The Pirate

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.

'Where did you come from? And why did you have to pick my beach?'

She idly brushed his tangled hair back from his face. His eyelids fluttered and then opened. He stared up at her, his pale blue eyes empty, uncomprehending, as if he were looking right through her.

She leaned forward. 'Can you hear me?' Meredith asked. 'Who are you? What happened?'

He opened his mouth and tried to speak, but all he could manage was a raspy croak. As if the effort was too much, his eyes closed again and his harsh breathing settled back into a shallow, even rhythm.

'I don't even know what to call you,' she murmured. 'You must have a name.' Meredith crawled to the end of the couch and tugged at his knee-high boots. 'Maybe I'll call you Ned. Ned, the pirate. You know, Blackbeard's nickname was Ned, for Edward.' She glanced over at him and shook her head. 'I guess you're not in any condition to complain about my choice, are you Ned?'

After a long struggle, the wet boot suddenly slipped free of his foot. Meredith landed on her backside, the boot in her lap. She stared down at it, stiff leather around the calf and a flared top that formed a cup around the knee. She turned the boot over in her hand and looked at the sole.

'This is a handmade boot,' she murmured. Meredith tugged the other boot off and examined it closely, searching for a brand name or a label. 'Jackboots. These boots haven't been made since the early eighteenth century. Where did you ever find a cobbler to…'

Her voice trailed off as her eyes moved up from his rough woolen stockings to his breeches. Like the boots, they were handmade, fitted at the leg and baggy at the waist. Glancing nervously at his face, she plucked at the fly with her fingers, causing a flood of heat to rush to her cheeks. 'Hmm, no zipper, just buttons. Very authentic.' Her confusion was deepened even further by his tattered linen shirt, full at the sleeves and ruffled at the wrist. There was no tag in the neckline, only very fine hand stitching on the band collar..

The shirt lay open nearly to his waist. She stared down at his deeply tanned chest, mesmerized by the play of candlelight on the rippled muscle. With a small pang of uneasiness, she pushed the damp linen together, her hand brushing against the light dusting of hair that ran from his collarbone to his belly.

All of his clothes were wet, but Meredith wasn't about to remove them. Not that she wasn't curious as to what he looked like beneath the odd garments. It wasn't every day she had a man lying helpless on her couch. But there were limits to her nursing skills and to her temerity.

Instead, she pulled a throw from the back of the rocking chair and tucked it around his body. Then she dragged a quilt from the guest bedroom and arranged that on top of him. By the time she'd finished building a fire, his breathing seemed less labored and the color had begun to return to his lips.

She drew a steadying breath. 'All right, Ned, now that you're warm, we'd better take care of your wounds. After that, I'll make some coffee and we'll sober you up.'

A quick search of the medicine cabinet in the bathroom turned up alcohol, bandages, shaving cream, a straight-edged razor and a small pair of scissors. After bandaging the scrape on his forehead, Meredith tucked a towel around Ned's neck and began to snip away at his salt encrusted beard. She staunched the bleeding from the cuts with the towel before she gently covered his face with shaving cream.

With great care for his wounds, she drew the razor along his cheek. Stroke by stroke, she carefully stripped away the remains of his dirty beard, intent on her task. When she was finished, Meredith drew back. She blinked in shock, clutching the razor in her fist as her gaze fell on the planes and angles of a startlingly handsome face. Until this instant, she'd had nothing more than a nagging fear of this stranger, of having this man alone in her house with help so far away.

As she stared down at his perfect features, Meredith found herself hypnotized. She had seen him before, just hours ago as she focused on the illustration of the pirate in the old book. Pinching her eyes shut, she tried to steady her spinning thoughts. If she had believed in the powers of fate, she might have also believed that she'd somehow summoned him here to answer her girlish fantasies.

But she knew better. He was merely one of Tank Muldoon's boys, she repeated to herself, out to tear up the town right alongside Hurricane Horace. And yet, even though that explanation seemed perfectly logical, it didn't make sense. This was a grown man, not a college boy. No one developed a body like his waiting tables-he worked hard for a living, probably outdoors. And no one took Tank Muldoon seriously enough to wear an authentic costume.

Meredith leaned over to wipe a trace of shaving cream from his cheek. Suddenly, his hand snaked up and clamped onto her wrist in a punishing grip. She cried out and tried to pull away, but he held her fast. Her gaze met his. His pale blue eyes were now lucid and hard as ice. They watched each other for a very long time in the dim light, Meredith's pulse thudding in her throat, his breathing harsh and even.

'Where am I?' he demanded, his voice ragged.

Meredith tried to pull out of his grasp again, but he only tightened his fingers.

'Tell me, lad. Who are you?'

'Lad?' Meredith asked.

He easily twisted her wrist and brought the razor she was holding flat against her throat; 'Who brought me to this place?' he asked, enunciating each word, a slight brogue to his proper British accent. 'Have a care, for I will know if you speak falsely.'

'I-I brought you here,' Meredith whispered. 'You were washed up on the beach during the storm.'