In this day and age, her virginity loomed over her like a big scarlet V, a quality that most men felt was more odd than admirable. So maybe she was a little repressed, but all repression aside, she couldn't deny her attraction to Griffin.

He was the opposite of everything she'd thought she wanted in a man-he was a man of action, not introspection. He could be brooding and distant, keeping his emotions locked deep inside. Griffin Rourke was definitely not a sensitive, nineties kind of guy. But she didn't want that. She wanted him-exactly the way he was, with all his simmering arrogance and sensual energy and chauvinistic ideas.

Maybe that was why she felt so at ease around him. In the past, just the thought of making love to a man had caused her paroxysms of nervousness. But Griffin knew nothing about the games that men and women played in today's society. To him, she appeared sophisticated and self-assured, a woman of action, and in his presence, she'd 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 fingers were strong and warm and he closed his eyes, letting a tightly held breath escape his chest. He'd never been touched by a woman in this manner, but he found the casual contact wonderfully enjoyable.

"You truly are the most impatient man I've ever met," Merrie said.

Griffin smiled. "I inherited that quality from my father. He was never satisfied with tomorrow, or even today. Everything had to be done yesterday. My mother would become so angry with him that she would not speak to him until he would agree to take her for a long carriage ride."

"She sounds like a sensible woman."

"She was." He tipped his head back and sighed contentedly. "My father once owned her and she proved to be so sensible, he had to marry her."

"He owned her?" Merrie asked.

"My father came to the colonies in 1670 when he was twenty years old, straight away from the gallows where he'd been sent for petty theft. And when he arrived, his articles of indenture were auctioned off to the highest bidder. He worked on a tobacco plantation for fifteen years before he was free to start a life of his own."

Merrie's fingers stilled for a moment. "That must have been very difficult for him."

"Don't stop," Griffin murmured.

"What?"

"This thing you are doing with your fingers. Don't stop," he repeated.

Merrie continued to work magic with her fingers, lulling him into a lazy state of languor. He felt like a cat, stretched out in a spot of sunshine, completely content with his lot in life.

"Tell me more," she said.

"By the time he was free, he had learned two things," Griffin continued. "The first was how to raise tobacco and make a profit at it. The second was a deep and abiding hatred of slavery. Instead of owning slaves, he would buy only the articles of redemptioners, those who came to the colonies of their own free will, and after four years of work, he would give them new clothing, a gun and enough money to buy fifty acres of land."

"In 1665, former indentured servants constituted almost half of the membership of Virginia's House of Burgesses," Merrie said.

Griffin twisted around and looked at her in surprise. "I did not know that."

She smiled winsomely and shrugged. "I'm a history professor. I've mentioned that fact in my lectures for years, but it never really meant anything until now. Go on with your story."

"There's not much more to tell. My mother was an orphan from Bristol. As soon as she was of an age, she came to the colonies. My father saw her on the docks that day and fell in love with her, then and there. He bought her papers and she tended his house for five months before he finally convinced her to marry him."

Merrie wrapped her arms around his neck and rested her chin on the top of his head. "That's such a wonderful story," she said. "So romantic."

Griffin smoothed his palms along her arms, enjoying the warmth of her pleasant embrace. How easy it was between them, this gentle friendship that they shared. She seemed to know how to make him happy, how to turn his foul moods fair. He'd never been friends with a woman, especially with a woman he desired.

He had always considered women weaker, less able to handle the stresses of daily life and the concerns of a man's world. But Merrie was equal to a man in every way, strong and determined, independent and stubborn. He felt as if he could talk to her about anything, confide in her about his fears and his doubts, his hopes and his dreams.

"As soon as my father had enough money saved, he sold the plantation," Griffin continued, "and had his first ship built. I remember the day he took me on board. I was twelve years old. He named her the Betty, after my mother, Elizabeth, and he began to sail the coast and the rivers, taking British goods south and bringing tobacco and furs and indigo north to Norfolk for shipment to England. When I turned twenty-one, he gave me a ship of my own and I sailed the route from Norfolk to London."