The Pirate

'The purse, where is it?'

'You want my purse?'

'The purse,' he said, his grip weakening. 'I… I must deliver… proof… upon my soul… I must… avenge… father…' His eyes rolled back in his head and his hand flopped down on his chest, suddenly lifeless, boneless.

'Have a care!' Ben squawked from the shadows.

Meredith quickly retreated from the couch, watching the man from a spot near the fireplace. If she wasn't frightened of Ned before, she certainly was now. He was a madman, muttering about purses and revenge in some hokey British accent. She could still feel the cold blade of the razor against her throat. Her fingers flexed and the straight-edge clattered to the wooden floor. Without thinking, she wrapped her grip around the fireplace poker instead.

She turned and raced to the closet for her slicker. She couldn't stay here. She'd have to summon the sheriff before her pirate woke again. But when she pulled open the front door, the reality of the situation slapped her in the face.

The wind ripped the door from her hand, slamming it back against the wall with stunning force. Debris whipped through the air and the rain stung her skin like a hail of tiny bullets. It took all her strength to push the door shut- and all her courage to admit that she stood a better chance inside with the pirate than outside with the hurricane.

In a panic, she searched the house for something to use against him, something to provide protection in case he tried to attack her. Lord, he'd called her 'lad.' He wasn't just drunk, he was hallucinating, too. She nearly missed finding the coil of rope on the closet floor, until she tripped on it.

'That's it!' she cried. 'I'll tie him up! So tight he won't be able to move. And once the storm dies down, I'll get the sheriff.'

'Tie him up,' Ben echoed. 'Tie him up!'

By the time she finished, he looked like Gulliver after the Lilliputians were done with him. A riot of ropes circled his wrists and ankles, then wrapped around both his body and the couch. It would take superhuman strength to break the bonds and if she believed anything about this pirate, he would be too hung over to be sailing the high seas for some time.

Once he awoke, she'd question him, and if she decided it was safe to let him go, she would. If not, the sheriff could have him. As an added measure of protection, she retrieved a butcher knife from the kitchen before she curled into an overstuffed chair near the fireplace and watched him warily, exhausted.

Meredith closed her eyes and tipped her head back, trying to calm her racing heart. Suddenly, the raging weather outside didn't frighten her at all. This man had become her 'Delia' now, the name she had given to all her fears since she'd been a child.

Meredith had been only eight years old when Hurricane Delia had roared along the Atlantic shore of the Outer Banks of North Carolina. She and her widowed father, a shrimp fisherman, had lived in a tiny weather-beaten cottage on the creek side of Ocracoke Village.

Though she had been only a child, her memories of that day had completely supplanted all the shining Christmas mornings and blurry birthday celebrations she'd come to experience in the following years. The day, September 11, 1976, had dawned calm and humid. But somewhere south of the island, Delia had lurked, turning the ocean into a terrifying force of nature. As darkness began to fall and the wind began to rise, her father had left her alone in their cottage, promising to return once he had checked the lines on his boat for a final time.

As he pulled on his rain suit and knee-high rubber boots, she had begged him to stay. He'd bent down from his towering height and told her she would be safe, tucked inside the house until he returned. But he hadn't returned. She'd crawled inside a dark closet and cried for her father, and then for her mother, even though Caroline Abbott was just a vague memory to her. She'd been left to face a hurricane alone and from that night on, Delia came back to haunt her dreams.

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