Kate Hoffmann - The Pirate

"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, I had 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?"

Griffin scrambled for an answer. "Yes," he replied, certain that was safe enough. "London." He shifted on the stool. All he'd wanted was a drink and now he was stuck with an inquisition that rivaled the Spanish. If he was lucky, Tank's knowledge of England would be limited and the questions would stop here and now.

"You're a long way from home," Tank commented. "How long do you plan to stay round these parts?"

The real inquiry was subtly hidden beneath Tank's innocent question. How long do you intend to reside with Meredith ? Griffin shrugged. "I haven't decided," he replied.

"You and Meredith an item?" Tank asked, his gaze moving from his task to watch Griffin.

"An item?"

"A thing," he clarified. "Are you… together?"

"I-I am not sure of your meaning," Griffin said. Was he asking him if he and Merrie slept in the same bed? Or was he questioning what went on in that bed?

Tank snorted. "When it comes to women, no one's ever sure, right, Griff?"

Griffin forced a smile. His relationship with Merrie was not a fit subject for public discussion and he wasn't about to let this go any further. Besides, at this moment, he wasn't sure exactly what his relationship with the fair Merrie was.

"So," Tank said, "have you and Merrie been keepin' company for a long time?"

"Not long," Griffin said. He drew a long breath. "I have been wondering what a man does around here to make a wage." The change in topic was clumsy, but the tavern keeper didn't seem to notice.

"You mean, like a job?" Tank asked.

Griffin nodded, not wanting to say the words, but compelled to ask. Over the past few days, he'd been considering what the future might hold. Merrie had found nothing in her little computer box to help him, and her friend still hadn't called. He couldn't just sit still and wait for something to happen. He needed to occupy himself, or risk losing his mind. And he couldn't continue to live off Merrie's charity.

"If I would decide to stay on this island," Griffin said, "I will need to find work."

Tank grunted and shook his head. "Jobs are hard to come by on Ocracoke. Either you make a living off the tourists or you make your money on the water. Beyond that, there's not much left. What kind of work do you do?"

"I have made my living on the sea, crossing the Atlantic on a merchant ship."

"Well, I can watch out for something on one of the fishing boats," Tank said. "Can't promise much, though."

"I would appreciate that," Griffin said. "Thank you."

A man at the other end of the bar called Tank's name, and to Griffin's relief, the tavern keeper turned and walked away. Griffin sat alone for a long time, listening to the strange music that filled the room and watching the other patrons while he had more of Anne Bonny's Grog. This was what he was hoping for-a dark corner, a numbing drink and a moment to consider what lay ahead.

He'd spent the last few days at war with himself, refusing to believe that he might never get back. But he was a practical man, a man who was used to thinking on his feet and attacking a problem head-on. If he couldn't return, he'd have to find a position that paid a wage and make a new life for himself. He was not a man who would consider being kept by a woman, even a woman as kind and compassionate as Merrie.

Griffin cursed himself and downed the rest of his rum punch in one long gulp. What was wrong with his head? Was the course he'd set against Teach so meaningless that he'd given it up already? Merrie or no Merrie, he could not stay here-he would not. He didn't belong here, he belonged in his own time. Teach was waiting.

Griffin grabbed the remainder of his money and shoved it in his pocket, then slid off the stool, ready to take his leave. But Tank approached, another drink in his hand. He placed it in front of Griffin and grinned.

"I did not call for another drink," Griffin said.

"This one's compliments of the lady over there." Tank cocked his head in the direction of a young woman sitting on the far corner of the bar. She crooked her little finger at him and tossed her red hair over her shoulder. He had seen that coy smile on more than one willing tavern wench.

There was a time, after Jane's death, that he would have strolled drunkenly over to her and pulled her lush body against his. She'd smell of other men, but he wouldn't care. He'd slip a coin between her breasts and they'd climb the stairs to a well-used room where he'd lift her skirts and slake his need.

Griffin grabbed the glass and tipped it in the woman's direction, then drained it. She slowly slipped off her stool and sauntered toward him. He waited until she stood at his side, her ample breasts pressed against his upper arm, her perfume thick in the air.