The Pirate

begun to believe as much of herself.

She groaned inwardly. If only that were true. If only she werea woman of action, she might be able to touch him, instead of just holding her hand so near to his body. Or she might have the nerve to kiss him, instead of just staring at his lips. Or she might even make love to him, instead of fantasizing about it.

She watched him for a long time, inhaling the scent of him, committing every detail of Griffin Rourke to her mind, knowing that at any moment, he might be snatched from her life forever.

As her eyes finally drifted shut and she felt herself slip ping toward sleep, she knew that it didn't matter how much time they had left. It would never be enough. And yet, it had to be. For whatever it was-a day, a week, a year-it would have to last her a lifetime.

Rain drummed gently on the roof of the cottage. Griffin stood at the window and stared out at the steel gray sky and the dark water below. The trees in the yard swayed against a fine breeze which blew across the Sound to the mainland. Thunder rumbled in the distance, low and deep. With a silent oath, he turned and looked at Merrie. She sat on the sofa, her legs curled beneath her, books spread all about her, perfectly happy to stay inside.

'I have sailed in weather much worse than this,' he said. 'The wind is perfect for a quick sail up the Pamticoe.'

'Pamlico,' Merrie corrected distractedly. 'And I'm sure you have.'

'You would not be in any danger.'

She looked up at him with doubtful green eyes. 'There is nothing that you can say that will get me out on the water today, so you might as well relax.'

'Relax,' Griffin muttered. 'I cannot relax. I don't understand this preoccupation you have with relaxing. We have been relaxing for three days, waiting for this weather to clear. 'Tis only rain.'

After three nights waiting on the beach, waiting for time to swallow him up again, he was anxious to try something new. Their trip to Bath had given him new hope. A visit to where it all began might provide answers to the way back.

'We're in the middle of hurricane season. I'm not going out on the water until the sky is perfectly clear and that's that.' She glanced up at him. 'Can't you find something better to do than pace the room and curse beneath your breath? Why don't you take a walk?'

'I do not find aimless walking about a relaxing venture,' he replied.

'What do you colonials do for fun? You must have something to occupy your leisure time.'

'There is fox hunting and cockfighting,' Griffin said.

'I meant like a hobby,' Meredith said.

'Horse racing, wrestling matches. Sometimes there are parties with dancing and gambling… and drinking, of course.'

Meredith frowned. 'All right, maybe there isn't much of interest to occupy your time here. We'll just have to find you some new hobbies.'

'To what end? What would this pointless activity accomplish? Would it turn me a better profit or make my life easier?'

Merrie blinked, then frowned, a look of consternation crossing her pretty features. 'No,' she finally said. 'But it would give me time to do my own work.'

Griffin sighed inwardly at her edgy reply. Would he ever learn to control his impatience? It was his least admirable quality, right behind his stubborn nature. 'All right,' he relented. 'I would agree that during my time here, I could make use of a hobby.'

Her smile was worth his capitulation, for it warmed him to the very center of his soul.

'Good,' Merrie said. 'Now, what did you usually do on a rainy day back in your time?'

He grinned lasciviously. 'I can think of only one thing,' he teased. 'And I would guess things have not changed that much in this century.'

'I'm talking about hobbies, here,' Merrie said, understanding his meaning immediately. 'What would you like to be doing… for fun… I mean, for a hobby?'

Griffin considered the question for a long minute then shook his head. Besides spending a rainy afternoon in bed with a warm and willing woman, the only other thing he could imagine doing was standing on the deck of his own ship, feeling the swell of the sea beneath his feet and the rain on his face, hearing the snap of the sails above his head. He'd been born to captain a ship, to realize the dreams his father had of building a vast shipping empire on the profits from tobacco.

From the time Griffin was a boy, his father had talked as if Griffin's destiny had already been determined. He was an only child, and he and his father had been inseparable, and of one mind. By the time he was ten, he knew every facet of growing tobacco. And he also knew that every crop of tobacco harvested on the Rourke plantation was crucial to realizing the dream.

Finally, after years of planning, the ship was built, and the empire founded. They christened their first ship the Betty, after his mother, and launched the sloop on Griffin's twelfth birthday. And from that day onward, Griffin's life was promised to the sea.

He could still recall with such clarity the look of pride on his father's face as the boat slipped into the water. The Bettywas his father's life, the business of the ship sustaining him after Griffin's mother died.

And then Teach took it all away. The pirate attacked and captured the Betty off the Virginia shore while his father was on board. The brigands stole what cargo they fancied, then scuttled the ship with the rest still in the hold.

'What is the date?' he asked softly, stopping to stare at a strangely silent Ben Gunn.

'September twenty-sixth,' Merrie replied.

He stroked the parrot's breast with his finger. 'Nearly a year gone by,' Griffin murmured. 'That is when this tangle began.'

'What tangle?'

'Teach and me…and my father.' His voice was flat and emotionless. He barely recognized it as his own.

'Can you tell me what happened?' Merrie asked.

Griffin turned away from the parrot and began to pace again, stopping at the window to check the weather once more. 'Teach killed him,' he finally said. 'There is nothing more to tell.'

'That's strange,' Merrie said.

He turned and stared at her. 'And why is that?'

'Even though Blackbeard fashioned a wicked image for himself, he didn't go down in history as a bloodthirsty murderer. We know that sailors on merchant ships were superstitious and they believed him to be the devil himself. But the sources say he managed to capture most of his booty without a fight.'

Griffin felt his temper rise. How could she defend such a man? Had the pirate Blackbeard merely become some romantic myth, a colorful hero whose evil deeds had faded with the passage of time? 'He murdered my father,' Griffin repeated, trying to keep his voice even, 'as surely as if he had run him through with his own cutlass.'

Merrie drew a deep breath. 'I'm sorry. Would you like to talk about it?'

'No,' Griffin said. 'There is nothing more to be said.'

'But maybe if you talked about it, you might-'

'No,' he repeated. 'Talking will not bring back my father, so what is the point to it?'

'All right,' Merrie snapped. 'We won't talk.' She pointed to the place on the floor at her feet. 'Sit!' she ordered. 'And relax!'

He glared at her through narrowed eyes, then grudgingly did as he was told. She handed him a boating magazine.

'You're making me tense,' she said.

He sat on the floor for a moment then sighed and tossed the magazine on the low table in front of him. 'You see, I cannot relax. It is not part of my nature.'

Merrie placed her hands on his shoulders and pushed him back down. With a frustrated oath, she settled behind him on the couch, pulling him against the cushions, her legs on either side of his shoulders, her bare feet braced along his thighs.

She placed her hands on his shoulders and slowly began to knead the muscles on either side of his neck. Her