fate.'
Still, she could understand why a person might. When she'd arrived at the real-estate office after disembarking the ferry, she'd been told that the old cottage she'd originally rented on the wooded path called Howard Street was not available. Instead, the real-estate agent had given her the keys to a larger cottage on the water-overlooking the exact spot where Blackbeard used to drop anchor. Twist of fate number one.
The cottage came along with twist of fate number two, the owner's pet parrot, a salty-tongued bird that would have made any sailor a fine companion. With Ben Gunn sitting on his perch spouting 'nauticisms' and Meredith at her computer, the atmosphere had seemed perfect for writing the definitive biography of Blackbeard. She had never worked harder or written better in her life.
And then came Horace-twist of fate number three. A hurricane hadn't hit the island for more than twelve years. But then again, hurricanes usually hit the Outer Banks in nine-year cycles, so she really couldn't count Horace as fate, and he certainly couldn't be considered good fortune.
Now, as she stared down at the picture of the pirate, an overwhelming sense of apprehension assailed her, as if she was suddenly powerless against this greater force. Something was about to happen, she could feel it in the air, and it frightened her.
'Stop it!' Meredith scolded.
'Stop it!' Ben mimicked.
'This storm's got me so tense I'm beginning to imagine things.'
She purposefully returned her attention to the book, running her finger over the illustration, taking in each detail. The pirate had long dark hair that framed aristocratic features. He wore knee breeches, a flowing white linen shirt and a dark waistcoat. Two leather straps crisscrossed his chest with small pistols tucked in loops along them. In his right hand was a short, curved cutlass, and tucked into his belt, a dagger.
Meredith was surprised by the accuracy of the drawing, considering Hollywood's imprint on the image of a pirate-eye patch and peg leg, tricorn and gold earring, and the requisite bird on the shoulder. Her gaze drifted back to his face. All right, so maybe the drawing wasn't entirely accurate. This pirate looked more like one of those male models that appeared in designer-underwear ads than a real buccaneer from the bounding main.
She focused on the illustration, trying to block out the weather that raged around the cottage, allowing the image to drift off the page and into her mind. Since her girlhood, she'd been fascinated by the legends of pirates, the ruthless men who plied the waters of the Outer Banks, preying on ships with merciless abandon. It was with the stories of pirates that her love of history took root.
But as she'd grown older, the fascination had fueled a bizarre fantasy, a fantasy so uncharacteristic of her normal, conservative nature that she'd been embarrassed to even think about it. The notion was borne of pure romance and based on nothing resembling reality.
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.'
'
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
