready to take his leave. But Tank approached, another drink in his hand. He placed it in front of Griffin and grinned.
"I did not call for another drink," Griffin said.
"This one's compliments of the lady over there." Tank cocked his head in the direction of a young woman sitting on the far corner of the bar. She crooked her little finger at him and tossed her red hair over her shoulder. He had seen that coy smile on more than one willing tavern wench.
There was a time, after Jane's death, that he would have strolled drunkenly over to her and pulled her lush body against his. She'd smell of other men, but he wouldn't care. He'd slip a coin between her breasts and they'd climb the stairs to a well-used room where he'd lift her skirts and slake his need.
Griffin grabbed the glass and tipped it in the woman's direction, then drained it. She slowly slipped off her stool and sauntered toward him. He waited until she stood at his side, her ample breasts pressed against his upper arm, her perfume thick in the air.
"Hi," she cooed. "You're new around here, aren't you?"
He looked down into her inviting gaze, then at her pouting red-painted lips. Ripe and ready to be plucked. It didn't matter which century he was in, he knew what she wanted. And what he should want, as well.
But instead, he found himself comparing this woman to his sweet Merrie. Merrie who smelled of fresh air and soap. Merrie who needed no paint to enhance her pretty features and whose slender, almost boyish body had curled against him in sleep. Merrie who asked nothing of him, but gave him so much.
&n
bsp; Griffin reached into his pocket and pulled out what was left of his money. He pressed the wad of bills into the woman's hand. "I thank you for the drink," he said, "and the tempting offer. But I fear I cannot stay. I am in the…" He frowned, groping for the word. "Doghouse," he finally said. "I am in the doghouse and must find my way out before morning."
With that, he turned toward the door, leaving the woman gaping with shock and staring after him. No, he couldn't stay and enjoy what she offered. Merrie was waiting for him at home, and whether he wanted to admit it or not, he found more pleasure in the prospect of spending the wee hours of the night standing over Merrie's bed and watching her sleep, than he would losing himself in a stranger's body.
4
Griffin banged his shin on a small table as he stumbled through the living room in the dark. He cursed softly, trying to remember how it was the lamps turned on and off, then paused for a moment and let his eyes adjust. A sliver of light shone from beneath Merrie's bedroom door.
He knocked softly and when she called out, he opened the door. Merrie looked up at him from her bed, her spectacles perched on the end of her nose. She held the little box that she called a laptop computer, and papers were scattered about her on the coverlet.
She looked so fresh-faced and lovely that desire welled up inside him and he had to fight the impulse to cross the room and pull her into his arms. Lord, he needed a woman right now, and he wanted that woman to be Merrie.
Fighting back his impulses, he forced a smile, an expression that she hesitantly returned. "I am glad to see I am not in the doghouse anymore," he said, strolling into the room to sit on the edge of the bed.
"The doghouse?" she asked.
"You are not angry with me."
"Why would I be angry?" she asked.
He frowned. "In my century, a woman does not like a man to stay but late at night, drinking ale and telling tales with his friends."
"Is that what you were doing?" She sniffed, then crinkled her nose. "Which one of them was wearing the cheap perfume?" she asked dryly.
He ignored her last question in favor of the first. "Not ale. Rum." He reached inside his shirt pocket and pulled out a handful of tiny parasols and plastic flowers. "And a fine drink it was. I brought these for you." He pushed a parasol up and down, still amazed at how they worked. "I don't understand why they are used to hold fruit, but I found them interesting."
Merrie picked up one of the parasols and played with it, smiling. He found his attention captured by her mouth… her soft, moist lips that cried out to be kissed… kissed by him… long and hard.
"Thank you," she said. "That was very thoughtful." She counted the umbrellas. "You drank six of Tank's rum punches?"
He blinked and turned his gaze away from the intimate study of her mouth. "They tasted good and he kept placing them in front of me. It would have been rude to refuse."
Merrie sighed and looked at him with large, green eyes. "I'm sorry that you're so unhappy here," she said softly. "I wish I could help you, but I don't know how. I'm trying my best."
He was struck again by how beautiful she looked. He reached out to smooth the lines of worry from her forehead and a rush of warmth traveled though him, pooling at his core, as he touched her silken skin. "I have a bad temper, that is true, but I don't mean to abuse you with it." Griffin slowly moved his thumb across her lower lip, resisting the temptation to cover her mouth with his. "I am sorry for my harsh words. And I am thankful for what you have done for me, Merrie-girl."
"But you want to go home," she said, her eyes wide.
He sighed and picked up her hand, then wove his fingers through hers, wondering at how tiny and delicate she was. "I have no choice," he said, forcing himself to believe the words. "I must."
She drew a deep breath and he felt her fingers tighten around his. "My friend, Kelsey, stopped by while you were out. She was on her way back to Williamsburg from her symposium."
Griffin snapped his head up, his heart stopping in his chest. "What did she say?"
"The only advice she could offer for now was that we should try to duplicate the conditions of that night. Then maybe we can find the hole in time that you stepped through."
Griffin bit back a curse. "Duplicate a hurricane? Unless you have found a way to change the weather in this century, that sounds nearly impossible."
"Maybe we don't actually need a hurricane," Merrie explained. "Hopefully, any storm will do. Maybe even a good hard rain."
"So we just have to wait for a storm?"
"For now. Until we figure out another way."
Griffin pulled in the reins on his temper. She didn't deserve another of his angry outbursts. He had put her through too much already. "You told your friend, Kelsey, about me?" he asked evenly.
She shook her head. "I just gave her a hypothetical situation. I told her I was thinking of writing a novel. If I'd told her the truth, she would have put me on the first bus to the funny farm."
Griffin opened his mouth to ask just what a "bus" and a "funny farm" were, then realized he was still in the dark about "nooky." He ignored the impulse to investigate further. Instead, he pushed himself off the bed and began to pace the room. He felt her eyes following him. "What time of day did you find me?" he asked.
"Midnight," she replied.
"And what were the conditions?"
"Very weird," she recalled. "The storm was raging outside, and then all of a sudden, it stopped. It became so calm it was frightening."
"And how did you find me?"
She frowned. "I'm not sure, but I remember feeling compelled to go outside. I was just looking around and there you were."
"Where?"
"In the backyard."
He stepped to the bedroom window and pulled back the lace curtain. "Where, precisely?"
"About five yards straight out from the big cedar," she replied. "The water was really high. The waves were almost halfway across the lawn."
Griffin stared out into the dark and considered all she had told him, trying to remember something, anything, about that night. But from the time he'd fallen overboard and hit the water until the time he'd woken up on her sofa, his mind was a blank.
"There is one other thing," Merrie said softly.
"What is that?"
"I-I was thinking that maybe my beach isn't the place this started. Maybe it's just where you ended up."
"I don't understand," Griffin said.
"I called a charter service after I spoke with Kelsey and I've rented a sailboat for a few days. If the weather is good, we can leave tomorrow. I thought we could sail across the Sound, up the Pamlico River and find the spot where you fell in. We might find a clue. It's a long day's sail, so we can moor the boat in Bath and spend the night there, then sail back the next day."
"That is a clever plan, Merrie-girl," he said, turning to her in surprise. "Do you know how to sail?"
"My father and I used to have a little boat when I was a child. And what I don't remember, you can fill in. I don't think sailing has changed that much over the past three hundred years."
For the first time since he'd arrived in this place, he felt a sense of hope. If he could get back within a week, he might be able to salvage his plan to bring Blackbeard down. He would be glad to leave, for there was nothing of interest to him here… except Merrie.
Over the past few days, he'd been surprised at the depth of her spirit and resolve. Though he'd been in a foul mood, she hadn't backed down from him. She didn't run to her bedchamber, weeping at his surly treatment. Nor did she pout for days on end, or send for her mother and her sisters. Instead, she constantly challenged him, forcing him to see this place for what it had to offer.
She was a strong woman, a woman that a man could depend on. And he couldn't deny his feelings for her any longer. He cared about her and her happiness, and he didn't feel at all comfortable about leaving her here alone. But he had a task that he must complete and nothing must stand in his way.
He slowly let the
curtain drop and returned to sit on the bed, his back to her. He scrubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands, then raked his fingers through his hair. "What if I can't get back?" he murmured.
He felt her hand on his shoulder, warm and reassuring, and he closed his eyes, giving in to her gentle touch.
"We'll think about that if and when the time comes," she said.
Griffin turned and looked into Merrie's eyes. As long as he was determined to return, she would support his choice, of that he was certain. His gaze dropped to her mouth again, her lips so lush and ripe. "Why are you alone?" he asked.
She blinked, confusion clouding her expression. "I-I don't understand."
"Why is there no man to protect you? When I leave, you'll have no one. Are you not afraid?"
A winsome smile curved the corners of her mouth. "I don't need someone to protect me, Griffin," she said. "I'm all right on my own."
"But you are well past the age of marriage, and-"
"And where you come from they'd call me a spinster or an old maid, right?"
"A thornback," he added.
"Well, I wouldn't care what they called me."
"Then you prefer to live this way. Alone?"
Her cheeks took on a pink glow and she shrugged. "I don't know. I guess I don't think about it, Griffin. It's not that important to me. The sexual revolution gave me, and all women, choices. I have my career and if I want, I can have a husband, also."
He was going to ask what the sexual revolution was, but decided to return to more pressing matters. "Well, I believe it is important. You must choose a husband. You must not put it off any longer."
"It's not as easy as that," Merrie said. "There are many things to consider."
"What about this Muldoon? He seems like a good man, he is even-tempered and healthy, he owns a large establishment with many patrons. He would make you a fine husband. I could approach this man with an offer if you would like."
"Tank Muldoon and me?" Merrie considered the match for only a moment before she laughed, a warm musical sound that filled the room. "Tank is a very nice man, but he's not my type."
The Pirate Page 7
