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.
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.'
