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.