Merrie stepped to his side, clutching a blanket around her shoulders against the damp morning breeze. "Are you all right?" she said. She placed her fingers on his arm and a surge of heat warmed his blood. "I woke up and you were gone."

"I didn't mean to frighten you," he replied, hearing the apprehension in her voice. She had thought he was gone, for good. Griffin cursed inwardly as guilt washed over him. For Merrie's sake, he had to find a way back. But though his mind was set on returning to his own time, he couldn't help wondering if what he was leaving was really what he was seeking… peace, a sense of well-being and the time to take a bit of joy from life.

That was all he really wanted. He'd been set on this course of revenge for nearly a year, without pause for anything, including his own happiness. And now, in this place and in this time, he'd found a brief respite, a few quiet moments to forget all that the pirate Blackbeard had wrought on his family.

"You're cold," she said. "Were you in the water again?"

He nodded distractedly as he stared at the shoreline. "In the dark, it almost looks right to me," he said. "I can nearly believe I'm there. I had a room at an inn that used to stand on that bit of land." Griffin pointed to the base of the bridge that now crossed Old Town Creek.

"It must be hard for you to be away from your home," she said.

Griffin shrugged. "My home is the sea, it always has been. And the sea hasn't changed at all in three hundred years."

"Haven't you ever thought about settling down? About marrying and having a family?"

He glanced at her, meeting her questioning gaze in the soft morning light. His sweet Merrie, always so direct, so interested in what was inside his mind and heart. "Once," Griffin replied, banishing the image of his son's tiny grave from his mind. "But then, it became clear that I did not deserve as much."

"I don't understand," Merrie said. "Why would you not deserve to be happy?"

"I live my life on my ship, Merrie. And a wife and family must stay on dry land. I would not make a good husband or a good father."

Meredith squeezed his arm. "Don't say that. How do you know until you've actually tried?"

Griffin turned his head and stared out toward the Pamlico. He should tell Merrie exactly how he knew. Yet speaking of his failure as a husband and father only brought back a rush of paralyzing guilt and pain. Merrie saw him as a good and honorable man, and what she believed of him mattered. "I know," he said softly, slipping his arm around her shoulder. He pulled her into the circle of his embrace and she wrapped her arms around his waist.

They stood that way for a long time, silently watching the sunrise, not needing to speak. Strange how he felt as if he'd known Merrie his whole life. They shared an inexplicable connection that transcended time and distance. Though he wanted to deny it, maybe destiny had thrown them together for a reason.

Griffin considered the notion for a moment. The theory made as much sense as any other explanation he had come up with. But then, perhaps he was simply trying to make excuses for himself, trying to find a reason to give up. Perhaps hecontrolled his own destiny and every errant thought of remaining with Merrie was putting him further from his task.

"I think you're wrong," she said softly.

"Wrong?"

"About being a good husband and father."

He laughed harshly. "You do not know me, Merrie. So don't make me into some mythical hero with a heart of purest gold."

"That's not what I meant," she replied. "But you are a good and honorable man."

He turned to her, probing her gaze with his. "Am I?"

"Yes," she replied.

Griffin reached out and ran a finger along her cheek. "Ah, Merrie-girl, you do not know me. If I am an honorable man, then why do I want to kiss you right now?"

She blinked in surprise. "I-I don't know," she murmured. "But maybe you should kiss me and find out."

Griffin shook his head. "You tempt me again, Merrie. Have a care or I will do precisely that."

She reached up and idly brushed his hair from his temple. "You're in my time, Griffin, not yours. And in the twentieth century, a kiss is just a kiss, and not a matter of honor."

"And because I am here, does that make me a different man?" he challenged. "For I do not feel different, not in my head nor in my heart. And you cannot expect me to live by your rules." Griffin took her shoulders and gave her a gentle shake. "I do want you, Merrie. Lord help me, I do. But to take you would be unfair, for I can promise you nothing in return."

She put her arms around his waist and pressed herself against his chest. "You-you wouldn't take me. I would give myself to you, Griffin. And I don't need any promises."

Griffin sighed. "I have set myself on a course and nothing can divert me. Though I do not know why I am still here, I must believe that I will return to my place in history to complete my task. And when I return, I will leave you here." He paused, then gently held her away from him. "I would not have you regret our time together."

The color rose in her cheeks and she turned away from him, pulling the blanket more tightly around her, as if it might offer some protection from his words.

Griffin hesitantly placed his hands on her shoulders. "If my presence is too difficult for you to take, I will leave."

"No!" she cried, spinning around to face him. "No," she repeated in a tremulous voice. "I understand, and I will respect your feelings. You don't have to leave."

Griffin smiled. "Good. For I have come to depend on you, Merrie, and I am afraid I may feel lost without your practical counsel."

She graced him with a halfhearted smile as he adjusted the blanket around her shoulders.

"We will be friends then," he said, tugging on the blanket playfully.

"Friends," she repeated in a small voice.

"And now, my sweet friend, I suggest you crawl into your berth and go back to sleep. The time has come to return to Ocracoke. I will get our little boat under way and when you awaken, we will have our breakfast." He gave Merrie a quick kiss on her forehead, then steered her toward the cabin.

After he'd tucked her in, Griffin came back on deck. But instead of lifting anchor, he stripped off his clothes once more and dived into the frigid water. With strong, even strokes, he swam around the boat, again and again, until his muscles ached and his pulse pounded.

Then, kicking his feet up, he dived for the bottom, digging through the dark water. He stayed submerged, waiting for the door to open, his breath burning in his chest. And when he couldn't hold his breath any longer, he shot to the surface, breaking into the sunlight, gasping for air.

As he floated on his back, exhausted, he stared up at the sky. For the first time since he'd come to this century, he had good cause to believe he might never get back home.

6

"No leeches!"

Meredith glared at Griffin as he sat on the end of Dr. Kincaid's examining table. The nurse had shown them in a few minutes before and ordered Griffin to remove his shirt. She gave him an appreciative once-over before she popped a thermometer into his mouth and left the room, leaving Meredith alone to ponder the play of muscles across his shoulders and chest.

Meredith had thought it best to accompany Griffin, considering his rather low opinion of the medical profession. Apparently, the only doctor Griffin had ever encountered had used some rather primitive medical practices, including the curative use of bloodsucking worms.

"Put that thermometer back in your mouth," Meredith said.

He stuck it under his tongue with a stubborn expression. "Ummph!" he replied. "Ut about da eeches?"

"Do you see any leeches?" she asked impatiently. Lord, he was going to drive her mad. He'd been prowling the cottage for the past few days, even surlier than he'd been before, coughing and sniffling and ignoring his symptoms as if giving in to them would be less than manly. She'd offered him aspirin, cold tablets, cough medicine, but he'd preferred whiskey, straight up. "Forget the leeches," she said.

Griffin grumbled an unintelligible response, then snatched the thermometer from his mouth. "The butcher will bleed me, then. 'Tis the same thing. Always with them 'tis bad blood. They should stick to what they do best, cutting hair."

She placed a hand on his upper arm to calm him, then hesitantly pulled it away as a flood of warmth raced up her arm. If she knew what was good for her, she'd make it a point not to allow herself the pleasure of touching him, especially when they were alone in a room with him half-dressed. "I promise you," she said, "this doctor will not bleed you, or cut your hair. He'll give you some medicine to help your cold."

"But I am not cold."

"You have a cold, or the ague, as you call it. I think you might have a bronchial infection-"

"Lung fever," Griffin corrected, slapping his broad chest with his palm. "I know what ails me and I know how to cure it. A mustard poultice and a few drams of good whiskey."

Her gaze wandered to his hand as he idly rubbed his palm on his chest. Meredith, mesmerized, imagined her fingers doing the same, furrowing through the silky dark hair, drifting over the hard muscle and smooth skin. With a sharp breath, she glanced up at his face. "If you have an infection, the doctor will give you some antibiotics and you'll be fine," she said, her voice a bit uneven.

She drew a long breath. At first, she thought Griffin had just caught a common cold, a result of his midnight swim in Bath Creek, but then she realized he was stoically fighting something more. When she finally managed to force a thermometer between his teeth, she found a low-grade fever. It was then she realized that Griffin was probably at risk for any number of modern diseases and mutated germs.

"If I were you, I wouldn't mention the leeches again," Meredith said. "Just let me answer any questions the doctor asks."

"I can speak for myself," Griffin countered, putting the thermometer back into his mouth as if to signal the end of the discussion.

The door to the examining room opened and a woman in a white lab coat walked in. She held out her hand to Meredith. "I'm Dr. Susan McMillan. I'm taking care of Doc Kincaid's patients while he's on vacation. I usually work out of the medical center in Kitty Hawk." She held out her hand to Griffin, as well. Griffin glanced at Meredith before mimicking her handshake.

She knew what he was thinking. A doctor was bad enough, but a woman physician was guaranteed to arouse suspicion.

Dr. McMillan pulled the thermometer from Griffin's mouth. "What seems to be the problem, Mr. Rourke?"

"Griffin," he said. A smile quirked the corners of his mouth. "Or Griff, if you prefer."

Dr. McMillan took a deep breath and blinked hard, obviously not immune to Griffin's infectious smile, but apparently shocked that he'd be so blatant about it. Meredith bit back a laugh. If he thought he'd be able to charm his way out of an exam, he had another guess coming.

"Griff," Dr. McMillan repeated. "What is the problem, then?"

"The problem is, I don't want to be here," he said in a seductive tone. "Merrie believes me to be ill, but as you can see I am in perfect health."

"I think he has a chest cold," Meredith amended. "He's had it for about a week. And now, I think it might be developing into a bronchial infection. He's been coughing a lot and running a low-grade fever for the past three days."

"His temperature is elevated," the doctor remarked. She adjusted her stethoscope and placed it on Griffin's naked chest. He jumped at her touch and she looked up at him in concern. "A little cold?" she asked.

He nodded. "That's what Merrie calls it, but I told her I don't feel cold. 'Tis lung fever. Or the ague." He watched the stethoscope suspiciously, frowning. To Meredith's relief, Dr. McMillan was listening more to Griffin's breathing than his self-diagnosis.

"Breathe in," she ordered. "Deep breath."

He did as he was told, over and over again, and Meredith watched the rise and fall of his chest. What if it was something more than just a cold? He could have tuberculosis or some other disease that he'd brought with him. Meredith clasped her hands in front of her, twisting her fingers together. She couldn't bear it if she'd brought him here only for him to succumb to some twentieth-century illness.

When the doctor finished listening to his breathing, she pulled out a tongue depressor and held it up to his mouth. He drew back and stared at the flat stick as if the woman were holding a dead fish to his nose.