"Well, that's a relief," she said. "You were starting to worry me." She gave Meredith a sideways glance. "Wait a minute. Are you saying you've had a close encounter with a realman?"

"No!" Meredith cried, knowing that if she answered any other way, Kelsey would launch into a full-scale interrogation. She decided it would be wise to steer the conversation back to physics. "So, let's say someone came through this wormhole and he wanted to go back. If you can't see these wormholes, how would one go about figuring out where they are?"

"Forget what I just said. I'm still worried. Is there a man behind all this?"

"Tell me how I find the wormholes!"

"I don't know," Kelsey said. "Maybe you just call a really big robin and tell it to go fetch itself a little snack."

"Very funny," Meredith said. "Now give me a straight answer."

"I'll admit, lam the most brilliant physicist I know, but there are some things that are beyond me."

"Hypothesize. That's what you physicists are good at, aren't you?"

Kelsey flopped back down on the couch and tipped her head back. She stared at the ceiling for a long time before she spoke. "Well, I suppose it would help to duplicate the conditions that were present when the original time-travel incident occurred. Go back to the same place, at the same time of the day. Maybe do the same things, wear the same clothes…? I really don't know, Meredith. I'm just guessing."

"An educated guess is better than nothing," Meredith murmured. "I'll have to be satisfied with that much for now."

"So, are you planning a little trip back in time?" Kelsey teased. "Maybe you could dig up a few good sources and bring them back for posterity's sake? Just be careful, though," she warned.

"Of what?"

"Of changing the course of history," Kelsey said. "It could cause a lot of problems. Hey, while you're there, you can bring me back one of those romance-novel heroes, the guys in the tight britches and the lacy-" Kelsey stopped short, her eyes widening.

Meredith tried to contain the blush rising in her cheeks, but it was already too late. The hero she was describing sounded an awful lot like Griffin.

"I-I was joking," Kelsey stammered. "But-but you're not, are you?" Kelsey shivered then rubbed her arms. "Tell me what's going on here, Meredith. You're starting to scare me now."

Meredith grabbed Kelsey by the arm and pulled her up off the couch. "I'll tell you everything as soon as I have something to tell. Now, you have to go before you miss the last ferry to Hatteras."

"I was planning to stay overnight," Kelsey said, digging in her heels.

Meredith grabbed her friend's elbow and maneuvered her toward the door. "You can't. I have important things to do."

"No. I'm not leaving. If I have to, I'll get a hotel room. We are going to talk about all this. I am going to figure it out."

Meredith loosened her grip and groaned. "All right. You want the truth? There is a man and if you're here when he gets back, it will spoil all my plans for a night of hot sex. I want you to get into your car and take the next ferry out of here. And I promise, I will call you with all the pertinent details just as soon as I have them. Are you satisfied?"

Kelsey smiled smugly. "I knew it. I knew it all the time. You can't hide anything from me, Meredith. This is wonderful," she said, pulling open the door. "This is just what you need. So, is this man good in bed?"

Meredith gently pushed her out the door. "I don't know yet," she replied. Though she certainly hoped he might be around long enough for her to find out.

"Well, as soon as you do, you have to call and tell me. Promise you'll call?"

"I promise," Meredith said, leaning against the edge of the door. She paused, then reached out and hugged her friend. "Thanks for coming, Kels."

"No problem," Kelsey said with a grin. With that, she turned and headed toward her car, giving Meredith a little wave before she hopped inside and backed out onto the road.

Meredith closed the door and leaned against it, slowly letting out a tightly held breath. If Kelsey was right, then maybe there was a way to return Griffin to his own time. She had a good idea of how he'd gotten here in the first place. But the historian in her also wanted to know why.

Why had Griffin ended up here, in this time? Somehow, the notion that she had something to do with it was hard to deny. This whole affair wasn't just some cosmic mistake. After all, she was writing a book on Blackbeard and he knew the pirate personally. What more could she ask for in a research source? And then, there was her pirate fantasy.

But that couldn't be all there was to it. There had to be a more logical reason that fate had sent him here. Meredith pinched her eyes shut and searched her mind for an answer. If he wasn't here for her benefit, then maybe he had been sent for his. Was she supposed to help him in some way? Was there something she knew that he didn't? Or was she meant to prevent his participation in the events she had studied so closely?

Kelsey's warning about changing the course of history drifted through her mind. Exactly what did her friend mean by a lot of problems? And how could Meredith know whether her decisions would alter the past? She'd probably managed to lure a man right out of his century into hers, leaving a huge void where he'd once been. But then again, maybe sending him back would cause a problem.

Meredith groaned and rubbed her eyes with her fingertips. This was exactly why she was a historian instead of a scientist. She found no excitement in pondering a paradox like time travel. In fact, the whole subject was starting to give her a migraine.


Griffin stared up at the garishly painted sign. The familiar image of a pirate in a tricorn and eye patch, with a dagger clutched between his teeth, looked down on him- the same picture he had on his underwear. Loud music, hypnotically rhythmic, pulsed through the screen door of the weathered waterfront building. A jumble of voices could be heard from the veranda behind the tavern as patrons leaned against a railing and stared out at the setting sun. The Pirate's Cove was a popular place, a place where he might be able to disappear into a crowd and enjoy a tankard or two.

Griffin pulled the screen door open and stepped inside. To his relief, only a few patrons noticed his arrival and they went back to their conversation after turning a brief glance in his direction. He spotted an empty stool in a dark corner at the end of the bar and headed toward it. His gaze was caught by row upon row of colorful glass bottles that lined the wall behind the bar and he cursed his naiveté.

Ordering a drink might be more complicated that he'd imagined. For all he knew, asking for an ale might mark him as an outsider and provoke questions he was not prepared to answer. Merrie would not appreciate that. She'd warned him what people might say if the truth were known. His voyage in time was not an everyday occurrence and if the townsfolk knew, they might think both of them had lost their minds.

Griffin couldn't fathom how this could be so, considering Merrie had told him he could wear a dress down Main Street without causing a stir. He smiled to himself. What would he have done without Merrie to help him navigate through the treacherous shoals of the twentieth century?

Over the past few days, he'd come to trust her, to depend on her for his very existence. If only there was a way to repay her for her kindness and understanding. But he possessed nothing more than the clothes she'd bought him and the pocketful of money she'd lent him. She deserved so much more.

His mind drifted to an image of her, standing beside him at the water's edge, the salt breeze blowing through her short-cropped hair, like a needle on a compass, his thoughts always returned to her. She was his North Star, his lantern in the fog, and try as he might, he couldn't deny the attraction he felt toward her.

She was nothing like the women he had known in his life. Merrie possessed an inner strength, as if she knew exactly who she was and what she was about. And she was clever, maybe even in possession of a brilliant mind, if all those books she studied were any proof.

But it was not her mind that drove him to distraction. It was that body of hers, so soft and slender. He'd thought himself immune to those feelings, his heart hardened into stone by the losses in his life. But like a sculptor with a sharp chisel, Merrie had begun to chip away at his defenses with her gentle touch, her sweet kindness, stirring a desire he'd thought completely dead. To his surprise, his soul had responded with a buoyancy, a resiliency he thought he'd lost.

Griffin took a deep breath and slipped onto an empty stool at the bar. Most of the patrons had a small mug of amber-colored liquid that didn't resemble the nut-brown brew he was used to. And there was not a hogshead to be seen anywhere. The proprietor approached, a huge hulk of a man with a white apron tied around his considerable girth.

"What can I get you?" he asked, his voice gruff but friendly.

Griffin stared at the tavern keeper, suddenly unsure of what to say. "What might you have?" he countered smoothly.

The man slapped a folded handbill down on the bar and Griffin stared at it with relief- A long bill of fare was exactly what he needed to steer his way through this strange place. Yet he saw nothing familiar-no ale or posset or metheglin, not even a mention of cider. He scanned the list of strange names until the familiar words rum and punchcaught his eye.

"I will have this," he said, pointing to the middle of the list.

The man's eyebrows shot up, but he didn't speak. "Anne Bonny's Grog? You sure you want that?"

Griffin nodded. He pulled out his money and placed it on the bar, but the man ignored it.

A few moments later, the tavern keeper returned with a strange concoction in an even stranger-looking glass. A tiny parasol and a plastic flower floated in the pink drink, the parasol skewering what Griffin assumed was fruit, though it didn't look like any fruit he'd ever seen. He took a hesitant swallow and smiled. Somewhere during the past few centuries, rum had mellowed from a hellish, eye-popping liquor to a smooth, subtle drink, barely perceptible beneath the exotic blend of fruit juice. He drained the glass and placed it on the bar.

"Another?" the tavern keeper asked.

Griffin nodded.

A second drink was placed in front of him. This time, Griffin sipped more slowly, savoring the sweet blend of juice and rum.

"You're Meredith's friend, aren't you?"

Griffin looked up. He'd known his presence on the island had caused some speculation, but he hadn't thought it would become talk for the taproom. Still, he shouldn't be surprised. He was blatantly living with an unmarried, and unchaperoned, woman. A woman with considerable charm, one that any man might find difficult to resist. "How have you come to know this?" Griffin asked.

The big man chuckled. "You're on an island, buddy. No such thing as privacy. Besides, Meredith's a born-and-bred Ocracoker. Her daddy was a shrimper on the island for years and her mama was the second cousin of our current police chief. We all watch out for our own, if you know what I mean." He sent Griffin a pointed look.

"I am her friend," Griffin said. "That much is so."

"Hmm. You two have a fight?"

"What?" Griffin asked. He'd never met a tavern keeper quite like this man. Idle gossip belonged in the parlor with maiden aunts and in the kitchen with household servants, not at the local ordinary. But then, he and Merrie hadn't parted on the best of terms this morning. Damn, his temper. When would he learn to control it?

"We did not have a fight," Griffin replied grudgingly. "Just a few cross words at breakfast." He would make a point to apologize as soon as he returned to the cottage. And he would vow never to inflict his boorish moods on her again. "To be perfectly truthful, Ihad a few cross words. She merely listened."

"So you're in the doghouse," Tank stated, nodding his head in understanding.

"Doghouse?" Griffin asked.

"You know, banished to the sofa? No more nooky?"

"Nooky?" Griffin frowned, at a complete loss to understand the man's meaning.

"Hey, I'm a bartender," he said. "It's not that I'm nosy, but we're supposed to ask." He held out his hand. "Trevor Muldoon. My friends call me Tank."

Griffin shook his hand. "I am Rourke. Griffin Rourke. My friends call me Griff."

"You don't sound like you're from around here, Griff," Tank said. He picked up a wet glass from beneath the bar and dried it distractedly. "What is that accent-British? You from England?"