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."

2

Meredith tipped her chin up defiantly, trying hard to maintain her composure over his blatant threat. "You're in no position to be threatening me," she said. "As soon as the storm breaks, I'm going to get the sheriff and he'll throw you in jail."

Griffin cursed and strained against the ropes. To Meredith's relief, the bonds showed no signs of weakening. All those childhood knot-tying lessons on her father's shrimp boat had finally proven useful.

When his tantrum seemed to have run its course, she walked over to the couch and looked down at him. "You're the one who put yourself in this mess, getting drunk, going out in the middle of a hurricane. Threatening to kill me isn't making matters better."

He ground his teeth. "I would not kill you," he said. "I am not a man who would harm a woman, even if she be a lunatic harpy. And I am not drunk, I'll have you know. It takes more than a finger of rum to put me in my cups."

"Then whatever possessed you to go out in the midst of a hurricane?"

"I did not," Griffin replied. "The sky was clear when I went overboard." He swore softly and frowned. "Yet I cannot perceive of how I came to be in the water."

"You mean to tell me, you fell off a boat?" Meredith asked. "Where?"

"We were sailing into Bath Town, ready to drop anchor in Old Town Creek. That is why you must untie me, lass. I have to deliver the purse before it is found missing."

She shook her head. Obviously the knock on his noggin had jostled his brain. Bath was over sixty miles away, on Bath Creek, not Old Town Creek, its name in colonial times. To end up on her beach, he would have had to float down Bath Creek into the Pamlico River and across Pamlico Sound, over sixty miles in the midst of a hurricane. Without a life jacket, he wouldn't have had a chance. Maybe it would be best to act as if she believed him. At least she might get more information to give the sheriff. "What purse?"