Ordering a drink might be more complicated that he'd imagined. For all he knew, asking for an ale might mark him as an outsider and provoke questions he was not prepared to answer. Merrie would not appreciate that. She'd warned him what people might say if the truth were known. His voyage in time was not an everyday occurrence and if the townsfolk knew, they might think both of them had lost their minds.

Griffin couldn't fathom how this could be so, considering Merrie had told him he could wear a dress down Main Street without causing a stir. He smiled to himself. What would he have done without Merrie to help him navigate through the treacherous shoals of the twentieth century?

Over the past few days, he'd come to trust her, to depend on her for his very existence. If only there was a way to repay her for her kindness and understanding. But he possessed nothing more than the clothes she'd bought him and the pocketful of money she'd lent him. She deserved so much more.

His mind drifted to an image of her, standing beside him at the water's edge, the salt breeze blowing through her short-cropped hair, like a needle on a compass, his thoughts always returned to her. She was his North Star, his lantern in the fog, and try as he might, he couldn't deny the attraction he felt toward her.

She was nothing like the women he had known in his life. Merrie possessed an inner strength, as if she knew exactly who she was and what she was about. And she was clever, maybe even in possession of a brilliant mind, if all those books she studied were any proof.

But it was not her mind that drove him to distraction. It was that body of hers, so soft and slender. He'd thought himself immune to those feelings, his heart hardened into stone by the losses in his life. But like a sculptor with a sharp chisel, Merrie had begun to chip away at his defenses with her gentle touch, her sweet kindness, stirring a desire he'd thought completely dead. To his surprise, his soul had responded with a buoyancy, a resiliency he thought he'd lost.

Griffin took a deep breath and slipped onto an empty stool at the bar. Most of the patrons had a small mug of amber-colored liquid that didn't resemble the nut-brown brew he was used to. And there was not a hogshead to be seen anywhere. The proprietor approached, a huge hulk of a man with a white apron tied around his considerable girth.

"What can I get you?" he asked, his voice gruff but friendly.

Griffin stared at the tavern keeper, suddenly unsure of what to say. "What might you have?" he countered smoothly.

The man slapped a folded handbill down on the bar and Griffin stared at it with relief- A long bill of fare was exactly what he needed to steer his way through this strange place. Yet he saw nothing familiar-no ale or posset or metheglin, not even a mention of cider. He scanned the list of strange names until the familiar words rum and punchcaught his eye.

"I will have this," he said, pointing to the middle of the list.

The man's eyebrows shot up, but he didn't speak. "Anne Bonny's Grog? You sure you want that?"

Griffin nodded. He pulled out his money and placed it on the bar, but the man ignored it.

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.